Henri took his departure on the next day, quite overpowered at the idea of having bidden Annette adieu for ever. During the four or five first days, the young traveller was pensive enough: Annette's smiling countenance occupied his thoughts, but he could no longer dissemble from himself, that he had acted unkindly towards Louise--"Annette will console herself; but will the gentle Louise forgive me? Oh, yes!--she is so good; I will tell her every thing, and she will admire my fidelity, when she knows how fascinating Annette was, and in what a situation I was placed." Full of this fond hope, he pursued his journey more gaily, and the nearer he approached his own dear province, the more was Annette effaced from his thoughts; for every thing around him inspired him with the sweetest reminiscences. It was just the beginning of May: each lover, on the first Sunday of that month, planted a young fir, or birch-tree, adorned with flowers, before his fair one's door. Henri thought how many he had fixed before the window of his dear Louise, and how happy he had been on hearing it said, the next day, that the loveliest girl in the village had had the finest May-offering. Oh! could he but arrive soon enough to announce his return in that way! He tried to do so, but his efforts were fruitless: the first Sunday arrived, and he was still two days' journey from Verny. In the evening he found himself in a large town, called Nuneville, fatigued with his now useless endeavours, and resolved to proceed no further that day. Every thing seemed prepared for the festival--the street was neat and clean--the fountains adorned with branches, and decorated with large nosegays, tied together with beautiful ribands--fir-trees marked the dwellings of the young females--all had flowers around them, but he remarked, that _one_ had only white ones on it, fastened with a crape riband--the street was deserted. Before he could reach the inn, which was at the other end of the town, he had to pass by the church and the burial-ground; the former seemed full of women, and in the latter there was an open grave. This melancholy sight rendered it evident, that some one was dead; that her loss had suspended the public joy; and the _bouquet_, encircled with crape, had been planted before the "house of mourning." He entered the church-yard--groups of females were walking there. They were conversing in a low tone, and Henri discovered that the deceased was young and beautiful; and that she had been the victim of a misplaced affection; he could not restrain his tears, for he thought how near, perhaps, he had been occasioning the death of his Louise. "But," said one of the females, "why did she not imitate her fickle lover? Why did she not receive the addresses of your brother Guillaume?"--"She always told me," replied Isabelle, (the person addressed, and who was in deeper mourning than the others,) "that she could only love once, and