I found in the state in which you now see it." "That is indeed a strange story!" I said. "And have you received your weekly letter as usual?" "No, and that is what makes me uneasy; that is why I gave Françoise orders to bring or send up any letters that might come for me the moment they arrive." "Well," said I, "perhaps the one I have just brought you...." "That is not her style of folding:--still, never mind, as it comes from Angers...." Then, turning it over to break the envelope he exclaimed, "Ah! my God! it is sealed in black! Poor soul, some misfortune has befallen her!" And M. Villenave grew pale as he unsealed the letter; it enclosed a second one. His eyes filled with tears as he read the first lines of the first letter. "Look," he said, and he held it out to me, "read it"; and, while he silently and sadly opened the second letter, I took the first and read:-- "MONSIEUR,--It is with personal grief, increased by realising what you too will feel, that I have to inform you that Madame---died on Sunday last, at the last stroke of midnight. The day before, while she was writing to you, she was seized by an indisposition which we thought at first was only slight, but it grew worse, until she died. I have the sad duty of sending to you the letter she had begun to write to you, unfinished as it is. This letter will assure you that her affection for you remained unchanged to the end. "I remain, Monsieur, in great grief, as you will readily believe, your very humble and very obedient servant, "THÉRÈSE MIRAUD" "So you see," resumed M. Villenave, "it was at the last stroke of midnight that the portrait fell, and it was at the last stroke of midnight that she died." I felt that his grief needed a solitude peopled only by past recollections and uninterrupted by any poor attempts I could offer at consolation. I picked up my hat, pressed his hand and left.