"Yes, I saw her; she was in deep black. Her face was covered with a thick black veil--not so thick, though, but I could see a white handkerchief all the time beneath; and I saw her slight figure tremble. I was not near enough to hear her sobs, when they commenced throwing down the earth upon the coffin. "_Oui_, _mon ami_, I saw her walk away--not able to support herself, but clinging for very weakness to the arm of the man whose face I had seen at St. Louis. They passed slowly out of the gates; they entered a carriage together, and drove away." "It was Remy, I suppose?" said I. "I do not know," said the abbe. "And when did you see her again?" "Not for months," said the abbe; and he sipped his wine. "Shall I go on, _mon cher_?--it is a sad story." I nodded affirmatively, and filled the abbe's glass, and took a nut or two from the dish before us. "I called at the hotel where monsieur had died; mademoiselle had gone, the concierge could not tell where. I went to the hospital, and made inquiries for a Monsieur Remy--no such name had been entered within a year. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little window of the court; it was bare and desolate, as you see it now. Once I went to the grave of the old man--it was after the tablet had been raised; a rose-tree had been put at the foot of the grave. I did not know, but thought who must have set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautiful _Marie_ again. "You remember, _mon ami_, the pretty little houses along the Rue de Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clear marble door-steps?" "_Tres bien, mon cher abbe._" "It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at the window of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I went in, _mon ami_. I made myself known as the attendant on her father's death. She took my hand at this--ah, the soft white hand." The abbe sipped his wine. "She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuries around her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, and fastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reached but a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom, and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix. "I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. She smiled her thanks. "I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, of whom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face, and burst into tears. "I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her friend. "'_Mon Dieu!_' said she, looking at me earnestly, '_il est_--_il etait mon mari!_' "She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?" "'_Ah, non, non, monsieur_--worse--_Mon Dieu! quel mariage!_' and she buried her face in her hands. "What could I do, _mon cher_? The _friend_ had betrayed her. They told me as much at Passy." Again the abbe stopped.