Must it be, alas! confessed to my shame? In considering with an experience so unfortunately hasty these different kinds of griefs, this last pain seemed to me less intense, but more bitter; less deep, but more violent; less oppressive, but more poignant than the first. There are, I believe, two orders of suffering: suffering of the heart, legitimate and hallowed; suffering of pride, shameful and miserable. The first, however desolating it may be, has no bitterness; it is immense, but one is proud of this immensity of grief, as one would be of the religious accomplishment of some great and sad duty! Then, also, the tears caused by this suffering flow abundantly, and without any trouble; the soul is disposed to the most touching emotions of pity, or is full of commiseration and of love; in a word, all misfortunes are the cherished and respected sisters of our misfortune. On the contrary, if you suffer for an unworthy cause, your heart is drowned in hatred; your concentrated grief resembles dumb fury which shame bridles with a sharp bit that vanity conceals; envy and hatred gnaw you, but your eyes are dry, and the unhappiness of others can alone draw from you a sad and mournful smile. Such, at least, were the two shades of grief, very defined, which I felt after the death of my father, and after my rupture with Hélène and Marguerite. That was not all. Scarcely had I left Paris with Lord Falmouth, than, by a miserable caprice, I regretted having undertaken this journey; not that I feared its results, but I should have preferred to be alone, in order to have looked my sorrow well in the face, to have struggled with it hand to hand, and, perhaps, to have triumphed over it. I have often found when one suffers, nothing is more fatal than to wish to be distracted from one's grief. If during some moments you become stupefied by your misfortunes, the awakening is horrible. When you find yourself suddenly precipitated into an abyss of moral suffering, after the terrible shock which stuns, which bruises even the most delicate fibres of your heart, that which is, above all, most frightful, is this sudden night, black and profound, of the soul, which does not permit one to see even the thousand wounds by which it is torn. Frightfully bruised, you lie annihilated in the midst of a chaos of nameless pains; then, little by little, thought follows the vertigo. As sight becomes accustomed to distinguishing the objects in the gloom, you begin, so to speak, to recognise yourself in your despair.