“Is it an annoyance or inconvenience for you to go out in that dress?” “Not a bit, I am thoroughly used to it; but it was for your sake.” “If that is all, come along.” “But people will stare at seeing you in company with a common workman.” “Let them stare.” And drawing Andre’s arm through his, M. de Breulh set off. Andre was right; many persons did turn round to look at the fashionably dressed gentleman walking arm in arm with a mason in his working attire, but De Breulh took but little heed, and to all Andre’s questions simply said, “Wait till we reach my house.” At length they arrived, without having exchanged twenty words, and entering the library closed the door. M. de Breulh did not inflict the torture of suspense upon his young friend a moment longer than was necessary. “This morning, about twelve o’clock, as I was crossing the Avenue de Matignon, I saw Modeste, who had been waiting for you more than an hour.” “I could not help it.” “I know that. As soon as she saw me, she ran up to me at once. She was terribly disappointed at not having seen you; but knowing our intimacy, she intrusted me with a letter for you from Mademoiselle de Mussidan.” Andre shuddered; he felt that the note contained evil tidings, with which De Breulh was already acquainted. “Give it to me,” said he, and with trembling hands he tore open the letter and perused its contents. “DEAREST ANDRE,-- “I love you, and shall ever continue to do so, but I have duties--most holy ones--which I must fulfil; duties which my name and position demand of me, even should the act cost me my life. We shall never meet again in this world, and this letter is the last one you will ever receive from me. Before long you will see the announcement of my marriage. Pity me, for great as your wretchedness will be, it will be as nothing compared to mine. Heaven have mercy upon us both! Andre, try and tear me out of your heart. I have not even the right to die, and oh, my darling, this--this is the last word you will ever receive from your poor unhappy “SABINE.” If M. de Breulh had insisted upon taking Andre home with him before he handed him the letter, it was because Modeste had given him some inkling of its contents. He feared that the effect would be tremendous upon nerves so highly strung and sensitive as those of Andre. But he need not have been alarmed on this point. As the young painter mastered the contents of the letter his features became ghastly pale, and a shudder convulsed every nerve and muscle of his frame. With a mechanical gesture he extended the paper to M. de Breulh, uttering the one word, “Read.” His friend obeyed him, more alarmed by Andre’s laconism than he could have been by some sudden explosion of passion. “Do not lose heart,” exclaimed he.