A Cardinal Sin | Page 2

have you no other relative?"
"No, Monsieur," replied the girl sadly.
"But forgive me, I am taking up your time uselessly instead of coming to the purpose of my visit."
"My time could not be better employed than in listening to you, my child; for I am sure you are a good and honest girl. Now let us see about the letter. Will you merely state what you wish to write, or do you prefer to dictate to me?"
"I prefer to dictate the letter."
"Very well, I am ready," declared the old man, adjusting his glasses and bending over his desk that he might not increase his pretty client's confusion.
With down-cast eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, Mariette began:
"Monsieur Louis--"
At the name of Louis the old man started, but said quietly: "It is written, my child."
Nothwithstanding her confidence in the old man, the girl instinctively shrank from revealing her inmost thoughts to a stranger. But after a momentary pause, she went on hesitatingly:
"I have received no word from you, and I am very sad. Yet, you had promised to write during your voyage--"
"During your voyage," repeated the writer, who had become suddenly thoughtful. "A strange coincidence," he said to himself, with growing anxiety. "His name is Louis, and he is away."
"I hope that you are well," continued the girl, "and that your silence is not caused by illness, for my grief would be doubled."
"To-day is the sixth of May, Monsieur Louis--the sixth of May--and I would not let the day pass without reminding you of me. Perhaps you had the same thought also, and I may receive a letter from you when you receive this from me, the day after to-morrow. Then I shall know that the delay was not caused by illness or forgetfulness, and how happy I shall be! I shall therefore await the day after to-morrow with much impatience. May heaven protect me from disappointment, Monsieur Louis--"
Mariette stifled a sigh and wiped a tear from her pale cheek.
The features of the writer, who still bent low over his desk, were invisible to the young girl, and she was unconscious of the expression of alarm that had crept over them. Two or three times, while writing, he had cast furtive, scrutinizing glances at his client; and it was evident that his first impulse of sympathetic interest was changing to restraint caused by serious apprehensions.
Folding her hands once more on her lap, Mariette resumed:
"I have nothing new to tell you, Monsieur Louis. My godmother is still ill, she suffers very much, and the torture she undergoes embitters her character more and more. That I may be near her as much as possible, I now work at home instead of going to Mme. Jourdan. The days seem wretchedly long and sad, for working at the shop with my companions is much more cheerful, and I can accomplish more. I am therefore obliged to stay up very late; and I sleep but little, as my godmother always suffers more at night and, consequently needs more care. Sometimes I fail to hear her first call, I sleep so soundly; then she scolds me, which is only natural when she suffers so much.
"I tell you these things to show you that my life is not a happy one, and that one word of friendship from you would encourage and console me for so many sad things.
"Farewell, Monsieur Louis. I counted on Augustine to write; but she has gone away and I am dictating this letter to another person. Ah! never have I so much regretted my inability to read and write as at this moment. Farewell, once more, Monsieur Louis; think of me I beg you, for I think of you always."
"Is this all, my child?" queried the old man, after a moment of silence.
"Yes, monsieur."
"And what name shall I sign?"
"Mariette."
"Mariette only?"
"Mariette Moreau, if you please."
"Mariette Moreau," repeated the old man, as he inscribed the name.
Then folding the letter, he made a violent effort to conceal the secret anguish with which he awaited the reply to his question, and asked:
"To whom shall I address it?"
"To M. Louis Richard, at Dreux, to be called for."
"No more doubt of it," thought the old man, as he prepared to address the letter.
Had the young girl been less pre-occupied with her, own thoughts, she could not have failed to remark the harsh expression which darkened the public writer's countenance when he learned beyond doubt to whom this innocent missive was addressed. In fact, he seemed unable to make up his mind to inscribe the name given, for when he had written the word "Monsieur," he suddenly dropped the pen and looked up.
"My dear child," he began, trying to smile with his usual benevolence, that he might not betray his resentment and apprehensions, "although this is the first time we meet,