No one should say that he has passed through great misfortunes unless they have proved too great for his mind to bear.  The confidence of Mdlle.  X. C. V. shewed me that she was in need of support.  I congratulated myself on having the preference, and I vowed to do my best for her did it cost me my life.  These were the thoughts of a lover, but for all that I could not conceal from myself the imprudence of the step she had taken.  In such cases as these there is always the choice between speaking or writing, and the only feeling which can give the preference to writing is false shame, at bottom mere cowardice.  If I had not been in love with her, I should have found it easier to have refused my aid in writing than if she had spoken to me, but I loved her to distraction.

“Yes,” said I to myself, “she can count on me.  Her mishap makes her all the dearer to me.”

And below this there was another voice, a voice which whispered to me that if I succeeded in saving her my reward was sure.  I am well aware that more than one grave moralist will fling stones at me for this avowal, but my answer is that such men cannot be in love as I was.

I was punctual to my appointment, and found the fair unfortunate at the door of the hotel.

“You are going out, are you?  Where are you going?”

“I am going to mass at the Church of the Augustinians.”

“Is this a saint’s day?”

“No; but my mother makes me go every day.”

“I will come with you.”

“Yes do, give me your arm; we will go into the cloisters and talk there.”

Mdlle.  X. C. V. was accompanied by her maid, but she knew better than to be in the way, so we left her in the cloisters.  As soon as we were alone she said to me,

“Have you read my letter?”

“Yes, of course; here it is, burn it yourself.”

“No, keep it, and do so with your own hands.”

“I see you trust in me, and I assure you I will not abuse your trust.”

“I am sure you will not.  I am four months with child; I can doubt it no longer, and the thought maddens me!”

“Comfort yourself, we will find some way to get over it.”

“Yes; I leave all to you.  You must procure an abortion.”

“Never, dearest! that is a crime!”

“Alas!  I know that well; but it is not a greater crime than suicide, and there lies my choice:  either to destroy the wretched witness of my shame, or to poison myself.  For the latter alternative I have everything ready.  You are my only friend, and it is for you to decide which it shall be.  Speak to me!  Are you angry that I have not gone to the Chevalier Farsetti before you?”

She saw my astonishment, and stopped short, and tried to wipe away the tears which escaped from her eyes.  My heart bled for her.