I underwent my ordeal with success; yet as I quitted the examination-room and descended into the quadrangle of the Ecole, crowded with sauntering groups of garrulous students, my spirit was heavy within me, and the expression of my face could hardly have been that of a young man who has safely passed the Rubicon of scientific apprenticeship, and who sees the laurels and honors of the world within his reach.  The world?  The very thought of its possible homage repelled me, for I knew that its best successes and its loudest praise are accorded to men whose hearts are of steel and whose lives are corrupt.  I knew that still, as of old, it slays the innocent and the ingenuous and stones the pure of spirit.

Escaping somewhat impatiently from the congratulations of the friends and colleagues whom I chanced to encounter in the quadrangle, I returned gloomily home and found upon my table a twisted note in which was written this brief message:—­

        “Pray, come at once, monsieur, she cannot live long now. 
        I dare not leave her, and she begs to see you. —­Marie Jeannel”

With a shaking hand I thrust the paper into my vest and hastened to obey its summons.  Never had the distance between my house and Noemi’s been so long to traverse; never had the stairs which led to her room seemed to me so many or so steep.  At length I gained the door; it stood ajar; I pushed it open and entered.  Madame Jeannel sat at the foot of the little white-draped bed; Bambin lay beside his mistress; the only sound in the room was the crackling of the burning logs on the hearth.  As I entered, Madame Jeannel turned her head and looked at me; her eyes were heavy with tears, and she spoke in tones that were hushed and tremulous with the awe which the presence of death inspires.

“Monsieur, you come too late.  She is dead.”

I sprang forward with a cry of horror.

“Dead?” I repeated, “Noemi dead?”

White and still she lay—­a broken lily—­beautiful and sweet even in death; her eyes were closed lightly, and upon her lovely lips was the first smile I had seen there since the day which had stricken her innocent life into the dust.  Her right hand rested on Bambin’s head, in her left she held the piece of silver ribbon I had given her,—­the ribbon she had hoped to wear at her wedding.

“They are for you,” said Madame Jeannel softly.  “She said you were fond of Bambin, and he of you, and that you must take care of him and keep him with you always.  And as for the ribbon,—­she wished you to take it for her sake, that it might be a remembrance of her in time to come.”

I fell on my knees beside the bed and wept aloud.

“Hush, hush!” whispered Madame Jeannel, bending over me; “it is best as it is, she is gone to the angels of God.”

Science has ceased to believe in angels, but in the faith of good women they live still.