THE LOST REFLECTION.
I.
I was feverish, even to delirium; the coldness of death pierced my heart, and in spite of the fury of the storm, I ran into the streets, bare-headed, without cloak, like one escaped from a mad-house. The weather-cocks creaked on the roofs like frightened owls, and the gusts of night wind succeeded each other in space like the deaf sound of the eternal wheel-work which marks the fall of years into the Gulf of Time. It was, nevertheless, the night before the joyous holiday of Christmas. Now every year the devil chooses precisely this epoch to play me some trick in his own fashion. This is one among a thousand. The counsellor of the peace of our town is in the habit of giving to Saint Silvestre a brilliant evening party, to celebrate the approach of the new year. As soon as I had entered the anteroom, the counsellor perceiving, ran to meet me, and stopped me. "Dear friend, you cannot imagine what a delicious surprise awaits here you this evening!" At the same time he took me by the hand and drew me into the parlor, among ladies of the most exquisite elegance, seated on sofas arranged in a circle around the fire-place, where a clear fire was sparkling. I perceived her adored features! It was she, she that I had not seen for several years. By what miracle was she given back to me? I remained at the sight of her motionless and dumb.
"Well," said the counsellor, pushing me a little,—"well then!"
