"Have pity on her, madam. Do not forsake her. Farewell!"

I left her hastily, and I started, but instead of going direct to the
town, I had myself driven along the abbey road as far as the top of the
hills; I requested the coachman to go alone to the town, and to return for
me to-morrow morning early at the same place. I cannot explain to you, my
dear friend, the singular and irresistible fancy that I took to spend one
last night in that solitude where I spent such quick and happy days, and
so recently, mon Dieu!

Here I am, then, back in my cell. How cold, dark, and gloomy it seems! The
sky also has gone into mourning. Since my arrival in this neighborhood,
and in spite of the season, I had seen none but summer days and nights.
To-night a cold autumnal storm has burst over the valley; the wind howls
among the ruins, blowing off fragments that fall heavily upon the ground.
A driving rain is pattering against my window-panes. It seems to me as if
it were raining tears!

Tears! my heart is overflowing with them--and not a single one will rise
to my eyes. And yet, I have prayed, I have long prayed to God--not, my
friend to that untangible God whom we pursue in vain beyond the stars and
the worlds, but the only true God, truly kind and helpful to suffering
humanity, the God of my childhood, the God of that poor woman!

Ah! I wish to think now only of my approaching meeting with you, the day
after to-morrow, dear friend, and perhaps before this letter--

* * * * *

Come, Paul! If you can leave your mother, come, I beseech you, come to