Mon Dieu! yes.’—­’Good-night, Marie.’—­’ Goodnight.’  Yes, my mother, I read your thoughts.  There is danger here! but you have shown it to me; and I believe also, I should have perceived it by myself.  Do not fear, then.  I shall be happy at his good inclinations, and shall encourage them to the best of my power; but I shall not be in haste to perceive a return, on his part, toward virtue and myself.  I see here in society arrangements which revolt me.  In the midst of my misfortune I remain pure and proud; but I should fall into the deepest contempt of myself if I should ever permit myself to be a plaything for Monsieur de Camors.  A man so fallen does not raise himself in a day.  If ever he really returns to me, it will be necessary for me to have much proof.  I never have ceased to love him, and probably he doubts it:  but he will learn that if this sad love can break my heart it can never abase it; and it is unnecessary to tell my mother that I shall live and die courageously in my widow’s robe.

“There are other symptoms which also strike me.  He is more attentive to me when she is present.  This may probably be arranged between them, but I doubt it.  The other evening we were at the General’s.  She was waltzing, and Monsieur de Camors, as a rare favor, came and seated himself at your daughter’s side.  In passing before us she threw him a look—­a flash.  I felt the flame.  Her blue eyes glared ferociously.  He perceived it.  I have not assuredly much tenderness for her.  She is my most cruel enemy; but if ever she suffers what she has made me suffer-yes, I believe I shall pity her.  My mother, I embrace you.  I embrace our dear lime- trees.  I taste their young leaves as in olden times.  Scold me as in old times, and love, above all things, as in old times, your

“Marie.”

This wise young woman, matured by misfortune, observed everything saw everything—­and exaggerated nothing.  She touched, in this letter, on the most delicate points in the household of M. de Camors—­and even of his secret thoughts—­with accurate justice.  For Camors was not at all converted, nor near being so; but it would be belying human nature to attribute to his heart, or that of any other human being, a supernatural impassibility.  If the dark and implacable theories which M. de Camors had made the law of his existence could triumph absolutely, this would be true.  The trials he had passed through did not reform him, they only staggered him.  He did not pursue his paths with the same firmness; he strayed from his programme.  He pitied one of his victims, and, as one wrong always entails another, after pitying his wife, he came near loving his child.  These two weaknesses had glided into his petrified soul as into a marble fount, and there took root-two imperceptible roots, however.  The child occupied him not more than a few moments every day.  He thought of him, however, and would return home a little earlier than usual each day than was his habit, secretly