'I knew Mademoiselle Gautier by sight only，'I said.'Her death made the sort of impression on me that the death of any pretty woman he has had pleasure in meeting makes on any young man.I wished to buy something at her sale，and took it into my head to bid for this volume，I don't know why，for the satisfaction of annoying a man who was bent on getting it and seemed determined to prevent it going to me.I repeat，the book is yours，and I beg you once more to accept it.This way it won't come to you as it came to me，from an auctioneer，and it will be between us the pledge of a more durable acquaintance and closer bonds.'
'Very well，'said Armand，extending his hand and grasping mine，'I accept and shall be grateful to you for the rest of my life.'
I very much wanted to question Armand about Marguerite，for the dedication in the book，the young man's journey，his desire to possess the volume，all excited my curiosity；but I feared that by questioning my visitor，I should appear to have refused his money simply to have the right to pry into his business.
It was as though he sensed my wishes，for he said：
'Have you read the book？'
'Every word.'
'What did you make of the two lines I wrote？'
'I saw straightaway that，in your eyes，the poor girl to whom you had given the book did not belong in the usual category，for I could not bring myself to see the lines simply as a conventional compliment.'
'And you were right.That girl was an angel.Here，'he said，'read this letter.'
And he handed me a sheet of paper which，by the look of it，had been read many times over.
I opened it.This is what it said：
My dear Armand，I have received your letter.You are still good，and I thank God for it.Yes，my dear，I am ill，and mine is the sort of illness which spares no one；but the concern which you are generous enough still to show for me greatly eases my sufferings.I expect I shall doubtless not live long enough to have the happiness of grasping the hand which wrote the kindly letter I have just received；its words would cure me，if anything could.I shall not see you，for I am very close to death，and hundreds of leagues separate you from me.My poor friend！the Marguerite you knew is sadly altered，and it is perhaps better that you do not see her again than see her as she is.You ask if I forgive you；oh！with all my heart，my dear，for the hurt you sought to do me was but a token of the love you bore me.I have kept my bed now for a month，and so precious to me is your good opinion，that each day I write a little more of a journal of my life from the moment we parted until the moment when I shall be no longer able to hold my pen.
If the interest you take in me is real，Armand，then on your return，go and see Julie Duprat.She will place this journal in your keeping.In it you will find the reasons and the excuse for what has passed between us.Julie is very good to me.We often talk about you.She was here when your letter came，and we wept together as we read it.
Should I not hear from you，she has been entrusted with seeing that you get these papers on your return to France.Do not be grateful to me.Returning each day to the only happy moments of my life does me enormous good and if，as you read，you find the past exonerated in my words，I for my part find in them a never-ending solace.
I would like to leave you something by which you would always remember me，but everything I own has been seized，and nothing belongs to me.
Do you understand，my dear？I am going to die，and from my bedroom I can hear the footsteps of the watchman my creditors have placed in the drawing-room to see that nothing is removed and to ensure that if I do not die，I shall be left with nothing.We must hope that they will wait for the end before they sell me up.
Oh！how pitiless men are！or rather，for I am wrong，it is God who is just and unbending.
