That is her last ambition! That is her pride! That is to be her glory! The bleared eyes can see no clearer than that.

But the mock prince passes away, and nothing but the disgrace of the wish remains.
Such is the story of _Esmond_, leaving with it, as does all Thackeray's work, a melancholy conviction of the vanity of all things human.
_Vanitas vanitatum_, as he wrote on the pages of the French lady's album, and again in one of the earlier numbers of _The Cornhill Magazine_.

With much that is picturesque, much that is droll, much that is valuable as being a correct picture of the period selected, the gist of the book is melancholy throughout.

It ends with the promise of happiness to come, but that is contained merely in a concluding paragraph.

The one woman, during the course of the story, becomes a widow, with a living love in which she has no hope, with children for whom her fears are almost stronger than her affection, who never can rally herself to happiness for a moment.