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This invitation, urged with cordiality, was quite unexpected. Tears still sparkled in the young man’s eyes, and he entreated me so earnestly that I could not refuse. He pressed my hand with joyful gratitude, gave orders to the bearers and disappeared.

Followed by the acclamations of the multitude through the streets, I proceeded but slowly, but at length arrived at the house of my unknown friend. I only noticed that it was in the neighbourhood of Bertollon’s house and in the street where Clementine lived, which could not be an unpleasant discovery to me, though I was still confused and overcome.

At the foot of the steps in the inner court, the sedan-chair was opened. The friendly stranger awaited me; I saw myself in a large splendid building, and was assisted up the marble stairs by two servants.

All that is terrible and pleasing in human life was compressed for me into the narrow space of this one day.

The folding-doors were opened, and some ladies advanced to receive me. The eldest among them addressed me, saying, “I am much indebted to my nephew for procuring me the honour of seeing the noble-minded deliverer of innocence in my dwelling.”

Who can describe my astonishment when I discovered this lady to be Madame de Sonnes, and that Clementine was following her. I was about to stammer something in reply to her kind reception, but was too much exhausted. The loss of blood in the morning, after a night spent in wakeful melancholy, and the various and extraordinary sensations to which I had been exposed, had quite exhausted me. Clementine’s appearance made me lose sight of all around me. I only saw her, only spoke to her, until forms and colours were blended before my fading sight in a confused chaos.

For several weeks I kept my bed and room, a fever having been produced by the sufferings from my wound. Young M. de Sonnes never left me; he had all my property removed from Bertollon’s house; including the harp, but not the wreath. They did not know of what value it was to me.

In the meanwhile Madame Bertollon had been acquitted; and M. de Sonnes told me that the fair sufferer had immediately left Montpellier, and had gone into a distant convent. He likewise gave me a letter which had been sent for me, under cover, to Madame de Sonnes, saying, “Madame Bertollon probably wished us to thank her deliverer.”

I took it with a trembling hand; as soon as I was alone I perused it, and ever since it has accompanied me in weal and woe. Its contents are as follows:–

“Abbey St. G., at V—-,
“May 11, 1762.

“Farewell, Alamontade, these lines, the first I ever wrote to a man, will be the last. I have left the stormy life of the great world; the solemn stillness of sacred walls encloses me; I have been able to disengage myself, without regret, from all that once was dear and indispensable; I take nothing out of the world except the wounds which it inflicted.

“Ah! that I could have left these wounds, and the remembrance of the past behind me. They cling to me to make my last friend, Death, the more desirable.

“In the bloom of life the black veil of widowhood encircles me; by it I show to men a mourning which I feel not, and conceal that which consumes me.

“Yes, Alamontade, I do not blush even now, in this sacred spot, to confess what I never wished to conceal from you, that I loved you. You knew it. Alas! you still know it; and it was you who could point the dagger to a heart which beat for you alone in this world.

“Oh! Alamontade, you have deceived me. You never loved me. I was not grieved at my unfortunate husband accusing me of the blackest crime. No. But that you could believe me guilty, could become my accuser; you, for whom I would cheerfully have died,–that has withered the very root of my life.