8. CHAPTER III.
SUICIDE.
It was evening when Ernest reached
home. He spoke not to one of the family,
out hastened to lock himself up in his
room.
`So I have found my father!' he murmured
to himself, `and he is the father of
my Marie, too! God! is it possible that she
whom I love so madly is my sister! Then
our love itself is sinful—our bliss impossible!
Oh! would that we had never met!'
The unhappy young man paced rapidly to
and fro, nearly maddened by the dark
thoughts which crowded upon his brain.
He was interrupted by a knocking at the
door. A servant came to put a letter into
his hands. He recognised Maurice's handwriting
and breaking it hastily open, read
as follows:
`My dear Ernest:—Shame prevents me
from coming to you to-night, for I cannot
but feel that I have acted treacherously towards
you. Whilst you were with M. Duval,
I was alone with Marie. The conversation
as of you, dear Ernest. Judge of my surprise
when she told me that she could not
be yours—that she loved another. Then
I forgot my duty to you, and instead of
pleading for you, fell upon my knees before
her, and pleaded for myself; for you must
know that I too had loved her—long loved
her in secret. I told her how I had concealed
my passion for your sake—how I had
resolved to sacrifice my own happiness to
promote your bliss.
`But if you love him not,' said I,
not say that you love another! To
could yield, but with another I will
until the last. For I love you as
ever will or can.'
`Do not curse me, Ernest, for
do not hate me when I say that
her lovely hand upon my own, and
tears of joy chased each other down her
lovely cheek, confessed that, although she
loved another beside you, that other was myself!
`Heavens! how can I describe my joy—
intoxication! But then, dear Ernest, I
thought of you! Joy is no longer my lot—I
am miserable—dying with remorse.
`Write immediately, and say that you
forgive me.
`Your devoted friend,
`Maurice.'
Ernest read the letter twice, then sat
down and wrote an answer.
`Dearest Friend:—Accept my forgiveness,
my benediction, my love! You have
acted nobly—worthily of yourself.
`When you read this I shall be no more:
but do not think that either you or Marie
caused my death. Far from it! I wish you
happiness, and should have been content to
live for you, had not a circumstance happened
this afternoon, which drives me to put
an end to my existence.
`In my desk my friends will find the inscription
I desire to have engraved upon my
tombstone. You will see to it, my dear
Maurice—you, who have served me so faithfully
until now.
`I have but a word more to say. Marie
loves you, you say; her affection is worth
more than countless treasures. You will,
therefore, live for her, and make her happy.
`Farewell—forever!
`Ernest.'
With a steady hand the unhappy young
folded this farewell epistle; after
wrote a short note to his adopted father.
he burned a great number of use-
and letters, arranged those he
leave behind him, and wrote an
his tombstone.
carefully loaded a small pair
closed the window-blinds, bolted
door, and finally sat down to
, with his face buried in his hands,
on his past life, and on eternity.
Five minutes after, the report of a pistol
echoed through the house.
Ernest was no more!
