I returned the good soul’s embrace heartily. “I will not， myBertha； but for your sake I had not thought of such a thing. Iwill be your true， faithful husband while you are spared to me，and do my duty by you to the last.”
The next day we prepared secretly for our emigration. Wewere obliged to make great pecuniary sacrifices—it could notbe helped. We realised a sum sufficient， at least， to maintainus while Bertha lived； and， without saying adieu to any one，quitted our native country to take refuge in a remote part ofwestern France.
It was a cruel thing to transport poor Bertha from her nativevillage， and the friends of her youth， to a new country， newlanguage， new customs. The strange secret of my destiny renderedthis removal immaterial to me； but I compassionated her deeply，and was glad to perceive that she found compensation for hermisfortunes in a variety of little ridiculous circumstances.
Away from all tell-tale chroniclers， she sought to decreasethe apparent disparity of our ages by a thousand femininearts—rouge， youthful dress， and assumed juvenility of manner.
I could not be angry—Did not I myself wear a mask？ Whyquarrel with hers， because it was less successful？ I grieveddeeply when I remembered that this was my Bertha， whom Ihad loved so fondly， and won with such transport—the darkeyed， dark-haired girl， with smiles of enchanting archnessand a step like a fawn—this mincing， simpering， jealous oldwoman. I should have revered her gray locks and witheredcheeks； but thus！—It was my， work， I knew； but I did not theless deplore this type of human weakness.
Her jealousy never slept. Her chief occupation was todiscover that， in spite of outward appearances， I was myselfgrowing old. I verily believe that the poor soul loved me trulyin her heart， but never had woman so tormenting a mode ofdisplaying fondness. She would discern wrinkles in my faceand decrepitude in my walk， while I bounded along in youthfulvigour， the youngest looking of twenty youths. I never daredaddress another woman： on one occasion， fancying that thebelle of the village regarded me with favouring eyes， shebought me a gray wig. Her constant discourse among heracquaintances was， that though I looked so young， there wasruin at work within my frame； and she affirmed that the worstsymptom about me was my apparent health. My youth was adisease， she said， and I ought at all times to prepare， if not for asudden and awful death， at least to awake some morning whiteheaded，and bowed down with all the marks of advanced years.
I let her talk—I often joined in her conjectures. Her warningschimed in with my never-ceasing speculations concerning mystate， and I took an earnest， though painful， interest in listeningto all that her quick wit and excited imagination could say onthe subject.
Why dwell on these minute circumstances？ We lived onfor many long years. Bertha became bed-rid and paralytic： Inursed her as mother might a child. She grew peevish， and stillharped upon one string—of how long I should survive her. Ithas ever been a source of consolation to me， that I performedmy duty scrupulously towards her. She had been mine inyouth， she was mine in age， and at last， when I heaped the sodover her corpse， I wept to feel that I had lost all that reallybound me to humanity.
Since then how many have been my cares and woes， howfew and empty my enjoyments！ I pause here in my history—Iwill pursue it no further. A sailor without rudder or compass，tossed on a stormy sea—a traveller lost on a wide-spreadheath， without landmark or star to him—such have I been：