in order to show her that in permitting me to see her, she had saved me from the most frightful misfortune; I thanked her almost every time I went to see her, that I might return in the evening or the following morning.  “All my dreams of happiness,” said I, “all my hopes, all my ambitions, are enclosed in the little corner of the earth where you dwell; outside of the air that you breathe there is no life for me.”

She saw that I was suffering and could not help pitying me.  My courage was pathetic, and her every word and gesture shed a sort of tender light over my devotion.  She saw the struggle that was going on in me; my obedience flattered her pride, while my pallor awakened her charitable instinct.  At times she appeared to be irritated, almost coquettish; she would say in a tone that was almost rebellious:  “I shall not be here to-morrow, do not come on such and such a day.”  Then, as I was going away sad, but resigned, she sweetened the cup of bitterness by adding:  “I am not sure of it, come whenever you please;” or her adieu was more friendly than usual, her glance more tender.

“Rest assured that Providence has led me to you,” I said.  “If I had not met you, I might have relapsed into the irregular life I was leading before I knew you.

“God has sent you as an angel of light to draw me from the abyss.  He has confided a sacred mission to you; who knows, if I should lose you, whither the sorrow that consumes me might lead me, because of the sad experience I have been through, the terrible combat between my youth and my ennui?”

That thought, sincere enough on my part, had great weight with a woman of lofty devotion whose soul was as pious as it was ardent.  It was probably the only consideration that induced Madame Pierson to permit me to see her.

I was preparing to visit her one day when some one knocked at my door, and I saw Mercanson enter, that priest I had met in the garden on the occasion of my first visit.  He began to make excuses that were as tiresome as himself for presuming to call on me without having made my acquaintance; I told him that I knew him very well as the nephew of our cure, and asked what I could do for him.

He turned uneasily from one side to the other with an air of constraint, searching for phrases and fingering everything on the table before him as if at a loss what to say.  Finally he informed me that Madame Pierson was ill and that she had sent word to me by him that she would not be able to see me that day.

“Is she ill?  Why, I left her late yesterday afternoon, and she was very well at that time!”

He bowed.

“But,” I continued, “if she is ill why send word to me by a third person?  She does not live so far away that a useless call would harm me.”

The same response from Mercanson.  I could not understand what this peculiar manner signified, much less why she had entrusted her mission to him.