de Clerval becoming jealous, certain unpleasant
scenes ensued, and finally a serious quarrel:
Mademoiselle de Farelles belonging to that class
of persons who are too proud to clear
themselves from a false imputation when they might
otherwise very easily do so. Throughout, De
Clerval had never once seen the Vicomte;
indeed, the principal intercourse between this last
and Mademoiselle de Farelles, had been by letter,
and it was partly this correspondence which had
brought the quarrel about.

When De Clerval entered the salon of Dr.
Bertrand where the guests were assembled
before dinner, he found himself one of eight or
ten persons, all about, like himself, to gather
round the Doctor's table, with intentions of a
desperate kind. Physiognomically they
belonged to all manner of types, some being fat in
the face, some thin in the face, some florid in
the face, and some very pale in the face. In one
respect alone there was a similarity among
them; they all wore a sort of fixed impregnable
expression which was intended to be, and to a
certain extent was, unfathomable.

It has been said that there was every sort of
person in this assembly. Here was, for instance,
a fat man with a countenance naturally jovial,
plethoric, in want of a little doctoring no doubt,
too much, of a "bon vivant" assuredly, but
why on earth here now? If he had come in
the morning to consult the Doctor on his digestion,
one could understand; but what does he do
here now? That man knows that tomorrow
morning it will be proclaimed to the world that
he is ruined, and an impostor. His affairs will
collapse, like a house made of cards, and he who
has an especial affection for social importance,
and who has hitherto enjoyed a good position
among his fellows, knows that he would never
be able to show his face again. True to his
sociability and love of company, to the last, he
comes to make an end in good society. Surely
no other system, but Dr. Bertrand's, would ever
have met the views of this unhappy speculator.
Honour then to Dr. Bertrand! who provides
every class of persons with the means of suicide.

Here, again, is an individual of another description
altogether. A dark thin close-shaved man,
who has the fixed unfathomable expression more
developed than all the others. This morning
his valet knocked at his door, and brought him a
letter directed to Monsieur, which the fille de
chambre had found on Madame's dressing-table.
Madame herself was not in the room, there was
only the letter lying before the looking-glass.
Monsieur read it, and he is here dining with
Dr. Bertrand, and his face is deadly white, and
he does not speak a word.

Such guests as these and De Clerval were
of an exceptional character. The right man
in the right place was a tall faded young man,
whom Alfred observed leaning against the
chimney-piece, too languid to sit, stand, or
recline, and so driven to lean. He had a
handsome countenance as far as symmetry of feature
and proportion went, but the expression was
terrible: so blank, so weary, so hopeless,

that one really almost felt that his coming
there to dine with Dr. Bertrand was the best
thing he could do. He was splendidly dressed,
and the value of his waistcoat buttons and
studs, seemed to prove that it was not poverty
which had brought him there: just as the utter
vapidity and blankness of his weary face seemed
to indicate that he was incapable of such a
strength of love as would drive him to this
last resource. No, this was a case of ennui:
hopeless, final, terrible. Some of his friends
had dined with Dr. Bertrand, and it seemed
to have answered, as they never bored him
again. He thought he would try it, so here he
was come to dinner. Others were there, like this
one. Men who had already outlived themselves,
so to speak—outlived their better selves—their
belief, their health, their natural human interest
in the things that happen beneath the sun men
whose hearts had gone to the grave long ago,
and whose bodies were now to follow.

"We do not go through the ceremony of
introduction in these little réunions of ours,"
whispered the Doctor in De Clerval's ear;
"we are all supposed to know each other."
This was after the servant had solemnly
announced dinner, and when the guests and their
entertainers were passing to the salle-à-manger.

The room looked charming. The Doctor had
not only caused the fountains to be stopped,
but had even, to increase the comfort of the
scene, directed that the great velvet curtains
should be drawn over the entrance to the
conservatory. The logs blazed upon the hearth,
and the table was covered with glittering
candles. For the Doctor well knew the effect of
these, and how they add to the gaiety of every
scene into which they are introduced.

The guests all took their places round that
dreadful board, and perhaps at that moment—
always a chilly one, under the circumstances—
a serious sense of what they were doing forced
itself upon some of them. Certainly Alfred
de Clerval shuddered as he sat down to table,
and certain good thoughts made a struggle to
gain possession of his mind. But the die was
cast. He had come to that place with an
intent known to everybody present, and he must
go through with the intent. He thought, too,
that he caught the Doctor's eye fixed upon him.
He must be a man—A MAN.

The Doctor seemed a little anxious at about
this period of the entertainment, and now and
then would sign impatiently to the servants to
do their work swiftly. And so the oysters went
round, and then some light wine. It was Château
Yquem. The Doctor's wine was matchless.

Dr. Bertrand seemed resolved that there
should be no pauses in the conversation, and
tore himself to tatters though apparently
enjoying himself extremely in order to keep it
going at this time. There was one horrible
circumstance connected with the flagging talk.
No one alluded to the future. Nobody spoke
of to-morrow. It would have been indelicate
in the host; in the guests it would have been
folly.