Bleed, my heart, bleed! but leave me still the power to suffer!
I rise and wander on, noting each familiar point. Here is her cherry tree; there still flowers the plant of everlasting pea from which she plucked blossoms. Sweet plant! bloom on in thy solitude! Good-bye! good-bye!
Good-bye to my childhood, to my lost love—Time sweeps me on; Stella! Stella!
The cold hand of Death lies heavy on my heart, yet around me are soft sunlight, solitude, and silence.
Next day I asked my cousin Victor:
“Do you know Madame F——?”
“The lovely Estelle D——, do you mean?”
“Yes, I loved her so when I was twelve—I love her yet.”
“You idiot,” said Victor, laughing, “she is fifty-one, and has a son of twenty-two.”
He laughed again, and I laughed too, but mine was the cry of despair, an April gleam through the rain.