The day after my long conversation with Mdlle. X. C. V., my servant told
me that there was a young man waiting who wanted to give me a letter with
his own hands. I had him in, and on my asking him from whom the letter
came, he replied that I should find all particulars in the letter, and
that he had orders to wait for an answer. The epistle ran as follows:

"I am writing this at two o'clock in the morning. I am weary and in need
of rest, but a burden on my soul deprives me of sleep. The secret I am
about to tell you will no longer be so grievous when I have confided in
you; I shall feel eased by placing it in your breast. I am with child,
and my situation drives me to despair. I was obliged to write to you
because I felt I could not say it. Give me a word in reply."

My feelings on reading the above may be guessed. I was petrified with
astonishment and could only write, "I will be with you at eleven
o'clock."

No one should say that he has passed through great misfortunes unless
they have proved too great for his mind to bear. The confidence of Mdlle.
X. C. V. shewed me that she was in need of support. I congratulated
myself on having the preference, and I vowed to do my best for her did it
cost me my life. These were the thoughts of a lover, but for all that I
could not conceal from myself the imprudence of the step she had taken.
In such cases as these there is always the choice between speaking or
writing, and the only feeling which can give the preference to writing is
false shame, at bottom mere cowardice. If I had not been in love with
her, I should have found it easier to have refused my aid in writing than
if she had spoken to me, but I loved her to distraction.

"Yes," said I to myself, "she can count on me. Her mishap makes her all