“I took a little medicine bottle that mamma had; I broke it small with a hammer, and I hid the glass in my pocket.  It was a shining powder ...  The next day, as soon as you had made the little cakes ...  I split them with a knife and I put in the glass ...  He ate three of them ...  I too, I ate one ...  I threw the other six into the pond.  The two swans died three days after ...  Dost thou remember?  Oh, say nothing ... listen, listen.  I, I alone did not die ... but I have always been sick.  Listen ...  He died—­thou knowest well ... listen ... that, that is nothing.  It is afterwards, later ... always ... the worst ... listen.

“My life, all my life ... what torture!  I said to myself:  ’I will never leave my sister.  And at the hour of death I will tell her all ...’  There!  And ever since, I have always thought of that moment when I should tell thee all.  Now it is come.  It is terrible.  Oh ...  Big Sister!

“I have always thought, morning and evening, by night and by day, ’Some time I must tell her that ...’  I waited ...  What agony! ...  It is done.  Say nothing.  Now I am afraid ... am afraid ... oh, I am afraid.  If I am going to see him again, soon, when I am dead.  See him again ... think of it!  The first!  Before thou!  I shall not dare.  I must ...  I am going to die ...  I want you to forgive me.  I want it ...  I cannot go off to meet him without that.  Oh, tell her to forgive me, Monsieur le Cure, tell her ...  I implore you to do it.  I cannot die without that....”

* * * * *

She was silent, and remained panting, always scratching the sheet with her withered nails.

Suzanne had hidden her face in her hands, and did not move.  She was thinking of him whom she might have loved so long!  What a good life they should have lived together!  She saw him once again in that vanished bygone time, in that old past which was put out forever.  The beloved dead—­how they tear your hearts!  Oh, that kiss, his only kiss!  She had hidden it in her soul.  And after it nothing, nothing more her whole life long!

* * * * *

All of a sudden the priest stood straight, and, with a strong vibrant voice, he cried: 

“Mademoiselle Suzanne, your sister is dying!”

Then Suzanne, opening her hands, showed her face soaked with tears, and throwing herself upon her sister, she kissed her with all her might, stammering: 

“I forgive thee, I forgive thee, Little One.”

The Horla, or Modern Ghosts

May 8th. What a lovely day!  I have spent all the morning lying in the grass in front of my house, under the enormous plantain tree which covers it, and shades and shelters the whole of it.  I like this part of the country and I am fond of living here because I am attached to it by deep roots, profound and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil on which his ancestors were born and died, which attach him to what people think and what they eat, to the usages as well as to the food, local expressions, the peculiar language of the peasants, to the smell of the soil, of the villages and of the atmosphere itself.