When Jules had read that letter there came into his
heart one of those wild frenzies of which it is impossible
to describe the awful anguish. All sorrows are
individual; their effects are not subjected to any
fixed rule. Certain men will stop their ears to
hear nothing; some women close their eyes hoping never
to see again; great and splendid souls are met with
who fling themselves into sorrow as into an abyss.
In the matter of despair, all is true.
CHAPTER V
CONCLUSION
Jules escaped from his brother’s house and returned
home, wishing to pass the night beside his wife, and
see till the last moment that celestial creature.
As he walked along with an indifference to life known
only to those who have reached the last degree of wretchedness,
he thought of how, in India, the law ordained that
widows should die; he longed to die. He was not
yet crushed; the fever of his grief was still upon
him. He reached his home and went up into the
sacred chamber; he saw his Clemence on the bed of
death, beautiful, like a saint, her hair smoothly
laid upon her forehead, her hands joined, her body
wrapped already in its shroud. Tapers were lighted,
a priest was praying, Josephine kneeling in a corner,
wept, and, near the bed, were two men. One was
Ferragus. He stood erect, motionless, gazing at
his daughter with dry eyes; his head you might have
taken for bronze: he did not see Jules.
The other man was Jacquet,—Jacquet, to
whom Madame Jules had been ever kind. Jacquet
felt for her one of those respectful friendships which
rejoice the untroubled heart; a gentle passion; love
without its desires and its storms. He had come
to pay his debt of tears, to bid a long adieu to the
wife of his friend, to kiss, for the first time, the
icy brow of the woman he had tacitly made his sister.
All was silence. Here death was neither terrible
as in the churches, nor pompous as it makes its way
along the streets; no, it was death in the home, a
tender death; here were pomps of the heart, tears drawn
from the eyes of all. Jules sat down beside Jacquet
and pressed his hand; then, without uttering a word,
all these persons remained as they were till morning.
When daylight paled the tapers, Jacquet, foreseeing
the painful scenes which would then take place, drew
Jules away into another room. At this moment
the husband looked at the father, and Ferragus looked
at Jules. The two sorrows arraigned each other,
measured each other, and comprehended each other in
that look. A flash of fury shone for an instant
in the eyes of Ferragus.
“You killed her,” thought he.
“Why was I distrusted?” seemed the answer
of the husband.
The scene was one that might have passed between two
tigers recognizing the futility of a struggle and,
after a moment’s hesitation, turning away, without
even a roar.
Copyrights
The Thirteen from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
