Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said suddenly: 

“These ought to be put in the grave with her; they ought to be used as a shroud and she ought to be buried in it.”  She took another package, on which no name was written.  She began to read in a firm voice:  “My adored one, I love you wildly.  Since yesterday I have been suffering the tortures of the damned, haunted by our memory.  I feel your lips against mine, your eyes in mine, your breast against mine.  I love you, I love you!  You have driven me mad.  My arms open, I gasp, moved by a wild desire to hold you again.  My whole soul and body cries out for you, wants you.  I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses—­”

The judge had straightened himself up.  The nun stopped reading.  He snatched the letter from her and looked for the signature.  There was none, but only under the words, “The man who adores you,” the name “Henry.”  Their father’s name was Rene.  Therefore this was not from him.  The son then quickly rummaged through the package of letters, took one out and read:  “I can no longer live without your caresses.”  Standing erect, severe as when sitting on the bench, he looked unmoved at the dead woman.  The nun, straight as a statue, tears trembling in the corners of her eyes, was watching her brother, waiting.  Then he crossed the room slowly, went to the window and stood there, gazing out into the dark night.

When he turned around again Sister Eulalie, her eyes dry now, was still standing near the bed, her head bent down.

He stepped forward, quickly picked up the letters and threw them pell-mell back into the drawer.  Then he closed the curtains of the bed.

When daylight made the candles on the table turn pale the son slowly left his armchair, and without looking again at the mother upon whom he had passed sentence, severing the tie that united her to son and daughter, he said slowly:  “Let us now retire, sister.”

A HUMBLE DRAMA

Meetings that are unexpected constitute the charm of traveling.  Who has not experienced the joy of suddenly coming across a Parisian, a college friend, or a neighbor, five hundred miles from home?  Who has not passed a night awake in one of those small, rattling country stage-coaches, in regions where steam is still a thing unknown, beside a strange young woman, of whom one has caught only a glimpse in the dim light of the lantern, as she entered the carriage in front of a white house in some small country town?

And the next morning, when one’s head and ears feel numb with the continuous tinkling of the bells and the loud rattling of the windows, what a charming sensation it is to see your pretty neighbor open her eyes, startled, glance around her, arrange her rebellious hair with her slender fingers, adjust her hat, feel with sure hand whether her corset is still in place, her waist straight, and her skirt not too wrinkled.