e rise to dejection; from dejection
to affliction; from affliction to melancholy. Melancholy is a twilight
state; suffering melts into it and becomes a sombre joy. Melancholy is
the pleasure of being sad.

These elegiac moods were not made for Lethierry. Neither the nature of
his temperament nor the character of his misfortune suited those
delicate shades. But at the moment at which we have returned to him, the
reverie of his first despair had for more than a week been tending to
disperse; without, however, leaving him less sad. He was more inactive,
was always dull; but he was no longer overwhelmed. A certain perception
of events and circumstances was returning to him, and he began to
experience something of that phenomenon which may be called the return
to reality.

Thus by day in the great lower room, he did not listen to the words of
those about him, but he heard them. Grace came one morning quite
triumphant to tell Deruchette that he had undone the cover of a
newspaper.

This half acceptance of realities is in itself a good symptom, a token
of convalescence. Great afflictions produce a stupor; it is by such
little acts that men return to themselves. This improvement, however, is
at first only an aggravation of the evil. The dreamy condition of mind
in which the sufferer has lived, has served, while it lasted, to blunt
his grief. His sight before was thick. He felt little. Now his view is
clear, nothing escapes him; and his wounds re-open. Each detail that he
perceives serves to remind him of his sorrow. He sees everything again
in memory, every remembrance is a regret. All kinds of bitter
aftertastes lurk in that return to life. He is better, and yet worse.
Such was the condition of Lethierry. In returning to full consciousness,
his sufferings had become more distinct.

A sudden shock first recalled him to a sense of reality.

One afternoon, between the 15th and 20th of April, a double-knock at the
door of the great lower room of the Bravees had signalled the arrival of
the postman. Douce had opened the door; there was a letter.

The letter came from beyond sea; it was addressed to Mess Lethierry, and
bore the postmark "Lisbon."

Douce had taken the letter to Mess Lethierry, who was in his room. He
had taken it, placed it mechanically upon the table, and had not looked
at it.

The letter remained an entire week upon the table without being
unsealed.

It happened, however, one morning that Douce said to