“Are we at Avignon now?”

“Yes, dearest.”

“Then I conscientiously discharge the trust which the countess placed in me when she embraced me for the last time this morning.  She made me swear not to say a word about it till we got to Avignon.”

“All this puzzles me, dearest; explain yourself.”

“She gave me a letter for you.”

“A letter?”

“Will you forgive me for not placing it in your hands sooner?”

“Certainly, if you passed your word to the countess; but where is this letter?”

“Wait a minute.”

She drew a large bundle of papers from her pocket, saying,—­

“This is my certificate of baptism.”

“I see you were born in 1746.”

“This is a certificate of ‘good conduct.’”

“Keep it, it may be useful to you.”

“This is my certificate of virginity.”

“That’s no use.  Did you get it from a midwife?”

“No, from the Patriarch of Venice.”

“Did he test the matter for himself?”

“No, he was too old; he trusted in me.”

“Well, well, let me see the letter.”

“I hope I haven’t lost it.”

“I hope not, to God.”

“Here is your brother’s promise of marriage; he wanted to be a
Protestant.”

“You may throw that into the fire.”

“What is a Protestant?”

“I will tell you another time.  Give me the letter.”

“Praised be God, here it is!”

“That’s lucky; but it has no address.”

My heart beat fast, as I opened it, and found, instead of an address, these words in Italian: 

“To the most honest man of my acquaintance.”

Could this be meant for me?  I turned down the leaf, and read one word—­Henriette!  Nothing else; the rest of the paper was blank.

At the sight of that word I was for a moment annihilated.

“Io non mori, e non rimasi vivo.”

Henriette!  It was her style, eloquent in its brevity.  I recollected her last letter from Pontarlier, which I had received at Geneva, and which contained only one word—­Farewell!

Henriette, whom I had loved so well, whom I seemed at that moment to love as well as ever.  “Cruel Henriette,” said I to myself, “you saw me and would not let me see you.  No doubt you thought your charms would not have their old power, and feared lest I should discover that after all you were but mortal.  And yet I love you with all the ardour of my early passion.  Why did you not let me learn from your own mouth that you were happy?  That is the only question I should have asked you, cruel fair one.  I should not have enquired whether you loved me still, for I feel my unworthiness, who have loved other women after loving the most perfect of her sex.  Adorable Henriette, I will fly to you to-morrow, since you told me that I should be always welcome.”

I turned these thoughts over in my own mind, and fortified myself in this resolve; but at last I said,—­