left the party, and hastened to the gentleman’s house, and pointed out in such strong colours the folly, as well as the bad consequences of his behaviour, that he sent them away, assuring them that he would dress himself and follow them immediately.  But an hour having elapsed, and no bridegroom appearing, the two friends again set out to inquire into the cause of the delay, which seemed to them more than ever extraordinary.  They had just arrived at the foot of his staircase, when they heard the report of a pistol.  They hastened to ascend, and having forced open the door of the young man’s apartment, they found him dead upon the floor, weltering in his blood.  They were so shocked at the sight before them, that they could not return to announce the fatal news, but instantly dispatched a servant for that purpose.  It is more easy to conceive than describe the consternation such a piece of intelligence was likely to throw every one into; but the situation of the bride was most to be pitied; she not only lost a lover just on the point of being her husband, but fancied that he had received some calumnious information which caused him to prefer death to the necessity of being united to her.  It was some days before this mystery was cleared up, as it was not until the seals were broken, that they found the following written paper in his desk, dated eight days before the fatal catastrophe:—­“I adore Mademoiselle de N——­, and shall do so all my life.  Her virtues surpassed if possible her charms; and I would sacrifice the last drop of my blood rather than cause her the least uneasiness.  But the cruel and dangerous passion of jealousy possesses me to such a degree, that notwithstanding all her merits, the bare idea of a rival makes me wretched.  Every effort on my part, joined to the voice of reason, has never been able to eradicate this dreadful poison from my heart, and which I fear is incurable.  If I yield to my penchant for her, and become her husband, instead of being a tender lover, of which she is so worthy, I should be a tyrant, whose frenzy would render her more miserable than myself.  They press me to bring our union to a conclusion, they threaten me also with a rival, who without doubt deserves her more than I. How can I, miserable wretch that I am, how can I ward off the blow which threatens me?  I flatter myself, at least, to have succeeded in my endeavours to conceal the vice of a heart which, although entirely her own, can never exterminate the miserable passion which possesses it.  The time approaches with rapid strides when I must make up my mind.  Good Heaven direct me! shall I risk making her unhappy?  Can I resolve to see her the wife of another?  Never, no never! rather let me die a hundred deaths....”

This unfortunate youth had written no more, but it was sufficient to prove that he had sacrificed himself for the happiness of his mistress.

Album of Love.

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