Several days later, the Sentinelle des Vosges contained the following paragraph, written with the official sorrow found in all death-notices at thirty sous per line: 

“A frightful event, which has just thrown two of our best families into mourning, has caused the greatest consternation throughout the Remiremont district.  Monsieur le Baron de Bergenheim, one of the richest land-owners in our province, was killed by accident at a wild-boar hunt on his own domains.  It was by the hand of one of his best friends, Monsieur de Gerfaut, well known by, his important literary work, which has given its author a worldwide reputation, that he received his death-blow.  Nothing could equal the grief of the involuntary cause of this catastrophe.  Madame de Bergenheim, upon learning of this tragic accident, was unable to survive the death of her adored husband, and drowned herself in her despair.  Thus the same grave received this couple, still in the bloom of life, to whom their great mutual affection seemed to promise a most happy future.”

Twenty-eight months later the Parisian journals, in their turn, inserted, with but slight variations, the following article: 

“Nothing could give any idea of the enthusiasm manifested at the Theatre-Francais last evening, at the first representation of Monsieur de Gerfaut’s new drama.  Never has this writer, whose silence literature has deplored for too long a time, distinguished himself so highly.  His early departure for the East is announced.  Let us hope that this voyage will turn to the advantage of art, and that the beautiful and sunny countries of Asia will be a mine for new inspirations for this celebrated poet, who has taken, in such a glorious manner, his place at the heal of our literature.”

Bergenheim’s last wish had been realized; his honor was secure; nobody outraged by even an incredulous smile the purity of Clemence’s winding-sheet; and the world did not refuse to their double grave the commonplace consideration that had surrounded their lives.

Clemence’s death did not destroy the future of the man who loved her so passionately, but the mourning he wears for her, to this day, is of the kind that is never put aside.  And, as the poet’s heart was always reflected in his works, the world took part in this mourning without being initiated into its mystery.  When the bitter cup of memory overflowed in them, they believed it to be a new vein which had opened in the writer’s brain.  Octave received, every day, congratulations upon this sadly exquisite tone of his lyre, whose vibrations surpassed in supreme intensity the sighs of Rene or Obermann’s Reveries.  Nobody knew that those sad pages were written under the inspiration of the most mournful of visions, and that this dark and melancholy tinge, which was taken for a caprice of the imagination, had its source in blood and in the spasms of a broken heart.

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