This happy day at length arrived. The couple had just been married and Frederic, in the intoxication of happiness, held his wife in his arms. He was seated near the mantel-piece. The crackling of the fire and the play of the flames caused him to tremble. By a strange freak of memory, he thought of the day on which for the first time he had sat thus with Bernerette, near the mantel-piece in a little bedroom. Those, whose imagination is pleased to admit that man hastens ever toward the accomplishment of his fate, may comment as they please on this strange fact. At this moment a letter with the Paris postmark was handed to Frederic, announcing the death of Bernerette. I need not paint his astonishment nor his grief. I must content myself with placing before the reader's eye the poor girl's farewell to her friend. Here in a few lines written in that style, half gay, half sad, which was peculiar to her, you will find the explanation of her conduct: "Alas! Frederic, you well knew it was but a dream. We could not live quietly and be happy. I wanted to leave here. I received a visit from a young man whom I had met in the country, in the time of my glory; he was madly in love with me at Bordeaux. I am unaware from whom he had obtained my address. He came and threw himself at my feet as if I were still the queen of the stage. He offered me his fortune, which was not much, and his heart, which was nothing at all.

It was the day after you left me, saying that you were going away. You will remember. I was none too happy, my dear, and I hardly knew where to dine. I allowed myself to be led, but unfortunately I could not adhere to it. I had sent my slippers to his rooms. I sent for them and decided to die.

"Yes, my dear, I wished to leave you there. I could not live as an apprentice.

However, the second time I made up my mind. But your father called on me again: that is something you did not know. What could I say to him? I promised to forget you and returned to my admirer. Ah! How tired I was of it all! Is it my fault that all men appear ugly and foolish to me since I have loved you?

But I can not live on memories. What do you think I could do?

"I do not kill myself; I do but finish a task already begun: it is not a great murder that I commit. My health is poor, forever gone. All this would be nothing if it were not for ennui. I am told you are about to marry; is she beautiful? Good-by, good-by. Remember, when it is fine, the day that you watered your flowers. Oh! how quickly I learned to love you! On seeing you I started and became pale. I have been very happy with you. Good-by.

"If your father had not wished it, we would never have parted. But you had no money, that is the misfortune. Neither had I. If I had gone to a laundry I could never have stayed there; so what were we to do? I have now tried twice to begin anew but I am successful in nothing.

"I a.s.sure you that it is not from madness that I take my life: I am in full possession of all my mental faculties. My parents (may G.o.d forgive them) have come back again. If you only knew what they want to do with me! It is too disgusting to be the plaything of misery and to be annoyed to such an extent.

When we loved each other, if we had been more economical it would have been better. But you insisted on our going to the theater and amusing ourselves. We have spent many a happy evening at La Chaumiere.

"Good-by, my dear, for the last time, good-by. If I had been in better health I would have gone back to the stage, but I can breathe and that is all. Never reproach yourself on account of my death. I feel that, had it been in your power to avert it, nothing would have happened. I felt it, but dared not say it. I saw whither events were drifting, but did not wish to worry you.

"It is a sad night on which I write to you and sadder, I a.s.sure you, than that on which you came and rang the bell and found me out. I had never thought you jealous. When I knew you were angry, I was both sorry and pleased. Why did you not wait for me? You would have seen the expression on my face when I returned from my adventure. But it is nothing, you loved me more than you admitted.

"I wish to finish, but can not. I cling to this paper as to the rest of my life; I crowd up my lines; I would collect all my remaining force and send it to you. No, you have not known my heart. You have loved me because you are good; it was out of pity that you came and also a little for pleasure. Had I been rich, you would not have left me: that is what I tell myself, and it is the only thing that gives me courage. Good-by.

"May your father have no reason to repent for the harm of which he has been the cause! Now, I feel it, what would I not give to know something, to have in my hands some means of making a living! It is too late. If, when a child, one could see one's life in a mirror, I would not end thus; you would still love me. But perhaps not, since you are about to marry.

"How could you write me such a cruel letter? Since your father insisted and you were going to leave, I saw no harm in trying to find another lover. I have never felt the same and never have I seen anything so droll as his face when I told him I was going home.

"Your letter has hurt me cruelly. I stayed by my fire for two days without being able to say a word or to move. I was born very unhappy, my friend. You can not imagine how the good G.o.d has treated me during the twenty years of my life: it is like a game of chance. As a child, I was beaten and when I cried I was put outside. 'Go and see if it is raining,' my father would say. When I was twelve years old I was made to polish the floor, and when I became a woman, was I not persecuted enough? My life has been spent in trying to live, and finally in seeing that I must die.

"May G.o.d bless you, you who have given me my only happy days; I then breathed the pure air; may G.o.d reward you. May you be happy and free, oh my friend! May you be loved as I love you, your poor dying Bernerette.

"Do not grieve; all will have an end. Do you remember a German tragedy that you were reading to me one night? The hero of the story demands: 'What shall we cry as we die?'- 'Liberty!' answers little George. You wept on reading that word. Weep then- it is the last cry of your friend. The poor leave no will; but I send you a lock of my hair. One day when the hairdresser burned it with his iron, I remember that you wished to beat him. Since you did not wish them to burn my hair, you will not throw this lock of hair in the fire.

"Good-by, again good-by, forever.

"Your faithful friend, "BERNERETTE.".

I have been told that after reading this letter, Frederic made an attempt on his life. I will not speak of it here. The indifferent too often look upon such deeds as ridiculous, when one survives. The judgment of the world is sad on this matter. He who attempts to die is laughed at, and he who dies is forgotten.