The funereal ideas they are turning over in their minds appear upon their foreheads in gray and cloudy tints, their smile has something fatalistic in it, their motions are solemn.

These unhappy beings seem to want to suck the last juices of the life they mean to leave; their eyes see things invisible, their ears are listening to a death-knell, they pay no attention to the minor things about them.

These alarming symptoms Marie perceived one evening at Lady Dudley's.

Raoul was sitting apart on a sofa in the boudoir, while the rest of the company were conversing in the salon.

The countess went to the door, but he did not raise his head; he heard neither Marie's breathing nor the rustle of her silk dress; he was gazing at a flower in the carpet, with fixed eyes, stupid with grief; he felt he had rather die than abdicate.
All the world can't have the rock of Saint Helena for a pedestal.
Moreover, suicide was then the fashion in Paris.