they have risen with so much vigor and glory that in their turn they have ruled their former conquerors, and have punished them. No, my mother; from this moment I have done with the past, and accept nothing from it—not even a name, because you can understand your son cannot bear the name of a man who ought to blush before another."
"Albert, my child," said Mercédès, "if I had a stronger heart, that is the counsel I would have given you; your conscience has spoken when my voice became too weak; listen to its dictates. You had friends, Albert; break off their acquaintance. But do not despair; you have life before you, my dear Albert, for you are yet scarcely twenty-two years old; and as a pure heart like yours wants a spotless name, take my father's—it was Herrera. I am sure, Albert, whatever may be your career, you will soon render that name illustrious. Then, my friend, return to the world still more brilliant from the reflection of your former sorrows; and if I am wrong, still let me cherish these hopes, for I have no future to look forward to: for me the grave opens when I pass the threshold of this house."
"I will fulfill all your wishes, my dear mother," said the young man. "Yes, I share your hopes; the anger of Heaven will not pursue us—you so pure, and me so innocent. But since our resolution is formed, let us act promptly. M. de Morcerf went out about a half an hour since; the opportunity is favorable to avoid an explanation."
"I am ready, my son," said Mercédès.
Albert ran to fetch a hackney-coach; he recollected there was a small furnished house to let in the Rue des Saint-Pères, where his mother would find a humble but decent lodging, and thither he intended conducting the countess. As the hackney-coach stopped at the door, and Albert was alighting, a man approached, and gave him a letter.
Albert recognized the bearer. "From the count," said Bertuccio. Albert took the letter, opened it, and read it; then looked round for Bertuccio, but he was gone.
He returned to Mercédès, with tears in his eyes and heaving breast, and, without uttering a word, he gave her the letter. Mercédès read:
