And he stopped in the midst of the silence.
With a lack-luster eye, he stared down that cold, desolate road and into the pale, dead night.

Nothing was colder than his heart, nothing half so dead: he had loved an angel and now he despised a woman! Raoul, how that little fairy of the North has trifled with you! Was it really, was it really necessary to have so fresh and young a face, a forehead so shy and always ready to cover itself with the pink blush of modesty in order to pass in the lonely night, in a carriage and pair, accompanied by a mysterious lover?
Surely there should be some limit to hypocrisy and lying! ...
She had passed without answering his cry ...

And he was thinking of dying; and he was twenty years old! ...
His valet found him in the morning sitting on his bed.

He had not undressed and the servant feared, at the sight of his face, that some disaster had occurred.

Raoul snatched his letters from the man's hands.