while I was reading it on paper, for he said to me as he took it:

"Who would think that a kept woman could have written that?" And,
overcome by recollections, he gazed for some time at the writing
of the letter, which he finally carried to his lips.

"And when I think," he went on, "that she died before I could see
her, and that I shall never see her again, when I think that she
did for me what no sister would ever have done, I can not forgive
myself for having left her to die like that. Dead! Dead and
thinking of me, writing and repeating my name, poor dear
Marguerite!"

And Armand, giving free outlet to his thoughts and his tears,
held out his hand to me, and continued:

"People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like
this over a dead woman such as she; no one will ever know what I
made that woman suffer, how cruel I have been to her! how good,
how resigned she was! I thought it was I who had to forgive her,
and to-day I feel unworthy of the forgiveness which she grants
me. Oh, I would give ten years of my life to weep at her feet for
an hour!"

It is always difficult to console a sorrow that is unknown to
one, and nevertheless I felt so lively a sympathy for the young
man, he made me so frankly the confidant of his distress, that I
believed a word from me would not be indifferent to him, and I
said: