M. Violette was not mistaken when he supposed M. Gaufre capable
of disinheriting his family in favor of his servant-mistress, but
Berenice was wanting in patience. The rough beard and cap of an
irresistible sergeant-major were the ruin of the girl. One Sunday, when
M. Gaufre, as usual, recited vespers at St. Sulpice, he found that for
the first time in his life he had forgotten his snuff-box. The holy
offices were unbearable to this hypocritical person unless frequently
broken by a good pinch of snuff. Instead of waiting for the final
benediction and then going to take his usual walk, he left his church
warden's stall and returned unexpectedly to the Rue Servandoni, where he
surprised Berenice in a loving interview with her military friend. The
old man's rage was pitiful to behold. He turned the Normandy beauty
ignominiously out of doors, tore up the will he had made in her favor,
and died some weeks after from indigestion, and left, in spite of
himself, all his fortune to his natural heirs.

Amedee's drama had been accepted by the Comedie Francaise, but was not to
be brought out until spring. The notary in charge of his uncle's estate
had advanced him a few thousand francs, and, feeling sad and not having
the courage to be present at the marriage of Maurice and Maria, the poet
wished at least to enjoy, in a way, his new fortune and the independence
that it gave him; so he resigned his position and left for a trip to
Italy, in the hope of dissipating his grief.

Ah, never travel when the heart is troubled! You sleep with the echo of a
dear name in your thoughts, and the half sleep of nights on a train is
feverish and full of nightmares. Amedee suffered tortures from it. In the
midst of the continual noise of the cars he thought he could hear sad
voices crying loudly the name of a beloved lost one. Sometimes the tumult
would become quiet for a little; brakes, springs, wheels, all parts of
the furious cast-iron machine seemed to him tired of howling the
deafening rhythmical gallop, and the vigorously rocked traveller could
distinguish in the diminished uproar a strain of music, at first confused
like a groan, then more distinct, but always the same cruel, haunting
monotone--the fragment of a song that Maria once sang when they were both
children. Suddenly a mournful and prolonged whistle would resound through
the night. The express rushed madly into a tunnel. Under the sonorous
roof, the frightful concert redoubled, exasp