All that had occurred since he last sat at his own table passed in
review before him, but seemed like adventures that he had read of, not
actually participated in himself. It had all passed into the background.
Captain Fracasse, already nearly obliterated, appeared like a pale
spectre in the far distance; his combats with the Duke of Vallombreuse
seemed equally unreal. In fine, everything that he had seen, done, and
suffered, had sunk into shadowy vagueness; but his love for Isabelle had
undergone no change; it had neither diminished nor grown cold; it was as
passionate and all-absorbing as ever; it was his very life; yet rather
like an aspiration of the soul than a real passion, since with it all he
knew that the angelic being who was its object, and whom he worshipped
from afar, could never, never be his. The wheels of his chariot, which
for a brief space had turned aside into a new track, were back in the
old rut again, and realizing that there could be no further escape from
it possible for him, he gave way sullenly to a despairing, stolid sort
of resignation, that he had no heart to struggle against, but yielded to
it passively; blaming himself the while for having presumed to indulge
in a season of bright hopes and delicious dreams.
Pages:
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600