The next morning Rita received a letter. She was at breakfast with Mlle. Tallieu and could with difficulty conceal the excitement into which the reception of the letter had thrown her. Fortunately her companion was absorbed in the "Figaro," and paid no attention to Rita, who was thus able to hide the letter in her pocket without its being noticed. "_De maman?_" she asked, without looking up from her journal. "_Ceca!_" Rita answered in a low voice. "_Oh! ce pauvre Henry .... pauvre! Il est mort .... mon dieu! Quel malheur pour ma grande patrie .... cette canaille de D .... C'est vraiment ... cette blamage irreparable._" Rita arose. She was accustomed to hear Mlle. Tallieu grow enthusiastic, one day over Zola's "_J'accuse_," and the next day equally so for _l'armee_. One of the uncultured or rather half-cultured, she was swayed by the force of pathos, and was ever of the opinion of others, if they were forcibly expressed. At all events Mademoiselle was at this moment fully occupied and well provided. There was an abundance of sliced meat on the table, plenty of marmalade, and other good things; the tea-pot was bubbling; and Rita could hope to remain undisturbed for a long time. She stepped into her mother's room, and, with a timid glance at the "family tree," she sat down to read her letter. Her heart was beating violently, and the sheets rustled in her trembling hands. Several minutes passed before she could gain sufficient self-possession to look at the writing. The words swam before her sight: "My dear, precious girl, my Rita, my bride! This word fills me with delight, and I know it awakens an echo in your heart; you say it softly to yourself, and you are filled with bride-like thoughts, thoughts that belong to me. Whatever might interfere with the union of our hearts from without, within us reigns love, joy, hope. I know I want to win and possess you, and I know you are willing to belong to me. "Need I beg your pardon for giving in to the impulsive joy of my heart, to the violent longing of my soul, for not waiting to sue for you soberly and sensibly, as is proper for a man so much older than you are, but stormed you with a youth's love of conquest, throwing prudence to the winds, and scorning careful consideration? I was young again when I saw you before me yesterday in the sweet loveliness of your youth, and I shall be young so long as your love remains the fountain of youth in my soul. "Do you want to know how it came about? I might answer you, 'Do not ask, be sensible only of the strong, exulting love that arose within us as a marvellous, convincing, dominant fact, as a law of nature.' But I see your earnest, wise eyes, which in the past weeks have rested searchingly upon me so often,--I see them before me in all their sincerity, their sweetness, their purity; and it seems to me that I must explain to the little interrogator all about myself and how it happened.