“My friend,” said Maximilian, “the voice of my heart is very sorrowful, and promises me nothing but misfortune.”
“It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black cloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and consequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising.”
“That may possibly be true,” said Maximilian, and he again subsided into his thoughtful mood.
The journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which the unlimited power of the count ever commanded.
Towns fled from them like shadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumn seemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating as rapidly when once reached.
The following morning they arrived at Châlons, where the count’s steamboat waited for them. Without the loss of an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the two travellers embarked without delay.
The boat was built for speed; her two paddle-wheels were like two wings with which she skimmed the water like a bird.
Morrel was not insensible to that sensation of delight which is generally experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the wind which occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the point of dispelling momentarily the clouds collected there.
As the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almost superhuman serenity appeared to surround the count; he might have been taken for an exile about to revisit his native land.
Ere long Marseilles presented herself to view—Marseilles, white, fervid, full of life and energy—Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre and