“Let it be so, then!” he repeated, gnashing his teeth.  “You will not have it otherwise.  I take the ring,” and looking at Gotzkowsky maliciously, he continued:  “With this ring I will buy you a place in the churchyard, that the dishonored bankrupt may, at least, find an honorable grave, and not be shovelled in like De Neufville the suicide!”

“What do you say—­De Neufville is dead?” cried Gotzkowsky, hurrying after him as he neared the door, and seizing him violently by the arm.  “Say it once more—­De Neufville is dead?”

Ephraim enjoyed for a moment, in silence, Gotzkowsky’s terrible grief.  He then freed himself from his grasp and opened the door.  But turning round once more, and looking in Gotzkowsky’s face with a devilish grin, he slowly added, “De Neufville killed himself because he could not survive disgrace.”  And then, with a loud laugh, he slammed the door behind him.

Gotzkowsky stared after him, and his soul was full of inexpressible grief.  He had lost in De Neufville not only a friend whom he loved, and on whose fidelity he could count, but his own future and his last hope were buried in his grave.  But his own tormenting thoughts left him no leisure to mourn over his deceased friend.  It was the kind of death that De Neufville had chosen which occupied his mind.

“He came to his death by his own hand; he did not wish to survive his disgrace.  He has done right—­for when disgrace begins, life ends—­and shall I live,” asked he aloud, as almost angrily he threw his head back, “an existence without honor, an existence of ignominy and misery?  I repeat it, De Neufville has done right.  Well, then, I dare not do wrong; my friend has shown me the way.  Shall I follow him?  Let me consider it.”

He cast a wild, searching look around the room, as if he feared some eye might be looking at him, and read desperate thoughts in the quivering of his face.  “Yes!  I will consider it,” whispered he, uneasily.  “But not here—­there in my cabinet, where every thing is so silent and solitary, no one will disturb me.  I will think of it, I say.”  And with a dismal smile he hurried into his study, and closed the door behind him.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XIV.

ELISE.

The bridal costume was completed, and with a bright face, smiling and weeping for sheer happiness, Elise stood looking at herself in a large Venetian mirror.  Not from vanity, nor to enjoy the contemplation of her beauty, but to convince herself that all this was not a dream, only truth, delightful truth.  The maiden, with blushing cheeks, stood and looked in the glass, in her white dress, till she smiled back again; so like a bride, that she shouted aloud for joy, kissed her hand to herself, in the fulness of her mirth, as she greeted and smiled again to her image in the mirror.  “I salute you, happy bride!” said she, in the exuberance of her joy.