“Yes, I suddenly saw again all my mother’s old gowns, the different styles which she adopted and the several ways in which she dressed her hair.  She haunted me especially in a silk dress, trimmed with old lace; and I remembered something she said one day when she was wearing this dress.  She said:  ’Robert, my child, if you do not stand up straight you will be round-shouldered all your life.’

“Then, opening another drawer, I found myself face to face with memories of tender passions:  a dancing-pump, a torn handkerchief, even a garter, locks of hair and dried flowers.  Then the sweet romances of my life, whose living heroines are now white-haired, plunged me into the deep melancholy of things.  Oh, the young brows where blond locks curl, the caress of the hands, the glance which speaks, the hearts which beat, that smile which promises the lips, those lips which promise the embrace!  And the first kiss-that endless kiss which makes you close your eyes, which drowns all thought in the immeasurable joy of approaching possession!

“Taking these old pledges of former love in both my hands, I covered them with furious caresses, and in my soul, torn by these memories, I saw them each again at the hour of surrender; and I suffered a torture more cruel than all the tortures invented in all the fables about hell.

“One last letter remained.  It was written by me and dictated fifty years ago by my writing teacher.  Here it is: 

   “’My dear little mamma: 

   “’I am seven years old to-day.  It is the age of reason.  I take
   advantage of it to thank you for having brought me into this world.

   “’Your little son, who loves you

“‘Robert.’

“It is all over.  I had gone back to the beginning, and suddenly I turned my glance on what remained to me of life.  I saw hideous and lonely old age, and approaching infirmities, and everything over and gone.  And nobody near me!

“My revolver is here, on the table.  I am loading it . . . .  Never reread your old letters!”

And that is how many men come to kill themselves; and we search in vain to discover some great sorrow in their lives.

AN ARTIFICE

The old doctor sat by the fireside, talking to his fair patient who was lying on the lounge.  There was nothing much the matter with her, except that she had one of those little feminine ailments from which pretty women frequently suffer—­slight anaemia, a nervous attack, etc.

“No, doctor,” she said; “I shall never be able to understand a woman deceiving her husband.  Even allowing that she does not love him, that she pays no heed to her vows and promises, how can she give herself to another man?  How can she conceal the intrigue from other people’s eyes?  How can it be possible to love amid lies and treason?”

The doctor smiled, and replied:  “It is perfectly easy, and I can assure you that a woman does not think of all those little subtle details when she has made up her mind to go astray.