"I shall be with you the day following the receipt of this letter. What I have suffered during this short separation proves that I cannot live without you. Thank God, the day of our union is fast approaching. Tomorrow is the _sixth of May_, remember. I shall speak to my father the moment I reach home, and I am sure he will not refuse his consent. "Farewell, then, until day after to-morrow, my darling Mariette. I love you madly, or wisely, rather; for I was wise to seek and find happiness in a heart like yours. "Yours forever and ever. LOUIS." "I write these few lines only, because I shall be in Paris almost as soon as my letter; and then, it is always painful to think that other eyes see what I write for you only. Were it not for this, how many things might I not say!" Mariette was so astounded that she could find no word to say. "I cannot understand how this letter could have produced such a sad effect on you?" said Louis, much perplexed. "Is that really what the letter says?" asked the amazed girl. "Certainly. Here, Madame Lacombe, read it," suggested Louis, placing the fragments before her. "You know very well that I can't read," replied the old woman, roughly. "How is it that the contrary was told Mariette?" "Who read it for you, Mariette?" asked Louis. "The public scribe," she informed him. "A public scribe!" exclaimed the young man, a fearful suspicion flashing through his mind. "In mercy, explain yourself!" "There is very little to explain, my dear Louis. I went in search of a public scribe, at the _Charnier des Innocents_, and dictated a letter for you to a very kind old gentleman. He was so kind, indeed, that he only charged me ten sous, although he was obliged to write it twice, having spilt the bottle of ink on the first copy as he was preparing to address it to Dreux. When I reached home again, I found this letter from you; then I went back to the public scribe--for he had shown much interest in me--and he read it for me. According to him, the letter said that we should never meet again; that your father's future happiness and your own depended on our separation, and that--" But she could say no more, and burst into tears. Louis understood it all, however, from the chance meeting of Mariette with his father, to the stratagem of the latter to deceive them both. This abuse of confidence overwhelmed him with such grief and shame, that he dared not admit the tie of relationship existing between himself and the public scribe, but sought another plausible explanation of this deceit and treachery. "Notwithstanding his apparent good nature and benevolence, this old rascal must have been trying to amuse himself at your expense, my poor Mariette," said the young man. "He read you just the contrary of what I had written."