THE LAST CHAPTER.
THE THIRTEENTH OF JANUARY.Rodolph to Clémence.
The thirteenth of January! Now a doubly sinister anniversary! Dearest, we have lost her for ever! All is over,—ended all. It is true, then, that there is a horrid pleasure in relating a terrible grief.
Yesterday I was complaining of the necessity that kept you from me; to-day, Clémence, I congratulate myself that you are not here,—you would have suffered too much. This morning I was in a light slumber, and was awakened by the sound of bells. I started in affright; it seemed to me a funereal sound,—a knell! In fact, our daughter is dead,—dead to us! And from to-day, Clémence, you must begin to wear her mourning in your heart, a heart always so maternally disposed towards her. Whether our child be buried beneath the marble o
