what moan, like that of a sick child. I ran away. I was resolved to leave
this fatal spot without further delay. Nothing could have induced me to
remain a moment longer. Your letter, which had been handed to me on our
return, served me as a likely pretext for my sudden departure. The
friendship that binds us is well-known here. I said you needed me within
twenty-four hours. I had taken care, at all hazards, to send three days
before to the nearest town for a carriage and horses. In a few minutes my
preparations were made; I gave orders to the driver to start ahead and
wait for me at the extremity of the avenue while I was taking my leave.
Monsieur de Malouet seemed to have no suspicion of the truth; the worthy
old gentleman appeared quite moved as he received my thanks, and really
manifested for me a singular affection out of all proportion to the brief
duration of our acquaintance. I had to be scarcely less thankful to M. de
Breuilly. I regret now the caricature I once gave you as the portrait of
that noble heart.

Madame de Malouet insisted upon accompanying me down the avenue a few
steps farther than her husband. I felt her arm trembling under mine while
she was intrusting me with a few trifling errands for Paris. At the moment
of parting, and as I was pressing her hand with effusion, she detained me
gently:

"Well! sir," she said in a feeble voice, "God did not bless our wisdom."

"Our hearts are open to Him, madam; He must have read our sincerity; He
sees how much I am suffering, and I humbly hope He may forgive me!"

"Do not doubt it--do not doubt it," she replied in a broken voice; "but
she? she!--ah! poor child!"