The next day was one of agony and suspense. Evening came, but no Mercy. N N. lit the charcoal. But, to compose his nerves, he closed his door and first walked mildly up and down Montgomery Street. When he returned, he found the faithful Mongolian on the steps. --All lity! These Chinese are not accurate in their pronunciation. They avoid the r, like the English nobleman. N N. gasped for breath. He leaned heavily against the Chinaman. --Then you have seen her, Ching Long? --Yes. All lity. She cum. Top side of house. The docile barbarian pointed up the stairs, and chuckled. --She here--impossible! Ah, Heaven! do I dream? --Yes. All lity,--top side of house. Good by, John. This is the familiar parting epithet of the Mongolian. It is equivalent to our au revoir. N N. gazed with a stupefied air on the departing servant. He placed his hand on his throbbing heart. She here,--alone beneath this roof. O Heavens, what happiness! But how? Torn from her home. Ruthlessly dragged, perhaps, from her evening devotions, by the hands of a relentless barbarian. Could she forgive him? He dashed frantically up the stairs. He opened the door. She was standing beside his couch with averted face. A strange giddiness overtook him. He sank upon his knees at the threshold. --Pardon, pardon. My angel, can you forgive me? A terrible nausea now seemed added to the fearful giddiness. His utterance grew thick and sluggish. --Speak, speak, enchantress. Forgiveness is all I ask. My Love, my Life! She did not answer. He staggered to his feet. As he rose, his eyes fell on the pan of burning charcoal. A terrible suspicion flashed across his mind. This giddiness,--this nausea. The ignorance of the barbarian. This silence. O merciful heavens! she was dying! He crawled toward her. He touched her. She fell forward with a lifeless sound upon the floor. He uttered a piercing shriek, and threw himself beside her. * * * * * A file of gendarmes, accompanied by the Chef Burke, found him the next morning lying lifeless upon the floor. They laughed brutally,--these cruel minions of the law,--and disengaged his arm from the waist of the wooden dummy which they had come to reclaim for the mantuamaker. Emptying a few bucketfuls of water over his form, they finally succeeded in robbing him, not only of his mistress, but of that Death he had coveted without her. Ah! we live in a strange world, Messieurs. FANTINE. AFTER THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. PROLOGUE. As long as there shall exist three paradoxes, a moral Frenchman, a religious Atheist, and a believing sceptic; so long, in fact, as booksellers shall wait--say twenty-five years--for a new gospel; so long as paper shall remain cheap and ink three sous a bottle, I have no hesitation in saying that such books as these are not utterly profitless. VICTOR HUGO. I. To be good is to be queer. What is a good man? Bishop Myriel.