"O,
Heaven! now I am here."
I turned around. Marco was asleep, the lamp had gone out, the light of
day had changed the aspect of the room; the hangings, which had at first
appeared blue, were now a faded yellow, and Marco, the beautiful statue,
was livid as death.
I shuddered in spite of myself; I looked at the alcove, then at the
garden; my head became drowsy and fell on my breast. I sat down before an
open secretary near one of the windows. A piece of paper caught my eye;
it was an open letter, and I looked at it mechanically. I read it several
times before I thought what I was doing. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence
came to me, although I could not understand everything. I picked up the
paper and read what follows, written in an unskilled hand and filled with
errors in spelling:
"She died yesterday. She began to fail at twelve, the night before. She
called me and said: 'Louison, I am going to join my companion; go to the
closet and take down the cloth that hangs on a nail; it is the mate of
the other.' I fell on my knees and wept, but she took my hand and said:
'Do not weep, do not weep!' And she heaved such a sigh--"
The rest was torn. I can not describe the impression, that sad letter
made on me; I turned it over and saw on the other side Marco's address
and the date, that of the evening previous.
"Is she dead? Who is dead?" I cried, going to the alcove.
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