as sickness those of the body. And thus I forgot,
and humbled, and might have undone myself. Juster
and better thoughts are once more awakened within me,
and when we meet again I shall be worthy of your respect.
I see how dangerous are that luxury of thought, that
sin of discontent which I indulged. I go back
to life, resolved to vanquish all that can interfere
with its claims and duties. Heaven guide and
preserve you, Ernest. Think of me as one whom
you will not blush to have loved—whom you
will not blush hereafter to present to your wife.
With so much that is soft, as well as great within
you, you were not formed like me—to be alone.
“FAREWELL!”
Maltravers read, and re-read this letter; and when
he reached his home, he placed it carefully amongst
the things he most valued. A lock of Alice’s
hair lay beside it—he did not think that
either was dishonoured by the contact.
With an effort, he turned himself once more to those
stern yet high connections which literature makes
with real life. Perhaps there was a certain
restlessness in his heart which induced him ever to
occupy his mind. That was one of the busiest
years of his life—the one in which he did
most to sharpen jealousy and confirm fame.
“In effect he entered my apartment.”—Gil
Blas.
“‘I am surprised,’ said
he, ’at the caprice of Fortune, who sometimes
delights in loading an execrable author with favours,
whilst she leaves good writers to perish for want.’”—Gil
Blas.
IT was just twelve months after his last interview
with Valerie, and Madame de Ventadour had long since
quitted England, when one morning, as Maltravers sat
alone in his study, Castruccio Cesarini was announced.
“Ah, my dear Castruccio, how are you?”
cried Maltravers, eagerly, as the opening door presented
the form of the Italian.
“Sir,” said Castruccio, with great stiffness,
and speaking in French, which was his wont when he
meant to be distant—“sir, I do not
come to renew our former acquaintance—you
are a great man [here a bitter sneer], I an obscure
one [here Castruccio drew himself up]—I
only come to discharge a debt to you which I find
I have incurred.”
“What tone is this, Castruccio; and what debt
do you speak of?”
“On my arrival in town yesterday,” said
the poet solemnly, “I went to the man whom you
deputed some years since to publish my little volume,
to demand an account of its success; and I found that
it had cost one hundred and twenty pounds, deducting
the sale of forty-nine copies which had been sold.
Your books sell some thousands, I am told.
It is well contrived—mine fell still-born,
no pains were taken with it—no matter—[a
wave of the hand]. You discharged this debt,
I repay you: there is a cheque for the money.
Sir, I have done! I wish you a good day, and
health to enjoy your reputation.”
