Dead, dear Sylvie! That will be strange, will it not? To be lying
quite still, cold and stiff, out of the reach of your pretty warm
white arms,--deprived for ever and ever of any kiss from your rose-
red lips,--ah, Sylvie, it will be very cold and lonely! But perhaps
better so! To-night I saw you, up in your balcony, with someone who
is a brave and famous man, and who no doubt loves you. For he cannot
fail to love you, if he knows you. God grant you may be happy when I
am gone! But I want you to feel that to-night--to-night _I_ love
you!--love you as I have never loved you or any woman before--
without an evil thought,--without a selfish wish!--to the very
height and breadth of love, I love you, my queen, my rose, my saving
grace of sweetness!--whose name I shall say to God as my best prayer
for pardon, if I die to-night!
FONTENELLE."
Sylvie shuddered as with icy cold . . . a darkness seemed to overwhelm
her . . . she staggered a little, and Ruspardi caught her, wondering--at
the lightness and delicacy and beauty of her, as he assisted Madame
Bozier to lead her to a deep fauteuil where she sank down, trembling
in every nerve.
"And--he is dead?" she asked mechanically.
Ruspardi bowed a grave assent.
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