"My dear Mariette, pray do not let such a scruple stand between us." "I shall do as you wish." "Listen, Mariette," said the young man, earnestly: "true mourning is that of the soul, and with me it will endure long beyond the time limited by society and the world in general. My heart is crushed with sorrow, and I can honor the memory of my father without conforming to customs of propriety. And believe me, my darling, a marriage contracted under the painful impressions caused by my sad loss, will appear more solemn and sacred than if contracted under other circumstances." "You may be right, Louis; yet it is customary to wait," ventured the young girl. "My dear Mariette, shall my father be less deeply regretted because you are my wife, and weep over his death with me, because you are wearing mourning for him and are attached to his memory by a tender link? Besides, my darling, in my grief and isolation, I cannot live without you--I would die." "I am only a poor working girl, ignorant of the ways of the world, and can only express what I feel, Louis," rejoined Mariette, unable to resist his pleadings. "The reasons you plead for an early marriage seem good to me. I may be wrong, or I may, perhaps, be influenced by my longing to be yours; but I know that I can accede to an immediate marriage without regret or remorse. And yet, it seems to me my heart is as tender as others--" "Yes, and more ungrateful, too!" interrupted a harsh voice; and Mme. Lacombe sat bolt upright in her bed, glaring fiercely at the astounded young couple. "Ah! yes," she went on, sarcastically, "you thought the old woman sound asleep, and took advantage of it to talk of your wedding. But I heard every word of it." "There was not a word which you might not hear; madame," observed Louis, gravely. "Mariette and myself retract nothing we have said." "The deuce!--I believe it--you think of nothing but yourself. You can talk of nothing but that accursed marriage. As for me--I might as well be in my grave--" "Allow me to interrupt you, madame," broke in Louis, "and prove that I have not forgotten my promise." As he spoke, he took a small wooden box from the table, where he had laid it on entering, and deposited it on the bed with the key. "Open it," he said; "all it contains is yours." The old woman picked up the key suspiciously, opened the box and peered in. "Great heavens!" she cried in amazement, dazzled by the glittering contents. Then plunging her hand among the shining pieces, she tossed them about, jingling them together and allowing them to slip through her fingers in a golden shower, muttering covetously: "Ah! what gold! what gold!--all good and sound, too!--Heavens! what beautiful pieces! What a big sum they must make!" Turning the box over, she gathered the coins into a dazzling pile and added with a sigh: "That would bring comfort and ease to two poor women like Mariette and me for a lifetime!"