What had the world done that it must thus be continually sacrificed. What had he done. Others were happy; surely no one had ever met such a deception before. People had to suffer sometimes, but not such intense, heart-rending suffering as he now endured.
He was full of despair. Before him, there was nothing but darkness. The more he thought over his misfortunes, the more hopeless life seemed to be.
The candle was now nearly burnt out, but he heeded it not. He waved his hand near his face as if to scatter his thoughts. "Why did I rescue him when he was drowning. (He was thinking of Mr. Rougeant.) I risked being pulled into the water, I might have been drowned; and this is the reward." Ah! how humanity must suffer. If there was no joy, no real happiness on this earth, why live, why continue to endure all this. Schopenhauer was quite right when he said life was not worth living. Henceforth, he would be a pessimist. Three cheers for pessimism!
Ah! the wicked world we live in.
The candle had now burnt itself out but the young man remained seated, his hands thrust in his pockets, his eyes gazing at the floor, and his heart in "kingdom come."
When the clock struck twelve, he awoke. He had fallen asleep and was a little more composed than before. He undressed and went to bed.
He awoke early in the morning. He was crying. What was the matter with him. It dawned upon him: he was going to have a fit of melancholy.
He felt it, but he was powerless to prevent its intrusion. He was like the man who stands between the rails, and suddenly sees a train advancing at full speed towards him and remains with his eyes riveted on the instrument of his destruction, seemingly powerless to move, till the engine crushes him in its onward course.
When Frank descended to breakfast, old Pierre and his spouse noticed his wan look. "I think master's going mad," said the man to his wife, when Frank was out of the room. "I don't know what ails him, but he seems very pale and strange."
The young man wandered aimlessly. Nothing interested him, not even his books, these companions which he had cherished so much. He tried to find pleasure in them. "If I had something to do, something to occupy my thoughts," he said to himself, "I would be much better. Work is the balm which heals my wounds, it sets me on my feet again. I will work, I will study."