She said to me:  “You have a caterpillar in your hair.”  And, suddenly, I felt as sad as if I had lost all hope in life.

That is all, madame.  It is puerile, silly, stupid.  But I am sure that since that day it would be impossible for me to love.  And yet—­who can tell?

[The young man upon whom this letter was found was yesterday taken out of the Seine between Bougival and Marly.  An obliging bargeman, who had searched the pockets in order to ascertain the name of the deceased, brought this paper to the author.]

THE ORPHAN

Mademoiselle Source had adopted this boy under very sad circumstances.  She was at the time thirty-six years old.  Being disfigured through having as a child slipped off her nurse’s lap into the fireplace and burned her face shockingly, she had determined not to marry, for she did not want any man to marry her for her money.

A neighbor of hers, left a widow just before her child was born, died in giving birth, without leaving a sou.  Mademoiselle Source took the new-born child, put him out to nurse, reared him, sent him to a boarding-school, then brought him home in his fourteenth year, in order to have in her empty house somebody who would love her, who would look after her, and make her old age pleasant.

She had a little country place four leagues from Rennes, and she now dispensed with a servant; her expenses having increased to more than double since this orphan’s arrival, her income of three thousand francs was no longer sufficient to support three persons.

She attended to the housekeeping and cooking herself, and sent out the boy on errands, letting him also occupy himself in cultivating the garden.  He was gentle, timid, silent, and affectionate.  And she experienced a deep happiness, a fresh happiness when he kissed her without surprise or horror at her disfigurement.  He called her “Aunt,” and treated her as a mother.

In the evening they both sat down at the fireside, and she made nice little dainties for him.  She heated some wine and toasted a slice of bread, and it made a charming little meal before going to bed.  She often took him on her knees and covered him with kisses, murmuring tender words in his ear.  She called him:  “My little flower, my cherub, my adored angel, my divine jewel.”  He softly accepted her caresses, hiding his head on the old maid’s shoulder.  Although he was now nearly fifteen, he had remained small and weak, and had a rather sickly appearance.

Sometimes Mademoiselle Source took him to the city, to see two married female relatives of hers, distant cousins, who were living in the suburbs, and who were the only members of her family in existence.  The two women had always found fault with her, for having adopted this boy, on account of the inheritance; but for all that, they gave her a cordial welcome, having still hopes of getting a share for themselves, a third, no doubt, if what she possessed were only equally divided.