with but slight variations, the following article:

"Nothing could give any idea of the enthusiasm manifested at the Theatre-
Francais last evening, at the first representation of Monsieur de
Gerfaut's new drama. Never has this writer, whose silence literature has
deplored for too long a time, distinguished himself so highly. His early
departure for the East is announced. Let us hope that this voyage will
turn to the advantage of art, and that the beautiful and sunny countries
of Asia will be a mine for new inspirations for this celebrated poet, who
has taken, in such a glorious manner, his place at the heal of our
literature."

Bergenheim's last wish had been realized; his honor was secure; nobody
outraged by even an incredulous smile the purity of Clemence's winding-
sheet; and the world did not refuse to their double grave the commonplace
consideration that had surrounded their lives.

Clemence's death did not destroy the future of the man who loved her so
passionately, but the mourning he wears for her, to this day, is of the
kind that is never put aside. And, as the poet's heart was always
reflected in his works, the world took part in this mourning without
being initiated into its mystery. When the bitter cup of memory
overflowed in them, they believed it to be a new vein which had opened in
the writer's brain. Octave received, every day, congratulations upon
this sadly exquisite tone of his lyre, whose vibrations surpassed in
supreme intensity the sighs of Rene or Obermann's Reveries. Nobody knew
that those sad pages were written under the inspiration of the most
mournful of visions, and that this dark and melancholy tinge, which was
taken for a caprice of the imagination, had its source in blood and in
the spasms of a broken heart.