"And I did not reflect," she continued, with bitterness, "that, in telling in the face of all the world from what an abyss of depravity you had rescued me, I revealed a secret which you had preserved out of tenderness to me! It would have been to accuse you publicly--you, my father--of a dissimulation, which you only resigned yourself to to assure me a brilliant and honoured existence! Can you ever forgive me?" Instead of replying, I pressed my lips on her forehead; she felt my tears flow. Having kissed my hands many times, she said: "Now I feel better, and, as now I am dead to the world, I should like to make a few bequests in favour of several persons; but as all I have comes from you, do you authorise me, dearest father?" "Say, dearest, and I will do all you desire." "I should wish my beloved mother to keep always in the little boudoir in which she usually sits my embroidery-frame, with the work I began." "It shall be so, love; your apartment is as when you left it. Clemence will be deeply touched by your thought of her." "As for you, dear father, take, I pray, my large ebony armchair, in which I have thought of--reflected upon so much." "I will put it beside my own, in my own private closet, and will imagine I see you in it every day, where you have so often sat," I said, unable to repress my tears. "And now I would leave some souvenirs to those who took so much interest in me when I was unhappy. To Madame Georges I would give the writing-desk I have lately used; she taught me to write originally, so the gift will be very appropriate," she said, with her sweet smile. "As to the venerable cure of Bouqueval, who instructed me in religion, I intend for him the beautiful crucifix in my oratory." "Very well, my dearest child." "I should like to send my bandeau of pearls to my good little Rigolette; it is a simple ornament which she may wear in her beautiful black hair. And as you know where Martial and La Louve are in Algeria, I should like to send to the brave woman who saved my life my gold enamelled cross. These different keepsakes, dearest father, I would have sent to them 'from Fleur-de-Marie.'" "I will do all you wish,--I will not forget one." "I am sure you will not, dearest father." "Is there no other person present to your memory?" The dear child understood me, and pressed my hand, whilst a slight blush tinged her pale cheeks as I said, "He is better--out of danger." "And his father?" "Better as his son is better. And what will you give to Henry? A souvenir from you will be a consolation so dear and precious!" "My father, offer him my _prie-Dieu_. Alas! I have often watered it with my tears when begging from Heaven for strength to forget Henry, as I was unworthy of his love."