She had dictated a few
words to tell her husband, who was then in Germany, that she
was dying; and, stricken with a horrible remorse, he had
travelled with all possible haste to Paris, and arrived at
daybreak one morning to find that his wife had died the
evening before.
Madame Linders' death had been caused by a fever, under which
she had sunk rapidly at last. There had been no question of
heart-breaking or pining grief here--so her husband thought
with a sort of satisfaction even then, as he remembered his
sister's words of bitter reproach over their mother's death-
bed; and yet not the less, as he looked at his dead wife's
face, did the reflection force itself upon him, that he had
made the misery instead of the happiness of her life. He was a
man who had accustomed himself to view things from the hardest
and most practical point of view; and from such a view his
marriage had been rather a failure than otherwise, since the
memory of the little fortune she had brought with her had
vanished with the fortune itself. But it had not been
altogether for money that he had married her; he had been in
love with her at one time, and that time repeated itself, with
a pertinacity not to be shaken off, as he stood now in her
silent presence.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70