Standing motionless beside the writer's desk, with downcast eyes and the tears rolling silently down her pale cheeks, her lips quivering and her hands clasped convulsively together, Mariette presented a fit model for the picture of "Despair," as she listened to the words that crushed her heart with such cruel force. "There. I was sure the letter would pain you frightfully," observed the old man, looking up as he finished reading. Mariette made no reply. "Don't tremble so, my child," resumed the old scribe. "Sit down--here, take this glass of fresh water." Mariette did not even hear; but still stood gazing fixedly at the torn letter, though she saw it but dimly through her tears. "It is all over, then," she murmured brokenly. "Nothing--nothing more in this world!--I was too happy. Ah! I am like godmother; happiness was not made for me!--" Her voice died out in a stifled sob, and a pang of remorse smote the old man as he gazed at her white, set face. "My dear child," he said soothingly, "pray don't give way to despair." These words recalled the young girl to herself; she wiped away her tears and, bending down, slowly gathered the pieces of the letter. "What are you doing?" cried the scribe, in alarm. "Why should you preserve these fragments, which can only recall cruel souvenirs?" "The tomb of some one we have loved, also recalls painful and cherished souvenirs," said Mariette, sadly, "and yet we do not desert it." Having replaced the pieces in the envelope, she again thrust it in her bosom; and, drawing her thin shawl closely about her shoulders, turned toward the door. On the threshold, however, she paused hesitatingly and looked back at the old man. "Thank you very much for your kindness, monsieur," she said gratefully; then, after a moment's silence, she added timidly: "Although there is no answer to this letter, I feel that after so much trouble I should offer you--" "It will be ten sous, the same as a letter," interrupted the scribe; and without the least scruple or hesitation, he pocketed the remuneration with a sort of sensual pleasure, entirely unimpaired by the girl's wretchedness. "Good-bye, my poor child," he said, "I hope we shall meet again under happier circumstances." "May heaven grant it, monsieur." She walked slowly away, while old Richard closed the shutters of his shop and prepared to return home. Haunted by the most somber thoughts, and a prey to the most poignant emotions, Mariette walked mechanically onward, unconscious of surroundings, and of the way she went, until startled by the sight of the river. "Fate has brought me here," she said with a shudder.