“M’sieur is very kind,” she answered, in a voice that betrayed a poignant grief. “Words of sympathy may lighten one’s burden of sorrow, but nothing can heal a broken heart.”
“It mainly depends on how the fracture was caused,” I answered, smiling, and, grasping her tiny hand, assisted her to rise.
She brushed the dust from her dress, dashed away her tears, and, turning to me, said—
“I have heard that gaiety is efficacious—sometimes.”
“Until I know the cause, I cannot prescribe for the effect,” I replied, as I held open the door and she passed out into the sunlight.
“Ah, m’sieur,” she sighed bitterly, her beautiful eyes still full of tears, “woe is my heritage! The brightness of each dawn jars upon me, showing me how gloomy life is, and how utterly hopeless and lonely is the sea of despair upon which I am drifting. I welcome each night with joy, because—because it brings me one day nearer—nearer to death.”
“You are young and fair; you have joy and life around you. Surely you are joking?”
“No, m’sieur. Ah, you do not know!” she sighed. “If you were aware of my secret, you would, I assure you, not be surprised that, even though surrounded by friends, I desire to die.”
“But it is so extraordinary!” I said, walking beside her and chatting as if we were old acquaintances. “Have you never tried to unburden yourself by confiding your secret to some friend?”
“Dieu! No. I—I dare not.”