The rest was torn. I can not describe the impression, that sad letter made on me; I turned it over and saw on the other side Marco's address and the date, that of the evening previous. "Is she dead? Who is dead?" I cried, going to the alcove. "Dead! Who?" Marco opened her eyes. She saw me with the letter in my hand. "It is my mother," she said, "who is dead. You are not coming?" As she spoke she extended her hand. "Silence!" I said; "sleep and leave me to myself." She turned over and went to sleep. I looked at her for some time to assure myself that she would not hear me, and then quietly left the house. CHAPTER V ONE evening I was seated by the fire with Desgenais. The window was open; it was one of the early days in March, a harbinger of spring. It had been raining and a sweet odor came from the garden. "What shall we do this spring?" I asked. "I do not care to travel." "I shall do what I did last year," replied Desgenais. "I shall go to the country when the time comes." "What!" I replied. "Do you do the same thing every year? Are you going to begin life over again this year?" "What would you expect me to do?" "What would I expect you to do?" I cried, jumping to my feet. "That is just like you. Ah! Desgenais, how all this wearies me! Do you never tire of this sort of life?" "No," he replied. I was standing before an engraving of the Madeleine. Involuntarily I joined my hands. "What are you doing?" asked Desgenais. "If I were an artist," I replied, "and wished to represent Melancholy, I would not paint a dreamy girl with a book in her hands." "What is the matter with you this evening?" he asked, smiling. "No, in truth," I continued, "that Madeleine, in tears, has the spark of hope in her bosom; that pale and sickly hand on which she supports her head, is still sweet with the perfume with which she anointed the feet of her Lord. You do not understand that in that desert there are thinking people who pray. This is not Melancholy." "It is a woman who reads," he replied dryly. "And a happy woman," I continued, "and a happy book." Desgenais understood me; he saw that a profound sadness had taken possession of me. He asked if I had some secret cause of sorrow. I hesitated, but did not reply. "My dear Octave," he said, "if you have any trouble, do not hesitate to confide in me. Speak freely and you will find that I am your friend!" "I know it," I replied, "I know I have a friend; that is not my trouble." He urged me to explain. "But what will it avail," I asked, "since neither of us can help matters? Do you want the bottom of my heart or merely a word and an excuse?" "Be frank!" he said. "Very well," I replied, "you have seen fit to give me advice in the past and now I ask you to listen to me as I have listened to you. You ask what is in my heart and I am about to tell you.