h
the vague idea of breathing a little fresh air and returning.

The serenity of the sky, the brightness of the sun, the green trees, the
fragrant flowers, the songs of the birds, offered an ironical contrast
to the scene of mourning. Often does nature refuse to countenance human
sorrows, because they are ungrateful to her goodness. She creates the
wonders of heaven to make us happy; we evoke the secrets of hell to
torture our souls and bodies. Nature is right to scorn our
self-inflicted sorrows.

You see, my dear Edgar, that I make you share all of my torments, all of
my gloomy reflections. I make you live over this hour, minute by minute,
agony on agony, as I suffered it myself.

I stood aside under a tree, waiting I know not for what; one of the men
in black, I had seen from the window, came down the steps of the terrace
and advanced towards me. I made some confused remark; the situation
supplied it with intelligence.

"You are a relation, a friend, an acquaintance?" he said, inquiringly.

"Yes, monsieur."

"It is a terrible misfortune," he added, clasping his hands and bowing
his head; "or rather say two terrible misfortunes in one day; the poor
woman is also dead." ...

Like one in a dream I heard the latter remark, and I now transcribe it
to you as my impression of something that occurred long, long ago,
although I know it took place yesterday.

"Yes, dead," he went on to say; "we were called in too late. Bleeding
would have relieved the brain. It was a violent congestion; we have
similar cases during our practice. An immense loss to the community. A
woman who was young, beautiful as an angel, and charity itself....
Dead!"

He looked up, raised his hand to heaven, and walked rapidly away.

I am haunted by a memory that nothing can dispel. This spectre doubtless
follows you too, dear Edgar. It is a mute, eloquent image fashioned in
the empty air, like the outline of a grave; a phantom that the sun
drives not away, pursuing me by day and by night. It is Raymond's face
as he stood opposite to you on the field of death, his brow, his eye,
his lips, his whole bearing breathing the noblest sentiments that were
ever buried in an undeserved grave. This heroic young man met us with
the fatal conviction that his last hour had come; he felt towards us
neither hatred nor contempt; he obeyed the inexorable exigencies of the
hour, without accusation, without complaint.

The silence of Raymond clothed in sublime de