To this was added a certain wanness and air of fatigue.
The last time I had seen him appearances had been the reverse of
these. I was startled at the change. The first impulse was to
question him as to the cause. This impulse was supplanted by some
degree of confusion, flowing from a consciousness that love had too
large, and, as it might prove, a perceptible, share in creating
this impulse. I was silent.
Presently be raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. I read in
them an anguish altogether ineffable. Never had I witnessed a like
demeanor in Pleyel. Never, indeed, had I observed a human
countenance in which grief was more legibly inscribed. He seemed
struggling for utterance; but, his struggles being fruitless, he
shook his head and turned away from me.
My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent. "What," said
I, "for heaven's sake, my friend,--what is the matter?"
He started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for a moment,
became convulsed with an emotion very different from grief. His
accents were broken with rage:--
"The matter! O wretch!--thus exquisitely fashioned,--on whom
nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces; with charms so
awful and so pure! how art thou fallen! From what height fallen!
A ruin so complete,--so unheard of!"
His words were again choked by emotion.
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