“Vassigny sprang to his feet, and placed his hand over his friend’s mouth. ‘No, no!’ he exclaimed, ‘the fatal secret shall die with me.’ Then, without another word, he sat down at a table, and with a trembling hand traced the following lines: “‘Monsieur le Comte, there are tortures which human strength cannot endure. For mercy’s sake, let us terminate this sad affair as soon as may be, or I will not answer for keeping my promise. I shall pass the night at the club.’ “This letter was addressed: ‘_Monsieur le Comte de Marsanne_.’” At the club, the husband and the lover meet and play high. Vassigny loses, as usual; affects anger, shuffles the cards offensively, and hints suspicions of foul play. A challenge is the natural result. Late upon the following night, we find Kersent pacing the Boulevard in despondent mood, accompanied by D’Havrecourt, who has acted as one of Marsanne’s seconds in the inevitable duel. They discuss the melancholy event of Vassigny’s death, which has occurred that evening, a few hours after his adversary’s ball had pierced his breast. Vassigny had fired in the air. “‘The more I reflect on it,’ said D’Havrecourt, ‘the more convinced I am that the unworthy affection of which Vassigny made a parade, was only a feigned sentiment, a mock passion thrown as a blind to the indiscreet curiosity of the world, to mask a devoted, although, perhaps, a guilty love. To you, who loved him as a brother, and to you alone, I may divulge an episode of this fatal drama. This it is. Vassigny was still stretched upon the grass; the surgeon, after vainly endeavouring to extract the bullet, put up his instruments, with a countenance that left me no hope. Tinguy had led away Marsanne; Navailles and Lord Howley had gone off in all haste, one to have every thing prepared at Vassigny’s house, the other to summon the first physicians. I was alone with the wounded man. His senses returned; he opened his eyes, and I saw by the expression of his agonised features that he wished to speak to me. I knelt beside him. He raised his left hand, and in a feeble voice asked me to unfasten his shirt-sleeve. I obeyed. His wrist was encircled by a small bracelet of hair, so tightly fastened to the arm, that, to get it off, I had to cut the tress. ‘D’Havrecourt,’ said he faintly, ‘that bracelet was only to quit me with life; I confide it to your honour; swear to annihilate it the instant you get home.’ I made the required vow, and from that moment he spoke not a word. On reaching home, my first care was to fulfil my promise, by burning the bracelet. It was composed of a tress of fair hair, and the hair of that Francine is black. And it was secured by a gold plate, upon which were engraved an A and a G intertwined, with the words ‘14 October 1840.’’