The arrival of Werther’s servant occasioned her the greatest embarrassment.  He gave Albert a note, which the latter coldly handed to his wife, saying, at the same time, “Give him the pistols.  I wish him a pleasant journey,” he added, turning to the servant.  These words fell upon Charlotte like a thunderstroke:  she rose from her seat half-fainting, and unconscious of what she did.  She walked mechanically toward the wall, took down the pistols with a trembling hand, slowly wiped the dust from them, and would have delayed longer, had not Albert hastened her movements by an impatient look.  She then delivered the fatal weapons to the servant, without being able to utter a word.  As soon as he had departed, she folded up her work, and retired at once to her room, her heart overcome with the most fearful forebodings.  She anticipated some dreadful calamity.  She was at one moment on the point of going to her husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquainting him with all that had happened on the previous evening, that she might acknowledge her fault, and explain her apprehensions; then she saw that such a step would be useless, as she would certainly be unable to induce Albert to visit Werther.  Dinner was served; and a kind friend whom she had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the conversation, which was carried on by a sort of compulsion, till the events of the morning were forgotten.

When the servant brought the pistols to Werther, the latter received them with transports of delight upon hearing that Charlotte had given them to him with her own hand.  He ate some bread, drank some wine, sent his servant to dinner, and then sat down to write as follows: 

“They have been in your hands you wiped the dust from them.  I kiss them a thousand times —­ you have touched them.  Yes, Heaven favours my design, and you, Charlotte, provide me with the fatal instruments.  It was my desire to receive my death from your hands, and my wish is gratified.  I have made inquiries of my servant.  You trembled when you gave him the pistols, but you bade me no adieu.  Wretched, wretched that I am —­ not one farewell!  How could you shut your heart against me in that hour which makes you mine for ever?  Charlotte, ages cannot efface the impression —­ I feel you cannot hate the man who so passionately loves you!”

After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish the packing up, destroyed many papers, and then went out to pay some trifling debts.  He soon returned home, then went out again, notwithstanding the rain, walked for some time in the count’s garden, and afterward proceeded farther into the country.  Toward evening he came back once more, and resumed his writing.

“Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains, the forests, and the sky.  Farewell!  And you, my dearest mother, forgive me!  Console her, Wilhelm.  God bless you!  I have settled all my affairs!  Farewell!  We shall meet again, and be happier than ever.”