Armand, tired by this long narrative, often interrupted by his tears,
put his two hands over his forehead and closed his eyes to think, or
to try to sleep, after giving me the pages written by the hand of
Marguerite. A few minutes after, a more rapid breathing told me that
Armand slept, but that light sleep which the least sound banishes.

This is what I read; I copy it without adding or omitting a syllable: To-day is the 15th December. I have been ill three or four days. This
morning I stayed in bed. The weather is dark, I am sad; there is no one
by me. I think of you, Armand. And you, where are you, while I write
these lines? Far from Paris, far, far, they tell me, and perhaps you
have already forgotten Marguerite. Well, be happy; I owe you the only
happy moments in my life.

I can not help wanting to explain all my conduct to you, and I have
written you a letter; but, written by a girl like me, such a letter
might seem to be a lie, unless death had sanctified it by its authority,
and, instead of a letter, it were a confession.

To-day I am ill; I may die of this illness, for I have always had the
presentiment that I shall die young. My mother died of consumption, and
the way I have always lived could but increase the only heritage she
ever left me. But I do not want to die without clearing up for you
everything about me; that is, if, when you come back, you will still
trouble yourself about the poor girl whom you loved before you went
away.