“Pardon those who have made him incredulous since Thou hast made him repentant; pardon those who blaspheme!  When they were in despair they did not see Thee!  Human joys are a mockery; they are scornful and pitiless; O Lord! the happy of this world think they have no need of Thee!  Pardon them.  Although their pride may outrage Thee, they will be, sooner or later, baptized in tears; grant that they may cease to believe in any other shelter from the tempest than Thy love, and spare them the severe lessons of unhappiness.  Our wisdom and scepticism are in our hands but children’s toys; forgive us for dreaming that we can defy Thee, Thou who smilest at Golgotha.  The worst result of all our vain misery is that it tempts us to forget Thee.

“But Thou knowest that it is all but a shadow which a glance from Thee can dissipate.  Hast not Thou Thyself been a man?  It was sorrow that made Thee God; sorrow is an instrument of torture by which Thou hast mounted to the very throne of God, Thy Father, and it is sorrow that leads us to Thee with our crown of thorns to kneel before Thy mercy-seat; we touch Thy bleeding feet with our bloodstained hands, for Thou hast suffered martyrdom to be loved by the unfortunate.”

The first rays of dawn began to appear:  man and nature were rousing themselves from sleep and the air was filled with the confusion of distant sounds.  Weak and exhausted, I was about to leave Brigitte, and seek a little repose.  As I was passing out of the room, a dress thrown on a chair slipped to the floor near me, and in its folds I spied a piece of paper.  I picked it up; it was a letter, and I recognized Brigitte’s hand.  The envelope was not sealed.  I opened it and read as follows: 

   23 December, 18—­

“When you receive this letter I shall be far away from you, and shall perhaps never see you again.  My destiny is bound up with that of a man for whom I have sacrificed everything; he can not live without me, and I am going to try to die for him.  I love you; adieu, and pity us.”

I turned the letter over when I had read it, and saw that it was
addressed to “M.  Henri Smith, N------, poste restante.”

On the morrow, a clear December day, a young man and a woman who rested on his arm, passed through the garden of the Palais-Royal.  They entered a jeweler’s store where they chose two similar rings which they smilingly exchanged.  After a short walk they took breakfast at the Freres-Provencaux, in one of those little rooms which are, all things considered, the most beautiful spots in the world.  There, when the garcon had left them, they sat near the windows hand in hand.

The young man was in travelling dress; to see the joy which shone on his face, one would have taken him for a young husband showing his young wife the beauties and pleasures of Parisian life.  His happiness was calm and subdued, as true happiness always is.  The experienced would have recognized in him the youth who merges into manhood.  From time to time he looked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered in his eyes, but he heeded them not, but smiled as he wept.  The woman was pale and thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man.  On her face were traces of sorrow which she could not conceal, although evidently touched by the exalted joy of her companion.