n 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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