If I was Clarke, I would as willingly marry a corpse as Christine
Stromberg. Do not speak of her again, Louis. The poor innocent child!
God bless her!" And he burst into a passion of weeping that alarmed his
friend for his reason, but which was probably its salvation.

In a week Franz had left for Europe, and the next Christmas, Christine
and James Barker Clarke were married, and began housekeeping in a style
of extravagant splendor. People wondered and exclaimed at Christine's
reckless expenditure, her parents advised, her husband scolded; but
though she never disputed them, she quietly ignored all their
suggestions. She went to Paris, and lived like a princess; Rome, Vienna
and London wondered over her beauty and her splendor; and wherever she
went Franz followed her quietly, haunting her magnificent salons like a
wretched spectre.

They rarely or never spoke. Beyond a grave inclination of the head, or a
look whose profound misery he only understood, she gave him no
recognition. The world held her name above reproach, and considered that
she had done very well to herself.

Ten years passed away, but the changes they brought were such as the
world regards as natural and inevitable. Christine's mother died and her
father married again; and Christine had a son and a daughter. Franz
watched anxiously to see if this new love would break up the icy
coldness of her manners. Sometimes he was conscious of feeling angrily
jealous of the children, but he always crushed down the wretched
passion. "If Christine loved a flower, would I not love it also?" he
asked himself; "and these little ones, what have they done?" So at last
he got to separate them entirely from every one but Christine, and to
regard them as part and portion of his love.