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.