“Esther to Lucien.

“MONDAY, May 13th, 1830.

“My last day; ten in the morning.

“MY LUCIEN,—­I have not an hour to live.  At eleven o’clock I shall be dead, and I shall die without a pang.  I have paid fifty thousand francs for a neat little black currant, containing a poison that will kill me with the swiftness of lightning.  And so, my darling, you may tell yourself, ’My little Esther had no suffering.’—­and yet I shall suffer in writing these pages.

“The monster who has paid so dear for me, knowing that the day when I should know myself to be his would have no morrow—­Nucingen has just left me, as drunk as a bear with his skin full of wind.  For the first and last time in my life I have had the opportunity of comparing my old trade as a street hussy with the life of true love, of placing the tenderness which unfolds in the infinite above the horrors of a duty which longs to destroy itself and leave no room even for a kiss.  Only such loathing could make death delightful.

“I have taken a bath; I should have liked to send for the father confessor of the convent where I was baptized, to have confessed and washed my soul.  But I have had enough of prostitution; it would be profaning a sacrament; and besides, I feel myself cleansed in the waters of sincere repentance.  God must do what He will with me.

“But enough of all this maudlin; for you I want to be your Esther to the last moment, not to bore you with my death, or the future, or God, who is good, and who would not be good if He were to torture me in the next world when I have endured so much misery in this.

“I have before me your beautiful portrait, painted by Madame de Mirbel.  That sheet of ivory used to comfort me in your absence, I look at it with rapture as I write you my last thoughts, and tell you of the last throbbing of my heart.  I shall enclose the miniature in this letter, for I cannot bear that it should be stolen or sold.  The mere thought that what has been my great joy may lie behind a shop window, mixed up with the ladies and officers of the Empire, or a parcel of Chinese absurdities, is a small death to me.  Destroy that picture, my sweetheart, wipe it out, never give it to any one—­unless, indeed, the gift might win back the heart of that walking, well-dressed maypole, that Clotilde de Grandlieu, who will make you black and blue in her sleep, her bones are so sharp.—­Yes, to that I consent, and then I shall still be of some use to you, as when I was alive.  Oh! to give you pleasure, or only to make you laugh, I would have stood over a brazier with an apple in my mouth to cook it for you.—­So my death even will be of service to you.—­I should have marred your home.

“Oh! that Clotilde!  I cannot understand her.—­She might have been your wife, have borne your name, have never left you day or night, have belonged to you—­and she