“Ma soeur,—­It is now five and twenty years since we parted, with the determination never to see each other again.  Whether we have done well to keep this resolution or not, matters little now; we shall, at any rate, have no temptation in the future to break it, for I shall be in my grave before your receive this letter.  I am dying, a fact which may possess some faint interest for you even now—­or may not—­that is not to the purpose either.  It is not of myself that I would speak, but of my child.  I am sending her to you, Therese, as to the only relative she has in the world; look on her, if you prefer it, as your mother’s only grandchild; we had a mother once who loved me, and whom you professed to love—­for her sake be kind to Madelon.  I am not rich, and without money I cannot leave her amongst strangers, otherwise I would have found some other means of providing for her; at the same time, I do not send her to you absolutely penniless—­she will take to you the sum of three thousand francs, which will provide her board for the next two or three years, at any rate; I do not cast her on your charity.  I have two requests to make, and if your religion teaches you to have any regard for the wishes of a dying man, I trust you will hold them sacred as such.  In the first place, I demand of you that you should not bring her up to be a nun; she has not, and never will have, the slightest vocation—­is not that the right word?—­for such a life.  My wish is that she should be educated for the stage, but I do not absolutely desire it; circumstances must in some measure decide, and something must be left to your discretion, but a nun she shall not be.  In the second place, respect my memory, so far as my little Madeleine is concerned.  Keep your powers of abusing me, if they be not already exhausted, for the benefit of others; she has never been separated from me since she was an infant, and the little fool has actually learnt to love me, and to believe in me.  It is an innocent delusion, and has made her happy—­do not disturb it.  I tell you, my sister, it will be the worst work you have yet wrought upon earth, and an evil day for you, if, even when I am in my grave, you try to come between me and my daughter.

“Your brother,

“Adolphe Linders.”

“I will sign it,” said the sick man, holding out his hand for the pen.  He had dictated the letter with some pauses and gasps for breath, but in the uniform indifferent voice that he had adopted since the beginning of the conversation.  He dropped the pen, when he had scrawled the signature with almost powerless fingers, and his hand fell heavily on the bed again.  “That is done,” he said, and, after a pause, continued:  “Monsieur, circumstances have compelled me to place a confidence in you, with which, at another time, I should have hesitated to burden you, fearing to cause you inconvenience.”

“You cause me no inconvenience, and I shall do my best to carry out your wishes,” said Horace.  “In return, I must beg of you to keep yourself quiet now.”