"Did she send a letter with you?" again interrupted the baroness. "She did, madame. But before I give it to you I should like to have a shovel of hot coals and a bit of camphor." "But why--why?" demanded the baroness. "I will tell you. Do you know what Napoleon brought home with him from the bloody battle of Eilau?" "I have not heard." "The 'influenza.' I dare say you have never even heard the name; but you will very soon hear it often enough! It is a pestilential disease that is rather harmless where it originated, but when it takes hold of a strange region it becomes a deadly pestilence--as in Paris, where a special hospital has been established for patients with the disease. It was in this hospital I found your daughter as a nurse." "_Jesu Maria!_" shrieked the mother, in a tone of agony. "A nurse in that pest-house?" "Yes," nodded the marquis. Then he took from his pocket a letter, and added: "She wrote this to you from there." The baroness eagerly extended her hand to take the letter. "Would it not be better to fumigate it first?" said the marquis. "No, no; I am not afraid! Give it to me, I beg of you!" She caught the letter from his hand, tore it open, and read: "DEAR LITTLE MAMA: What sort of a life are you leading out yonder in that strange land? Do you never get weary or feel bored? Have you anything to amuse you? _I_ have become satiated with my life--lying, cheating, deceiving every day in order to live! While I was a little girl I was proud of the praises heaped upon me for my cleverness. But a day came when everything disgusted me. It is an infamous trade, this of ours, little mama, and I have given it up. I have begun to lead a different life--one with which I am satisfied; and if you will take the advice of one who wishes you well, you, too, will quit the old ways. You can embroider beautifully and play the piano like a master. You could earn a livelihood giving lessons in either. Do not trouble any further about me, for I can take care of myself. If only you knew how much happier I am now, you would rejoice, I know! Let me beg you to become honest and truthful, and think often of your old friend and little daughter, "AMÉLIE (now SOEUÉR AGNES)." Katharina's nerveless hands dropped to her lap. This sharp rebuke from her only child was deserved. Then she sprang suddenly toward her visitor, grasped his arm, and cried: "Tell me--tell me about my daughter, my little Amélie! How does she look now? Is she much changed? Has she grown? Oh, M. Cambray! in pity tell me--tell me about her!" "I have brought you a portrait of her as she looked when I saw her last." He drew from his pocket a small case, and, opening it, disclosed a pallid face with closed eyes. A wreath of myrtle encircled the head, which rested on the pillow of a coffin. "She is dead!" screamed the horror-stricken mother, staring with wild eyes at the sorrowful picture.