It is said that sorrow is better than ennui; it is sad, but unfortunately true.

A well-bred person finds energy and courage with which to combat sorrow, whatever it may be: a great misfortune is often a blessing in disguise. Ennui, on the contrary, wears away and destroys a man: the spirit becomes torpid, the body inert and one's thoughts wander hither and thither. To have no reason for living, is worse than death. When prudence, interest and wisdom are opposed to some pa.s.sion, it is easy enough for the first-comer to justly blame him whom this pa.s.sion is carrying away. Arguments on this subject can be found in abundance, and whether one will or not, one must yield to them. But when the sacrifice is made, when reason and prudence are satisfied, what philosopher or sophist is there who is not at the end of his arguments? And what answer can be given the man who says: "I have followed your advice, but have lost all; I have acted wisely, but I suffer"?

Such was Frederic's position. Bernerette wrote to him twice. In her first letter, she told him that life to her had become unbearable. She begged him to come and see her, from time to time, and not to entirely abandon her. He did not feel sure enough of himself to give way to this request. The second letter came some time later. "I have seen my parents again," wrote Bernerette, "and they are beginning to treat me more kindly: one of my uncles is dead, and has left us some money. I am having made, for my debut, costumes that will please you and which I should like to show you. Call for a minute or two, if you are pa.s.sing this way." This time, Frederic allowed himself to be persuaded. He called on his friend, but nothing of what she had told him was true. She had only wished to see him again. He was touched by this perseverance, but only felt the more keenly the necessity for resistance. At the first words he uttered on this subject, Bernerette put her hand over his mouth.

"I know," said she. "Kiss me and go away."

Gerard was leaving for the country and took Frederic with him. The first fine days and rides on horseback made Frederic somewhat more cheerful. Gerard had done the same as he and had, so he said, dismissed his mistress. He wished to be free. The two young men rambled together through the woods and courted a pretty farmer's daughter in a neighboring hamlet. But invitations to Paris soon began to arrive. Walking was abandoned in favor of cards; the dinners became long and noisy. Frederic could not stand this life, which had formerly so dazzled him, and returned to his solitude.

He received a letter from Besancon. His father wrote to inform him that Mademoiselle Darcy was starting for Paris with her parents. And, in fact, she arrived in the course of the week. Frederic, much against his will, called upon her. He found her just as he had left her, true to her secret love, and ready to make use of this faithfulness as an excuse of coquetry. She confessed, however, that she was sorry for the somewhat unkind words which she had spoken during their last meeting at Besancon. She begged Frederic to forgive her, if she had appeared to doubt his discretion, and added that, having no wish to marry, she once more offered him her friendship, but, for the last time. When one feels neither gay nor happy, such offers are always welcome. The young man, therefore, thanked her, and found solace in occasionally pa.s.sing an evening with her.

A certain need of emotion sometimes drives the blase to seek the extraordinary.

It may seem surprising that a woman, as young as Mademoiselle Darcy, was of this strange and dangerous character: but it is, nevertheless, true that such was the case. She found no difficulty in gaining Frederic's confidence and making him tell her all about his love affairs. She might, perhaps, have been able to console him. In showing herself only coquettish toward him, she would, at least, have distracted him: but it pleased her to do the opposite. Instead of blaming him for his follies, she told him that love pardons everything and that his madness did him honor. Instead of confirming him in his resolution, she informed him that she could not understand how he could do it. "If I were a man," she would say, "and if I had as much liberty as you, nothing in the world could tear me from the woman I loved. I would willingly expose myself to every danger, if necessary, rather than give up my mistress."

Such language was peculiar, coming as it did from the mouth of a young girl whose knowledge of this world did not extend beyond her own family. But for this very reason it was the more striking. Mademoiselle Darcy had two motives for playing this role, which, moreover, pleased her extremely. On one hand she wished to pa.s.s as large-hearted and appear romantic: on the other hand, she wished to demonstrate that, far from being displeased that Frederic had forgotten her, she approved of his pa.s.sion. The poor boy, for the second time, was deceived by this stratagem, and allowed himself to be duped by a girl of seventeen.

"You are right," he answered her. "After all, life is so short and happiness so rare here below, that one is very foolish to reflect and inflict on oneself voluntary sorrows, when there are so many that are unavoidable."

Mademoiselle Darcy now changed her tactics.

"Does your Bernerette love you?" she asked, indifferently. "Did you not tell me that she was a grisette? What faith can you put in such a woman? Is she worthy of a sacrifice, and will she feel the price paid?"

"I do not know," answered Frederic, "and I have no great love for her myself,"

he lightly added. "I never dreamed, when near her, except of amusing myself. I am weary now; that is the whole story."

"Fie!" cried Mademoiselle Darcy, "what is such a pa.s.sion?" Started on this subject, the young woman became excited. She spoke as if they were discussing herself and her active imagination led her on. "Is it then love," said she, "simply to pa.s.s away the time? If you were not in love with this woman, why did you go to see her? If you love her, why do you abandon her? She suffers, perhaps is weeping for you. How can a miserable consideration for money find a place in any n.o.ble heart? Are you then so cold, as enslaved by your interests as my parents were by theirs, when they sacrificed my happiness? Is that the duty of a young man and should you not be ashamed of yourself? But no, you do not know yourself if you are suffering, nor whether you have any regrets. The first-comer might console you and your mind is only unemployed. Ah! It is not thus when one loves! I predicted, at Besancon, that you would one day know what love was. But if you have no greater courage, I tell you to-day that you will never know it."

Frederic returned home one night, after an interview of this kind. Caught in the rain, he entered a cafe and ordered a bowl of punch. When a long trouble has oppressed our hearts, little excitement is necessary to make it beat, and it then seems that we have in us a vase too full and overflowing. When Frederic left the cafe, he doubled his pace. Two months of solitude and privation were weighing on him. He felt an intolerable need of throwing off his burden and of being at his ease once more. Without thought, he went toward Bernerette's house.

The rain had ceased. By the light of the moon he noticed his friend's windows, the floor and the road, which were all so familiar. He placed a trembling hand on the bell and, as before, he wondered if he would find the fire covered with ashes and the supper laid. At the moment of ringing he hesitated.

"But what harm can there be," he said to himself, "if I spend an hour here and ask Bernerette for a souvenir of our old love? What danger can I run? Since necessity separates us, why should I fear to see her once more for a moment?"

It was midnight. He gently rang and the door opened. As he was ascending the stairs, the porter called and told him no one was in. It was the first time he had found Bernerette away from home. He thought she must have gone to the theater and answered that he would wait for her; but the porter objected. After some hesitation, he finally confessed that Bernerette had gone out early and would only return the following day.

CHAPTER VIII.

OF what use to pretend indifference when one is in love, unless to suffer cruelly when the truth is known? Frederic had sworn so many times that he would never be jealous of Bernerette and so often repeated it before his friends, that he had finally come to believe it himself. He walked home, whistling a waltz.

"She must have another lover," he said to himself. "So much the better for her; it is what I hoped for. From henceforth I can be at rest."

But hardly had he returned, when he experienced a feeling of mortal weakness. He sat down and placed his head in his hands, as if to collect his thoughts. After a useless struggle, nature became the conqueror. He raised his tear-stained face and found some consolation in confessing all he felt.

An extreme languor succeeded this violent shock. Solitude became intolerable and for several days he pa.s.sed the time in paying calls and in endless amus.e.m.e.nt. At one time he would attempt to rea.s.sume his affected indifference: at another he gave way to blind fury, to projects of revenge. He became disgusted with life.

He remembered the sad circ.u.mstance that had attended his early love: this tragic example was always before him.

"I begin to understand it," he told Gerard. "I am no longer astonished that in such cases one longs for death. One does not kill oneself for a woman's sake, but because it is useless and impossible to live when one suffers to such a degree, whatever be the cause."

Gerard knew his friend too well to doubt his despair and loved him too well to abandon him to it. He was able, by means of powerful influence, of which he had never himself made use, to obtain for Frederic the post of attache to an emba.s.sy. He arrived one morning with an order for departure from the Foreign Minister.

"Travel," said he, "is the best and only remedy for sorrow. To induce you to leave Paris, I have been hard at work and, thank G.o.d, have met with success. If you have any courage, you will leave at once for Berne, where the minister sends you."

Frederic did not hesitate. He thanked his friend and immediately set to work to put his affairs in order. He wrote to his father to tell him of his new project and asked his consent. The reply was favorable. At the end of two weeks his debts were paid: nothing now hindered Frederic's departure and he went to get his pa.s.sport.

Mademoiselle Darcy questioned him at great length, but he did not care to answer. Not having clearly seen the condition of his own heart, he had feebly yielded to the curiosity of his young confidante. But his suffering was now too real for him to joke about it, and perceiving the danger of his pa.s.sion, he had understood how frivolous was the interest taken in it by Mademoiselle Darcy. He therefore did what all men do in such cases. To help cure himself he pretended to be already cured, that a pa.s.sing love affair had diverted him, but that he was now of an age to turn to more serious things. Mademoiselle Darcy, as may be believed, did not approve of such sentiments. She counted nothing serious in this world but love; all else to her seemed despicable. At least so her language led one to believe. Frederic let her talk and good-humoredly agreed with her that he would never know how to love. His heart told him the contrary, and in making himself out to be inconstant, he would have wished it true.

The more he felt his courage leaving him, the more he hastened his departure. He could not, however, relieve himself of a thought that oppressed him. Who was Bernerette's new lover? What was she doing? Should he try to see her once more?

Gerard was not of this opinion: his motto was, "Do nothing by halves." From the moment Frederic had decided to leave, he counseled him to forget all. "What do you wish to know?" said he. "Either Bernerette will tell you nothing or she will hide the truth. Since it is proven that she has another lover, of what use to make her acknowledge it? A woman is never sincere with an old lover on this subject, even when all hopes of a reconciliation are gone. Besides, what do you hope for? She no longer loves you."

It was with a purpose, and to make his friend firm, that Gerard expressed himself so forcibly. I leave those who have loved to judge of the effect it produced. But many have loved and been unaware of it. The bonds of this world, even the strongest, become undone in time. A few only are broken. Those, whose love has been lessened by absence, ennui and satiety, can not imagine what they would feel should a sudden stroke fall. The coldest heart bleeds and is opened by such a blow; he who is insensible to it is not a man. Of all the wounds inflicted on us here below by death, before the final stroke of dissolution, it is the deepest. One must have looked through eyes streaming with tears at the smile of a faithless mistress, before being able to understand these words: "She no longer loves you." One must have grieved long to remember it: it is a sad experience. If I were tempted to give to the ignorant an idea of what I mean, I should tell them that I do not know which is the most cruel, to suddenly lose the woman one loves by infidelity or by death.

Frederic found no answer to Gerard's strong language, but an instinct stronger than reason was warring within him against such advice. He took another course to reach his end. Without knowing what he wanted and with no care of what the results might be, he determined to find out what Bernerette was doing. He wore a rather fine ring, which she had often looked at with envy. In spite of all his love for her, he had never been able to make up his mind to present her with this jewel, given him by his father. He sent it to Gerard, saying that it belonged to Bernerette, and begged him to return it to her, as she had doubtless mislaid it. Gerard willingly undertook this commission, but was in no hurry to carry it out. Frederic insisted and he had to consent.

The two friends went out one morning together and while Gerard was calling on Bernerette, Frederic waited for him in the Tuileries; he joined the throng sadly. It was not without regret that he parted with a family heirloom that was dear to him. And what did he hope to gain by it? What would he find out to console him? Gerard was about to see Bernerette, and if a few words, a tear or two escaped her, would he not feel it necessary to take no notice? Frederic looked through the railing round the garden and expected at any moment to see his friend returning with an air of indifference. What did it matter? He would have seen Bernerette: it was impossible that he would have nothing to tell him.

Who knows what chance may bring about? He might possibly learn many things from this visit. The longer Gerard was in making his appearance the greater Frederic's hopes.

The sky was cloudless and the trees were commencing to put forth verdure. There is a certain tree in the Tuileries that is named the "tree of the twentieth of March." It is a chestnut-tree, which, it is said, was in bloom the day the King of Rome was born and which blossoms every year at the same time. Frederic had sat down many times beneath this tree. Dreaming, habit led him once more to the same place. The chestnut-tree was faithful to its poetic renown: its blossoms gave out the first perfume of the year. Women, children and young people were coming and going. The gaiety of spring was mirrored on every face. Frederic thought of the future, of his journey and of the country he was about to see. An anxiety mingled with hope agitated him, in spite of himself. All his surroundings appeared to call him to a new life. He thought of his father, whose pride and support he was, and from whom he had always received only marks of tenderness. Little by little, sweeter ideas and more sensible ones took possession of him. The mult.i.tude swarming around him made him dream of the variety and inconsistency of things. And is there, in fact, a stranger spectacle than a crowd, when one reflects that each individual has his destiny? Is there anything that can give us a fairer idea of what we are worth, and of what we are in the eyes of Providence? One must live, thought Frederic, one must obey the supreme guide. We must move on even when suffering, for no one knows whither he is going. I am free and still quite young: I must take courage and resign myself.

As he was in the midst of these thoughts, Gerard appeared and ran toward him. He was pale and very much agitated.

"My friend," said he, "you must go there. Quick, let us lose no time."

"Where are you taking me?"

"To her. I counseled you to do what I thought was right. But there are occasions when our opinions are at fault, and prudence out of place."

"What then is happening?" cried Frederic.

"You will soon know. Come, let us run."

They went together to Bernerette's.

"Go up alone," said Gerard, "I will be back in a moment," and he was gone.

Frederic entered. The key was in the door, and the shutters closed.

"Bernerette," said he, "where are you?"

There was no answer.

He advanced in the darkness, and by the light of a half-extinguished fire he perceived his friend seated on the ground near the chimney.

"What is the matter?" he demanded. "What has happened?"

Still no answer.

He approached her and took her by the hand.

"Get up," said he to her. "What are you doing there?"

But hardly had he p.r.o.nounced these words, when he recoiled in horror. The hand he held was icy cold and an inanimate body rolled to his feet.

Frightened, he called for help. Gerard entered, followed by a doctor. The window was opened and Bernerette placed on her bed. The doctor examined her, shook his head and gave his orders. There was no doubt of the symptoms: the poor girl had taken poison. But what poison? The doctor could not tell and tried in vain to find out. He began by bleeding her. Frederic held her in his arms and she opened her eyes, recognized and kissed him, then fell back into unconsciousness. In the evening, they gave her a cup of tea. She came back to life as if awakened from sleep. They asked then what poison she had made use of. At first she refused to answer, but pressed by the doctor, she confessed. A copper candlestick on the mantelpiece bore the marks of several splashes of lime. She had resorted to this frightful method to increase the effect of a small dose of opium, the chemist from whom she had purchased it having refused to supply her with more.

CHAPTER IX.

IT was two weeks before she was completely out of danger. She was able to sit up and take some nourishment, but her health was broken, and the doctor declared that she would suffer from it all her life.

Frederic had never left her. He was still in ignorance of the motive that had led her to attempt her own life and was surprised that absolutely no one cared about her. During the two weeks no one had called, neither a relative nor a stranger. Was it possible that her new lover had abandoned her in such a plight?

Was this abandonment the cause of Bernerette's despair? These two suppositions appeared equally incredible to Frederic, and his friend had led him to believe that she would vouchsafe no explanation on the subject. So he remained in cruel doubt, troubled by a secret jealousy, held by love and pity.

In the midst of her pain, Bernerette gave evidence of the most pa.s.sionate tenderness for him. Full of grat.i.tude for the care he took of her, she was, when with him, gayer than ever, but of a gaiety that was melancholic, and so to speak, veiled by suffering. She made every effort to distract him and persuade him not to leave her alone. If he went out, she asked at what hour he would be back. She wished him to dine at her bedside, and to go to sleep holding his hand. To divert him, she told him endless stories of her past life. But as soon as it was a question of the present and her terrible act, she remained silent.

No question and no prayer of Frederic's could obtain any response. If he insisted, she became gloomy and sad.

One evening she was in bed and the doctor had just bled her. A few drops of blood were still trickling from the scarcely closed cut. She smilingly watched a purple tear stealing down her arm, white as marble.

"Do you still love me?" said she to Frederic. "Do not all these horrors make you disgusted with me?"

"I love you," he answered, "and nothing can now separate us."

"Is it true?" she asked, embracing him. "Do not deceive me, but tell me if I am dreaming."

"No, it is not a dream. No, my dear and beautiful mistress: let us be at rest and happy."

"Alas! It is impossible, it is impossible!" she cried in anguish. Then she added in a low voice- "And if it is impossible, we must begin over again."

Although she had but murmured these last words, Frederic had heard them and shuddered. The following day he repeated them to Gerard.

"My decision is made," said he. "I do not know what my father will think of it, but I love her, and whatever happens I will not leave her to die."

In fact, he took a dangerous course, but the only one open to him. He wrote to his father and confided to him the story of his love. He forgot to mention Bernerette's infidelity and spoke but of her beauty, her constancy and the sweet obstinacy with which she had set to work to see him again, and finally of the horrible attempt she had made to take her life. Frederic's father, an old man of seventy, loved his only son more than his life. He hurried to Paris, accompanied by Mademoiselle Hombert, his sister, an aged and very devout lady. Unhappily, neither the good man nor the aunt possessed the virtue of discretion, so that no sooner had they arrived than all their acquaintances were aware of the fact that Frederic had fallen ine with a grisette who had taken poison on his account. It was soon added that he wished to marry her. The evil-disposed made a scandal of it, to the dishonor of the family. Under the pretense of defending the young man, Mademoiselle Darcy told all she knew, adding the most romantic details. In short, though trying to ward off a storm, Frederic found it descending on him from all sides.

He was, first of all, obliged to appear before his a.s.sembled relatives and friends and to submit to a sort of examination. Not that he was treated as having erred: on the contrary, they extended toward him the greatest indulgence.

But he was forced to bare his heart and to listen to the discussion of his dearest secrets. It is useless to add that nothing was decided. M. Hombert wished to see Bernerette. He called on her, had a long conversation with her and asked her a thousand questions, to which she was able to reply with a grace and naivete that charmed the old man. Like every one else, he had had his youthful loves. He came away from this interview much troubled and disquieted. He called for his son and told him that he had decided to make a small sacrifice in favor of Bernerette, if she promised, when well again, to learn some trade. Frederic carried this proposal to his friend.

"And you, what would you do?" said she to him. "Do you mean to remain or to go?"

He answered that he should stay, but against the wishes of his family. On this point, M. Hombert was intractable. He pointed out to his son the danger, the shame and the impossibility of such a union. He made him understand, in kind and measured words, that he would lose his reputation and ruin his future. After having forced him to reflect, he made use of an irresistible argument which from a father is all-powerful. He begged his son to do his duty and the latter promised what was asked of him. So many shocks, so many diverse interests had agitated him, that he no longer knew what to resolve upon, and seeing unhappiness on all sides, he did not dare to struggle or to choose. Gerard himself, ordinarily firm, sought in vain for some method of safety and found himself obliged to say that it must be left to Destiny.

Two unexpected events suddenly altered the course of everything. Frederic was alone one night in his room, when Bernerette entered. She was pale and her hair in disorder. An ardent fever caused her eyes to shine with frightful brightness.

Contrary to custom, she was brief and imperious. She came, she said, to demand an explanation.

"Do you wish to kill me?" she demanded. "Do you or do you not love me? Are you a child? Have you need of others to act for you? Are you mad to consult your father to know whether you must keep your mistress? What do they desire? To separate us? If you also wish it, you have only to follow their advice, and if you do not wish it, still less. Do you wish to go away? Take me with you. I can never learn a trade and can not go back to the stage. How could I, as I am? I suffer too much to wait; decide."

She spoke in this tone for nearly an hour, interrupting Frederic whenever he wished to reply. He tried in vain to calm her. Such a violent exaltation could give way to no argument. Finally, tired out, Bernerette burst into tears. The young man pressed her to his heart. He found it impossible to resist such love and carried his mistress to his bed.

"Remain there," he said to her, "and may G.o.d destroy me if I allow you to be taken away! I wish to hear and see nothing but you. You reproach me for my cowardice and you are right: but I will act now, you shall see. If my father disowns me, you must follow me: since G.o.d has willed it that I should be poor, we will live in poverty. I care nothing for my name, my family nor the future."

These words, p.r.o.nounced with all the ardor of resolution, consoled Bernerette.

She begged her friend to walk home with her. In spite of her fatigue, she wished to take the air. On the way they agreed on the plan they must follow. Frederic was to pretend to submit to his father's wish, but would represent to him that with small means it was impossible to risk a diplomatic career. He would ask to be allowed to continue with his law. M. Hombert would probably yield, on condition that his son forgot his foolish love affair. Bernerette, on her side, would change her quarters; they would think her gone. She would rent a small room in the Rue de la Harpe, or somewhere near. Here she would live with such economy that Frederic's allowance would be sufficient for them both. As soon as his father returned to Besancon, he would rejoin her and live with her. They would trust in Providence. Such was the project these two lovers determined upon, and the success of which they deemed certain, as is always the case under similar conditions.

Two days later, Frederic, after pa.s.sing a sleepless night, went to call on his mistress at six in the morning. An interview he had with his father was worrying him; the family was insisting on his departure for Berne and he had come to kiss Bernerette and renew his drooping courage. The room was deserted, the bed empty.

He questioned the porter and learned beyond all possibility of doubt that he had a rival and was being deceived.

On this occasion he felt more indignation than sorrow. Treason was too strong, for scorn not to take the place of love. Having returned, he wrote a long letter to Bernerette, overwhelming her with the most bitter reproaches. But he tore up this letter just as he was about to despatch it. Such a miserable being did not seem worthy even of his anger. He made up his mind to leave at the earliest possible moment. There was a vacant place in the next day's coach for Strasbourg. He reserved it and hastened to inform his father. The whole family congratulated him: no one certainly asked him by what chance he obeyed so soon.

Gerard alone knew the truth. Mademoiselle Darcy declared that it was a pity and that men always were heartless. Mademoiselle Hombert added something from her savings to the small sum her nephew was taking with him. A farewell dinner reunited the family and Frederic left for Switzerland.

CHAPTER X.

THE pleasures and fatigues of the journey, the attractions of a change and the occupation of his new career soon restored calm to his mind. He no longer thought but with horror of the fatal pa.s.sion which had almost been his ruin. He was accorded a most gracious reception at the emba.s.sy, for he was well recommended. His appearance was in his favor, for a natural modesty enhanced the value of his talents without hiding them. He soon held an honorable position in the world, and the future appeared most promising.

Bernerette wrote several letters to him. She gaily asked him if he had left for good or did he think of returning soon. At first he abstained from replying; but, as the letters continued and became more and more pressing, he finally lost patience. He answered and unburdened his heart. He asked Bernerette, in the bitterest words, if she had forgotten her double treachery, and begged her to spare him in the future these false protestations of which he could no longer be the dupe. He added that he thanked G.o.d that he had been enlightened in time: that his resolution was irrevocable and that he would not again see France till after a long stay abroad. Having sent this letter, he felt more at ease and entirely finished with the past. Henceforth Bernerette ceased to write to him and he no longer heard any mention of her.

A well-to-do English family lived in a pretty house in the neighborhood of Berne. Frederic was introduced to them: three young girls, the eldest of whom was but twenty, did the honors of the house. She was remarkably beautiful and soon perceived the strong impression she produced on the young attache, and did not show herself insensible to it. He was not, however, yet sufficiently cured to give way to a new love. But after so much agitation and so much sorrow, he found need of opening his heart to feelings calm and pure. The beautiful f.a.n.n.y did not become his confidante, as had been Mademoiselle Darcy. But without his telling her all his troubles, she guessed that he had suffered and the glance of her blue eyes seemed to console Frederic; she often turned them in his direction.

Kindness leads to sympathy, and sympathy to love. At the end of three months, love had not come, but it was on the way. A man of a character as tender and expansive as Frederic could not be constant except on condition of being confiding. Gerard was right in telling him that he would love Bernerette longer than he expected. But for this it was necessary that Bernerette should love him too, or at least should appear to do so. In stirring up weak hearts, we place their very existence in danger. They must break or forget, for they have not the strength to be faithful to a memory from which they suffer. So Frederic accustomed himself, day by day, to live but for f.a.n.n.y and the question of marriage soon came up. The young man was not wealthy, but his position was made and his friends powerful. Love, which removes all obstacles, pleaded for him. It was decided to ask a favor of the Court of France and that Frederic, now second secretary, should marry f.a.n.n.y.