“When this poor child is confided to you, if he survives his sad infancy, Pierre, love him, oh, love him! He will never have had a mother’s love. I wish, if he is worthy of the sacred vocation, and if it suits his mind and his character, I wish him to be a priest. Some day you will tell him the terrible secret of his birth. “He will pray for you and for me, and perhaps Heaven will hear his prayers. I feel very feeble, very feeble. Again, Pierre, I must see you. Ah, how cruelly we expiate a few days of madness! “Once more, that which most pains me is his confidence. Oh, I tell you that the sight of him will kill me. I feel that I must die.” The marks of the tears could still be seen upon this letter written with a feeble, fainting hand. Pog, after having read the pages which portrayed so faithfully the agony of Emilie’s soul, gazed thoughtfully upon the lines. He bowed his head on his breast. That man so cruelly outraged, that man hardened by hatred, could not refuse a feeling of pity for this unhappy woman. A tear, a burning tear, the only one he had shed in years, coursed his weather-beaten cheek. Then his resentment against the author of all these woes rose again in fury. He thanked Heaven for having at last made known to him the seducer of Emilie, but he did not now wish to concentrate his thought on the terrible vengeance that he meditated. He continued to read. The next letter was in the handwriting of Emilie. She informed the commander of the consequence of the last venture. _Fifth Letter_. “December 16th, nine o’clock in the morning. “My husband knows the supposed death of the child; his despair borders on madness. His letter terrifies me with its wild and passionate grief. The quarantine ends in fifteen days. I shall not live until that time; my crime will be buried with me, and he will regret me, and he will weep my memory, perhaps. Oh, to deceive, to deceive, to deceive even to the coffin and the grave! God! will he ever forgive me? It is an abyss of terror into which I dare not cast my eyes. This evening, at eleven o’clock, Justine will open the little gate at the park. Pierre, these are solemn farewells, funereal, perhaps. To-morrow, then, to-morrow.” CHAPTER XXXV. THE MURDERER A paper, part of which was torn, contained this written confession, in the handwriting of the commander, a few days after the bloody tragedy which he relates. The person to whom it was addressed is unknown. Some passages, tom intentionally, perhaps, seem to refer to a journey, made by the commander in Languedoc at the same period, for the purpose, no doubt, of learning the fate of his unfortunate child. “And my hands are stained with blood. I have just committed a murder. “I have assassinated the man against whom I have committed a deadly wrong. “At eleven o’clock I presented myself at the little gate of the park. I was conducted into the chamber of Emilie. “She was in bed, pale, almost dying.