"Comptez donc! Six years and six months."
His picture of future felicity was very bright. I thought in my heart that such plans of retirement were—but I suppressed my sermon and congratulated him upon his prospects. Why should I disturb his happiness even though it might be a dream? What but a dream would have been even the realization of all his hopes?
We parted after embracing like old friends. I had more respect for those two than I had for a great many whose sonorous titles did not cover qualities half so estimable, manners half so agreeable, characters half so pure, or a sense of religion half so true and deep.
The French theatre declined after the departure of Monsieur and Madame Delille. I had entirely ceased attending or taking any interest in it.
Two years passed, when one day, in a lonely part of the Thiergarten, I met—whom do you think? M. Delille; but pale, sad, solitary, subdued.
"Well, here I am again," said he. "All my fine dreams have disappeared. I won't bore you with the story. The fact is—that is to say—one can never count upon one's plans in this world. I have lost my fortune, and accepted an invitation to become director of the Berlin French theatre. I am to form a new company. There is a great opposition to this, and the matter has raised up against me furious enemies. They accuse me of everything base. You know me. You know I would not be guilty of anything dishonorable."
I looked into his sad, ingenuous face, and replied:
"I am sure you would not."
"Oh, I thank you. But the worst remains to be told. My wife—my poor, dear wife—who had been my consolation in all this trouble! Pauvre Marie! she is very ill, and I was obliged to leave her in Paris, or to lose all our prospects. She would have it so. This annoys me. This makes me unhappy. With her I am proof against all troubles. Ah, monsieur, you do not know my Marie. The most faithful, the most gentle, the purest, the——"
"But is she so dangerously ill?"