“And this is what you have come to at last,” he said, almost aloud, as he rose and paced the narrow room, and halted opposite the looking-glass that seemed to reflect the image of his bitterest enemy; “this is what you have come to at last. Fool--and worse than fool! After chances such as no man ever so threw away--after twenty years of soldiering, not without a certain share of distinction--with talents better than nine-tenths of the comrades who have far outstripped you in the race--with a brilliant start in life, and wind and tide for years in your favour--with luck, opportunities, courage, and above all, experience, what have you done? and what have you arrived at? Three words in a dispatch which is forgotten--a flash or two of the spurious, ephemeral fame that gilds a daring action or a sporting feat--the reputation of being a moderately good drill in the field--and a chance word of approbation from fools, whom you know that you despise. Truly a fair exchange--a most equal barter. This proud position you have purchased with a lifetime of energy spent in vain, and that thorough self-contempt which is now your bitterest punishment. Money, too; what sums you have wasted, lavished upon worse than trifles!--but let that pass. Had you the same fortune and the same temptations you would spend it all again. The dross is not to be regretted; but oh! the time--the time--the buoyancy of youth, the vigour of manhood that shall never come again. Fool! fool!” and the Major groaned aloud. “And what have I lived for?” he added, as he sat himself down and leaned his head once more upon his hand, looking into his past life as the exile looks down from a hill upon the lights and shades of the cherished landscape he shall see no more. “I have lived for self, and I have my reward. Have I ever done one single action for a fellow-creature, save to indulge my own feelings? have I not schemed and flattered, and worked and dared all for self? and this is the upshot. The first time I try to do a disinterested action--the first time I strive to break from the fetters of a lifetime, to be free, to be _a man_, I am foiled, and scouted, and spurned. Refused!--refused! by a poor governess--ha! ha!--it is, indeed, too good a joke. Gaston D’Orville on his knees, at forty, a grey old fool--on his knees to a wretched, dependent governess, and she refuses him. By all the demons in hell--if there _is_ a hell--it serves him right. Laugh! who can help laughing? And yet what a woman to lose--a woman who could write such a letter as this--a woman who knows me better, far better, than I know myself; she would have shared with me every dream of ambition--she would have appreciated and encouraged the few efforts I have ever made to be good--she would have understood me, and with her I could have been happy even in a cottage--but no! forsooth. Her mightiness, doubtless, thinks the poor major of hussars, pretty nearly ruined by this time, no such great catch.