A raconter ses maux, souvent on les soulage.—Polyeucte.
"Do you remember Buckland?" asked Rosny, as they walked up Broadway.
"The Virginian? Yes, perfectly."
"There he is."
Morton, following the direction of his companion's eye, saw, a little in advance, a tall man, slenderly but gracefully formed, walking slowly, with a listless air, as if but half conscious of what was going on around him. They checked their pace, to avoid overtaking him.
"Poor fellow!" said Rosny; "he's in a bad way."
"I am sorry to hear it. He was a lively, pleasant fellow when I knew him,—very fond of the society of ladies."
"That's all over now. He has been very dissipated for the last two or three years, and is broken down completely, body and mind. It's a great pity. I am very sorry for him," said Rosny, in whom, notwithstanding his restless ambition, there was a vein of warm and kindly feeling.
"Is he living in New York?"
"Yes, he has been here ever since leaving college. He began to practise as a lawyer. It's much he ever did or ever will do at the law! There was never any go-ahead in him—no energy, no decision—and he does nothing now, but read a little, and lounge about, in a moody, abstracted way, with his wits in the clouds. Get him into good company, and wind him up with a glass of brandy, and he is himself again for a while,—tells a story and sings a song as he used to do,—but it is soon over. Do you want to speak to him?"