I beg your pardon
for my forlts, and the last greef to which I put you by ending my
life in the river. Henry, who I love more than myself, says I have
made his misfortune, and as he has drifen me away, and I have lost
all my hops of merrying him, I am going to droun myself. I shall
go abov Neuilly, so that they can't put me in the Morg. If Henry
does not hate me anny more after I am ded, ask him to berry a pore
girl whose hart beet for him only, and to forgif me, for I did
rong to meddle in what didn't consern me. Tak care of his wounds.
How much he sufered, pore fellow! I shall have as much corage to
kill myself as he had to burn his bak. Carry home the corsets I
have finished. And pray God for your daughter.
Ida.
"Take this letter to Monsieur de Funcal, who is upstairs," said Jules.
"He alone can save your daughter, if there is still time."
So saying he disappeared, running like a man who has committed a
crime. His legs trembled. The hot blood poured into his swelling heart
in torrents greater than at any other moment of his life, and left it
again with untold violence. Conflicting thoughts struggled in his
mind, and yet one thought predominated,--he had not been loyal to the
being he loved most. It was impossible for him to argue with his
conscience, whose voice, rising high with conviction, came like an
echo of those inward cries of his love during the cruel hours of doubt
he had lately lived through.
He spent the greater part of the day wandering about Paris, for he
dared not go home.
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