The most radiant sun that ever gilded a beautiful September day had arisen upon the castle. The whole valley was as fresh and laughing as a young girl who had just left her bath. The rocks seemed to have a band of silver surrounding them; the woods a mantle of green draped over their shoulders.
There was an unusual excitement in the courtyard of the chateau. The servants were coming and going, the dogs were starting a concert of irregular barks, and the horses were jumping about, sharing their instinctive presentiment and trying to break away from the bridles which held them.
The Baron, seated in his saddle with his usual military attitude, and a cigar in his mouth, went from one to another, speaking in a joking tone which prevented anybody from suspecting his secret thoughts. Gerfaut had imposed upon his countenance that impassible serenity which guards the heart’s inner secrets, but had not succeeded so well. His affectation of gayety betrayed continual restraint; the smile which he forced upon his lips left the rest of his face cold, and never removed the wrinkle between his brows. An incident, perhaps sadly longed for, but unhoped for, increased this gloomy, melancholy expression. Just as the cavalcade passed before the English garden, which separated the sycamore walk from the wing of the chateau occupied by Madame de Bergenheim, Octave slackened the pace of his horse and lingered behind the rest of his companions; his eyes closely examined each of the windows; the blinds of her sleeping-room were only half closed; behind the panes he saw the curtains move and then separate. A pale face appeared for a moment between the blue folds, like an angel who peeps through the sky to gaze upon the earth. Gerfaut raised himself on his stirrups so as to drink in this apparition as long as possible, but he dared not make one gesture of adieu. As he was still endeavoring to obtain one more glance, he saw that the Baron was at his side.
“Play your role better,” said he to him; “we are surrounded by spies. De Camier has already made an observation about your preoccupied demeanor.”
“You are right,” said Octave; “and you join example to advice. I admire your coolness, but I despair of equalling it.”
“You must mingle with my guests and talk with them,” Christian replied.
He started off at a trot; Gerfaut followed his example, stifling a sigh as he darted a last glance toward the chateau. They soon rejoined the cart which carried several of the hunters, and which Monsieur de Camier drove with the assurance of a professional coachman.
There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the trot of the horses and the sound of the wheels upon the level ground.
“What the devil ails your dogs?” exclaimed Monsieur de Camier suddenly, as he turned to the Baron, who was riding behind him. “There they are all making for the river.” Just at this moment the dogs, who could be seen in the distance, hurried to the water-side, in spite of all that their leader could do to prevent them. They almost disappeared behind the willows that bordered the river, and one could hear them barking furiously; their barks sounded like rage mingled with terror.
“It is some duck that they have scented,” observed the prosecutor.
“They wouldn’t bark like that,” said Monsieur de Camier, with the sagacity of a professional hunter; “if it were a wolf, they could not make a greater uproar. Is it by chance some wild boar who is taking a bath, in order to receive us more ceremoniously?”
He gave the horses a vigorous blow from the whip, and they all rapidly approached the spot where a scene was taking place which excited to the highest pitch everybody’s curiosity. Before they reached the spot, the keeper, who had run after the dogs to call them together, came out of a thicket, waving his hat to stop the hunters, exclaiming:
“A body! a body!”
“A body! a drowned man!” he exclaimed, when the vehicle stopped.
This time it was the public prosecutor who arose and jumped from the cart with the agility of a deer.
“A drowned man!” said he. “In the name of the law, let nobody touch the body. Call back the dogs.”
As he said these words he hastened to the spot which the servant pointed out to him. Everybody dismounted and followed him. Octave and Bergenheim had exchanged strange glances when they heard the servant’s words.
It was, as the servant had announced, the battered body of a man, thrown by the current against the trunk of the tree, and there caught between two branches of the willow as if in a vise.
“It is the carpenter!” exclaimed Monsieur de Camier as he parted the foliage, which had prevented the head from being seen until then, for he recognized the workman’s livid, swollen features. “It is that poor devil of a Lambernier, is it not, Bergenheim?”
“It is true!” stammered Christian, who, in spite of his boldness, could not help turning away his eyes.
“The carpenter!—drowned!—this is frightful!—I never should have recognized him—how disfigured he is!” exclaimed the others, as they pressed forward to gaze at this horrible spectacle.
“This is a sad way to escape justice,” observed the notary, in a philosophical tone.
The Baron seized this opening with avidity.
“He must have crossed the river to escape,” said he, “and in his haste he made a misstep and fell.”
The public prosecutor shook his head with an air of doubt.
“That is not probable,” said he; “I know the place. If he tried to cross the river a little above or a little below the rock—it doesn’t matter which—the current would have carried him into the little bay above the rock and not here. It is evident that he must have drowned himself or been drowned farther down. I say, been drowned, for you can see that he has a wound upon the left side of his forehead, as if he had received a violent blow, or his head had, hit against a hard substance. Now, if he had been drowned accidentally while crossing the river, he would not have been wounded in this manner.”
This remark silenced the Baron; and while the others exhausted conjectures to explain the way in which this tragic event had taken place, he stood motionless, with his eyes fastened upon the river and avoiding a glance at the dead body. During this time the public prosecutor had taken from his pocket some paper and a pen, which he usually carried with him.
“Gentlemen,” said he, seating himself upon the trunk of a tree opposite the drowned man, “two of you will do me the favor to act as witnesses while I draw up my official report. If any of you have a statement to make in regard to this affair, I beg of him to remain here, so that I may receive his deposition.”
Nobody stirred, but Gerfaut threw such a penetrating glance at the Baron that the latter turned away his eyes.
“Gentlemen,” continued the magistrate, “I do not wish any of you to renounce the sport on account of this untoward incident. There is nothing attractive about this spectacle, and I assure you that if my duty did not keep me here, I should be the first to withdraw. Baron, I beg of you to send me two men and a stretcher in order to have the body carried away; I will have it taken to one of your farms, so as not to frighten the ladies.”
“The prosecutor is right,” said Christian, whom these words delivered from a terrible anxiety.
After a deliberation, presided over by Monsieur de Camier, the ‘tragueurs’ and the dogs left in silence to surround the thickets where the animal had been found to be hidden. At the same time the hunters turned their steps in the opposite direction in order to take their positions. They soon reached the ditch alongside of which they were to place themselves. From time to time, as they advanced, one of them left the party and remained mute and motionless like a sentinel at his post. This manoeuvre gradually reduced their numbers, and at last there were only three remaining.
“You remain here, Camier,” said the Baron, when they were about sixty steps from the last position.
That gentleman, who knew the ground, was hardly flattered by this proposition.
“By Jove!” said he, “you are on your own grounds; you ought at least to do the honors of your woods and let us choose our own positions. I think you wish to place yourself upon the outskirts, because it is always about that region that the animal first appears; but there will be two of us, for I shall go also.”
This determination annoyed Christian considerably, since it threatened to ruin the plan so prudently laid out.
“I am going to put our friend Gerfaut at this post,” said he, whispering to the refractory hunter; “I shall be very much pleased if he has an opportunity to fire. What difference does one boar more or less make to an old hunter like you?”
“Well and good; just as you like,” retorted Monsieur de Carrier, striking the ground with the butt-end of his gun, and beginning to whistle in order to cool off his anger.
When the adversaries found themselves side by side and alone, Bergenheim’s countenance changed suddenly; the smiling look he had assumed, in order to convince the old hunter of his cheerful disposition, gave place to deep gravity.
“You remember our agreement,” he said, as they walked along; “I feel sure that the boar will come in our direction. At the moment when I call out, ‘Take care!’ I shall expect you to fire; if, at the end of twenty seconds, you have not done so, I warn you that I shall fire myself.”
“Very well, Monsieur,” said Gerfaut, looking at him fixedly; “you also doubtless remember my words; the discovery of this body will give them still more weight. The public prosecutor has already begun his preliminary proceedings; remember that it depends on me how they shall be completed. The deposition which I spoke to you about is in the hands of a safe person, who is fully instructed to make use of it if necessary.”
“Marillac, I suppose,” said Christian, in an evil tone; “he is your confidant. It is a fatal secret that you have confided to him, Monsieur. If I survive today, I shall have to secure his silence. May all this blood, past, present, and future, be on your head!”
Deeply affected by this reproach, the Vicomte bowed his head in silence.
“Here is my place,” said the Baron, stopping before the trunk of an old oak, “and there is the elm where you are to station yourself.”
Gerfaut stopped, and said, in a trembling voice:
“Monsieur, one of us will not leave these woods alive. In the presence of death, one tells the truth. I hope for your peace of mind, and my own, that you will believe my last words. I swear to you, upon my honor and by all that is sacred, that Madame de Bergenheim is innocent.”
He bowed, and withdrew from Christian without waiting for a response.
Bergenheim and Gerfaut were out of sight of the others, and stood at their posts with eyes fastened upon each other. The ditch was wide enough to prevent the branches of the trees from troubling them; at the distance of sixty feet, which separated them, each could see his adversary standing motionless, framed by the green foliage. Suddenly, barking was heard in the distance, partially drowned by the firing of a gun. A few seconds later, two feeble reports were heard, followed by an imprecation from Monsieur de Camier, whose caps flashed in the pan. The Baron, who had just leaned forward that he might see better through the thicket, raised his hand to warn Octave to hold himself in readiness. He then placed himself in position. An extreme indecision marked Gerfaut’s attitude. After raising his gun, he dropped it to the ground with a despondent gesture, as if his resolution to fire had suddenly abandoned him; the pallor of death could not be more terrible than that which overspread his features. The howling of the dogs and shouts of the hunters increased. Suddenly another sound was heard. Low, deep growls, followed by the crackling of branches, came from the woods opposite our adversaries. The whole thicket seemed to tremble as if agitated by a storm.
“Take care!” exclaimed Bergenheim, in a firm voice.
At the same moment an enormous head appeared, and the report of a gun was heard. When Gerfaut looked through the smoke caused by his gun, at the farther end of the ditch, nothing was to be seen but the foliage.
The boar, after crossing the clearing, vanished like a flash, leaving behind him a trail of broken branches—and Bergenheim lay behind the trunk of the old oak, upon which large drops of blood had already fallen.
On the same morning the drawing-room of the Bergenheim castle was the theatre of a quiet home scene very much like the one we described at the beginning of this story. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was seated in her armchair reading the periodicals which had just arrived; Aline was practising upon the piano, and her sister-in-law was seated before one of the windows embroidering. By the calm attitude of these three ladies, and the interest they seemed to show in their several occupations, one would have supposed that they were all equally peaceful at heart. Madame de Bergenheim, upon rising, had resumed her usual habits; she managed to find the proper words to reply when spoken to, her dejection did not differ from her usual melancholy enough for it to become the subject of remark. A rather bright color in her cheeks heightened her beauty; her eyes never had sparkled with more brilliancy; but if a hand had been placed upon her forehead, one would have soon discovered by its burning the secret of all this unwonted color. In fact, in the midst of this sumptuous room, surrounded by her friends, and bending over her embroidery with most exquisite grace, Madame de Bergenheim was slowly dying. A wasting fever was circulating like poison through her veins. She felt that an unheard-of sorrow was hanging over her head, and that no effort of hers could prevent it.
At this very moment, either the man she belonged to or the one she loved was about to die; whatever her widowhood might be, she felt that her mourning would be brief; young, beautiful, surrounded by all the privileges of rank and fortune, life was closing around her, and left but one pathway open, which was full of blood; she would have to bathe her feet in it in order to pass through.
“What is that smoke above the Montigny rock?” Aline exclaimed with surprise; “it looks as if there were a fire in the woods.”
Madame de Bergenheim raised her eyes, shivered from head to foot as she saw the stream of smoke which stood out against the horizon, and then let her head droop upon her breast. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil stopped her reading as she heard Aline’s remark, and turned slowly to look out of the window.
“That’s some of the shepherds’ work,” said she; “they have built a fire in the bushes at the risk of setting fire to the whole woods. Really, I do not know what to think of your husband, Clemence; he takes everybody away to the hunt with him, and does not leave a soul here to prevent his dwelling from being devastated.”
Clemence made no reply, and her sister-in-law, who expected she would say something to keep the conversation alive, returned and seated herself at the piano with a pouting air.
“Thanks, that will do for to-day!” exclaimed the old lady at the first notes; “you have split our heads long enough. You would do better to study your history of France.”
Aline closed the piano angrily; but instead of obeying this last piece of advice, she remained seated upon the stool with the sulky air of a pupil in disgrace. A deep silence reigned. Madame de Bergenheim had dropped her embroidery without noticing it. From time to time she trembled as if a chill passed over her, her eyes were raised to watch the smoke ascending above the rock, or else she seemed to listen to some imaginary sound.
“Truly,” said Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, as she laid her journal down in her lap, “good morals have made great progress since the July revolution. Yesterday a woman twenty years of age ran away to Montpelier with her lover; to-day, here is another, in Lyons, who poisons her husband and kills herself afterward. If I were superstitious, I should say that the world was coming to an end. What do you think of such atrocious doings, my dear?”
Clemence raised her head with an effort, and answered, in a gloomy voice:
“You must pardon her, since she is dead.”
“You are very indulgent,” replied the old aunt; “such creatures ought to be burned alive, like the Brinvilliers.”
“They often speak in the papers of husbands who kill their wives, but not so often of wives killing their husbands,” said Aline, with the partisan feeling natural to the fair sex.
“It is not proper that you should talk of such horrid things,” said the old lady, in a severe tone; “behold the fruits of all the morals of the age! It is the effect of all the disgusting stuff that is acted nowadays upon the stage and written in novels. When one thinks of the fine education that is given youth at the present time, it is enough to make one tremble for the future!”
“Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle, you may be sure that I shall never kill my husband,” replied the young girl, to whom this remark seemed particularly addressed.
A stifled groan, which Madame de Bergenheim could not suppress, attracted the attention of the two ladies.
“What is the matter with you?” asked Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, noticing for the first time her niece’s dejected air and the frightened expression in her eyes.
“Nothing,” murmured the latter; “I think it is the heat of the room.”
Aline hastily opened a window, then went and took her sister-in-law’s hands in her own.
“You have a fever,” said she; “your hands burn and your forehead also; I did not dare tell you, but your beautiful color—”
A frightful cry which Madame de Bergenheim uttered made the young girl draw back in fright.
“Clemence! Clemence!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, who thought that her niece had gone insane.
“Did you not hear?” she cried, with an accent of terror impossible to describe. She darted suddenly toward the drawing-room door; but, instead of opening it, she leaned against it with arms crossed. Then she ran two or three times around the room in a sort of frenzy, and ended by falling upon her knees before the sofa and burying her head in its cushions.
This scene bewildered the two women. While Mademoiselle de Corandeuil tried to raise Clemence, Aline, still more frightened, ran out of the room to call for aid. A rumor which had just begun to arise in the courtyard was distinctly heard when the door was thrown open. A moment more, and a piercing shriek was heard, and the young girl rushed into the parlor; throwing herself on her knees beside her sister-in-law she pressed her to her breast with convulsive energy.
As she felt herself seized in this fashion, Clemence raised her head and, placing her hands upon Aline’s shoulders, she pushed her backward and gazed at her with eyes that seemed to devour her.
“Which? which?” she asked, in a harsh voice.
“My brother—covered with blood!” stammered Aline.
Madame de Bergenheim pushed her aside and threw herself upon the sofa. Her first feeling was a horrible joy at not hearing the name of Octave; but she tried to smother her hysterical utterances by pressing her mouth against the cushion upon which her face was leaning.
A noise of voices was heard in the vestibule; the greatest confusion seemed to reign among the people outside. At last, several men entered the drawing room; at their head was Monsieur de Camier, whose ruddy face had lost all its color.
“Do not be frightened, ladies,” said he, in a trembling voice; “do not be frightened. It is only a slight accident, without any danger. Monsieur de Bergenheim was wounded in the hunt,” he continued, addressing Mademoiselle de Corandeuil.
At last, the folding-doors were thrown open, and two servants appeared, bearing the Baron upon a mattress.
When the servants had deposited their burden in front of one of the windows, Aline threw herself upon her brother’s body, uttering heartrending cries. Madame de Bergenheim did not stir; she lay upon the sofa with eyes and ears buried in the cushions, and seemed deaf and blind to all that surrounded her. Mademoiselle de Corandeuil was the only one who preserved her presence of mind. Controlling her emotion, she leaned over the Baron and sought for some sign of life.
“Is he dead?” she asked, in a low voice, of Monsieur de Camier.
“No, Mademoiselle,” replied the latter, in a tone which announced that he had little hope.
“Has a physician been sent for?”
“To Remiremont, Epinal, everywhere.”
At this moment Aline uttered a cry of joy. Bergenheim had just stirred, brought to life, perhaps, by the pressure of his sister’s arms. He opened his eyes and, closed them several times; at last his energy triumphed over his sufferings; he sat up on his improvised cot and, leaning upon his left elbow, he glanced around the room.
“My wife!” said he, in a weak voice.
Madame de Bergenheim arose and forced her way through the group that surrounded the mattress, and silently took her place beside her husband. Her features had changed so terribly within a few moments that a murmur of pity ran through the group of men that filled the room.
“Take my sister away,” said Christian, disengaging his hand from the young girl, who was covering it with kisses and tears.
“My brother! I can not leave my brother!” exclaimed Aline, as she was dragged away rather than led to her room.
“Leave me for a moment,” continued the Baron; “I wish to speak to my wife.”
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil gave Monsieur de Gamier a questioning glance, as if to ask if it were best to grant this request.
“We can do nothing before the doctors arrive,” said the latter, in a low voice, “and perhaps it would be imprudent to oppose him.”
Mademoiselle de Corandeuil recognized the correctness of this observation, and left the room, asking the others to follow her. During this time, Madame de Bergenheim remained motionless in her place, apparently insensible to all that surrounded her. The noise of the closing door aroused her from her stupor. She looked around the room as if she were seeking the others; her eyes, which were opened with the fixed look of a somnambulist, did not change their expression when they fell upon her husband.
“Come nearer,” said he, “I have not strength enough to speak loud.”
She obeyed mechanically. When she saw the large red stain which had soaked Christian’s right sleeve, she closed her eyes, threw back her head, and her features contracted with a horrified expression.
“You women are wonderfully fastidious,” said the Baron, as he noticed this movement; “you delight in causing a murder, but the slightest scratch frightens you. Pass over to the left side; you will not see so much blood-besides, it is the side where the heart is.”
There was something terrible in the irony of the voice in which he spoke at this moment. Clemence fell upon her knees beside him and took his hand, crying,
“Pardon! pardon!”
The dying man took away his hand, raised his wife’s head, and, looking at her a few moments attentively, he said at last:
“Your eyes are very dry. No tears! What! not one tear when you see me thus!”
“I can not weep,” replied she; “I shall die!”
“It is very humiliating for me to be so poorly regretted, and it does you little honor—try to shed a few tears, Madame—it will be remarked—a widow who does not weep!”
“A widow—never!” she said, with energy.
“It would be convenient if they sold tears as they sell crape, would it not? Ah! only you women have a real talent for that—all women know how to weep.”
“You will not die, Christian—oh! tell me that you will not die—and that you will forgive me.”
“Your lover has killed me,” said Bergenheim, slowly; “I have a bullet in my chest—I feel it—I am the one who is to die—in less than an hour I shall be a corpse—don’t you see how hard it is already for me to talk?”
In reality his voice was becoming weaker and weaker. His breath grew shorter with each word; a wheezing sound within his chest indicated the extent of the lesion and the continued extravasation of blood.
“Mercy! pardon!” exclaimed the unhappy woman, prostrating herself upon the floor.
“More air—open the windows—” said the Baron, as he fell back upon the mattress, exhausted by the efforts he had just made to talk.
Madame de Bergenheim obeyed his order with the precision of an automaton. A fresh, pure breeze entered the room; when the curtains were raised, floods of light illuminated the floor, and the old portraits, suddenly lighted up, looked like ghosts who had left their graves to witness the death agonies of the last of their descendants. Christian, refreshed by the air which swept over his face, sat up again. He gazed with a melancholy eye at the radiant sun and the green woods which lay stretched out in front of the chateau.
“I lost my father on such a day as this,” said he, as if talking to himself—“all our family die during the beautiful weather—ah! do you see that smoke over the Montigny rock?” he exclaimed, suddenly.
After opening the windows, Clemence stepped out upon the balcony. Leaning upon the balustrade, she gazed at the deep, rapid river which flowed at her feet. Her husband’s voice calling her aroused her from this gloomy contemplation. When she returned to Christian, his eyes were flaming, a flush like that of fever had overspread his cheeks, and a writhing, furious indignation was depicted upon his face. “Were you looking at that smoke?” said he, angrily; “it is your lover’s signal; he is there—he is waiting to take you away—and I, your husband, forbid you to go—you must not leave me—your place is here—close by me.”
“Close by you,” she repeated, not understanding what he said.
“Wait at least until I am dead,” he continued, while his eyes flashed more and more—“let my body get cold—when you are a widow you can do as you like—you will be free—and even then—I forbid it—I order you to wear mourning for me—above all, try to weep—”
“Strike me with a knife! At least I should bleed,” said she, bending toward him and tearing open her dress to lay bare her bosom.
He seized her by the arm, and, exerting all his wasting strength to reach her, he said, in a voice whose harshness was changed almost into supplication:
“Clemence, do not dishonor me by giving yourself to him when I am dead—I would curse you if I thought that you would do that.”
“Oh! do not curse me!” she exclaimed; “do not drive me mad. Do you not know that I am about to die?”
“There are women who do not see their husband’s blood upon their lover’s hands—but I would curse you—”
He dropped Clemence’s arm and fell back upon the mattress with a sob. His eyes closed, and some unintelligible words died on his lips, which were covered with a bloody froth. He was dying.
Madame de Bergenheim, crouched down upon the floor, heard him repeating in his expiring voice:
“I would curse you—I would curse you!”
She remained motionless for some time, her eyes fastened upon the dying man before her with a look of stupefied curiosity. Then she arose and went to the mirror; she gazed at herself for a moment as if obeying the whim of an insane woman, pushing aside, in order to see herself better, the hair which covered her forehead. Suddenly a flash of reason came to her; she uttered a horrible cry as she saw some blood upon her face; she looked at herself from head to foot; her dress was stained with it; she wrung her hands in horror, and felt that they were wet. Her husband’s blood was everywhere. Then, her brain filled with the fire of raving madness, she rushed out upon the balcony, and Bergenheim, before his last breath escaped him, heard the noise of her body as it fell into the river.
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.
ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
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Attractions that difficulties give to pleasure
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Evident that the man was above his costume; a rare thing!
I believed it all; one is so happy to believe!
It is a terrible step for a woman to take, from No to Yes
Lady who requires urging, although she is dying to sing
Let them laugh that win!
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Mania for fearing that she may be compromised
Material in you to make one of Cooper’s redskins
Misfortunes never come single
No woman is unattainable, except when she loves another
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She said yes, so as not to say no
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Those whom they most amuse are those who are best worth amusing
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