“Slowly she came to herself; through her mask I made out how haggard were her eyes; I saw the lower part of her pale face, I heard her teeth chatter one upon the other, as in the chill of a fever. I see it all once more. “She remembered all that had taken place, and fell at my feet. “‘If you have any compassion,’ she said to me, sobbing, ‘any pity, turn away your eyes from me, never seek to know me; let me go and forget me. I will remember for two!’ “At these words she rose again; quickly, like a thought that escapes us, she darted toward the door, opened it, and coming back again, ‘Do not follow me, in heaven’s name, Monsieur, do not follow me!’ she said. “The door pushed violently open, closed again between her and me, stole her from my sight, like an apparition. I have never seen her more! “I have never seen her more! And ever since, ever since the six months that have glided by, I have sought her everywhere, at balls, at spectacles, at promenades. Every time I have seen from a distance a woman with lithe figure, with a foot like a child’s, with black hair, I have followed her, I have drawn near to her, I have looked into her face, hoping that her blushes would betray her. Nowhere have I found her again, in no place have I seen her again--except at night, except in my dreams! Oh! there, there she reappears; there I feel her, I feel her embraces, her biting caresses so ardent, as if she had something of the devil in her; then the mask has fallen and a face most grotesque appeared to me at times blurred as if veiled in a cloud; sometimes brilliant, as if circled by an aureole; sometimes pale, with a skull white and naked, with eyes vanished from the orbits, with teeth chattering and few. In short, ever since that night, I have ceased to live; burning with mad passion for a woman I do not know, hoping always and always disappointed at my hopes. Jealous without the right to be so, without knowing of whom to be jealous, not daring to avow such madness, and all the time pursued, preyed upon, wasted away, consumed by her.” As he finished these words he tore a letter from his breast. “Now that I have told you everything,” he said to me, “take this letter and read it.” I took the letter and read: “Have you perhaps forgotten a poor woman who has forgotten nothing and who dies because she can not forget? “When you receive this letter I shall be no more. Then go to the cemetery of Père-Lachaise, tell the concierge to let you see among the newest graves one that bears on its stone the simple name ‘Marie,’ and when you are face to face with that grave, fall on your knees and pray.”