_Pal_.
Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow
False as thy title to her. Friendship, blood,
And all the ties between us, I disclaim.
_Arc_.
You are mad.
_Pal_.
I must be,
Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concerns me!
And, in this madness, if I hazard thee
And take thy life, I deal but truly.
_Arc_.
Fie, sir!
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
We quitted Paris two days after; and a journey of three days, through an
uninteresting country, brought us to the little town of Granville, on
the sea-coast, in the Channel. We remained at this delightful place
some days; and our letters being regularly forwarded to us, brought us
intelligence from England. My father expressed his astonishment at my
returning the money drawn for; and trusted, unaccountable as the
restitution appeared, that I was not offended, and would consider him my
banker, as far as his expenditure and style of living would permit him
to advance.
Eugenia, in her letters, reproached herself for having written to me;
and concluded that I had drawn so largely upon her merely to prove her
sincerity. She assured me, that her caution to me was not dictated by
selfishness, but from a consideration for the child.
Clara's letter informed me that every attempt, even to servility, had
been made in order to induce Emily to alter her determination, but
without success; and that a coolness had in consequence taken place, and
almost an entire interruption of the intimacy between the families. She
also added, "I am afraid that your friend is even worse than yourself;
for I understand that he is engaged to another woman, and has been so
for years. Now, as I must consider that the great tie of your intimacy
is his supposed partiality to me, and as I conceive you are under a
false impression with respect to his sincerity, I think it my duty to
make you acquainted with all I know. It is impossible that you can
esteem the man who has trifled with the feelings of your sister; and I
sincerely hope that the next letter from you will inform me of your
having separated."
How little did poor Clara think, when she wrote this letter, of the
consequences likely to arise from it; that in thus venting her
complaints, she was exploding a mine which was to produce results ten
times more fatal than anything which had yet befallen us!
I was at this period in a misanthropic state of mind, hating myself and
everyone about me. The company of Talbot had long been endured, not
enjoyed; and I would gladly have availed myself of any plausible excuse
for a separation. True, he was my friend, had proved himself so; but I
was in no humour to acknowledge favours. Discarded by her I loved, I
discarded every one else. Talbot was a log and a chain, and I thought I
could not get rid of him too soon. This letter, therefore, gave me a
fair opportunity of venting my spleen; but instead of a cool dismissal,
as Clara requested, I determined to dismiss him or myself to another
world.
Having finished reading my letter, I laid it down, and made no
observation. Talbot, with his usual kind and benevolent countenance,
inquired if I had any news? "Yes," I replied, "I have discovered that
you are a villain!"
"That is news indeed," said he; "and strange that the brother of Clara
should have been the messenger to convey it; but this is language,
Frank, which not even your unhappy state of mind can excuse. Retract
your words."
"I repeat them," said I. "You have trifled with my sister, and are a
villain." (Had this been true, it was no more than I had done myself;
but my victims had no brothers to avenge their wrongs.)
"The name of Clara," replied Talbot, "calms me: believe me, Frank, you
are mistaken. I love her, and have always had the most honourable
intentions towards her."
"Yes," said I, with a sarcastic sneer, "at the time that you have been
engaged to another woman for years. To one or the other you must
acknowledge yourself a scoundrel: I do not, therefore, withdraw my
appellation, but repeat it; and as you seem so very patient under
injuries, I inform you that you must either meet me on the sands this
evening, or consent to be stigmatised with another name still more
revolting to the feelings of an Englishman."
"Enough, enough, Frank," said Talbot, with a face in which conscious
innocence and manly fortitude were blended. "You have said more than I
ever expected to have heard from you, and more than the customs of the
world will allow me to put up with. What must be, must; but I still
tell you, Frank, that you are wrong, that you are fatally deluded, and
that you will bitterly repent the follies of this day. It is yourself
with whom you are angry, and you are venting that anger on your friend."
The words were thrown away on me. I felt a secret malignant pleasure,
which blindly impelled me forward, with the certainty of glutting my
revenge, by either destroying or being destroyed. My sole preparation
for this dreadful conflict was my pistols; no other did I, think of, not
even the chances of sending my friend and fellow-mortal, or going
myself, into the presence of an Almighty Judge. My mind was absorbed in
secret pleasure at the idea of that acute misery which Emily would
suffer if I fell by the hand of Talbot.
I repaired to the rendezvous, where I found Talbot waiting. He came up
to me, and again said:--
"Frank, I call Heaven to witness that you are mistaken. You are wrong.
Suspend your opinion, at least, if you will not recall your words."
Totally possessed by the devil, and not to be convinced till too late, I
replied to his peaceful overture by the most insulting irony: "You were
not afraid to fire at a poor boy in the water," said I, "though you do
not like to stand a shot in return. Come, come, take your ground, be a
man, stand up, don't be afraid."
"For myself," said Talbot, with a firm and placid resignation of
countenance, "I have no fears; but for you, Frank, I have great cause of
alarm:" so saying, he snatched up the loaded pistol, which I threw down
to him.
We had no seconds; nor was there any person in sight. It was a bright
moonlight, and we walked to the water's edge, where the reflux of the
tide had left the sand firm to the tread. Here we stood back to back.
The usual distance was fourteen paces. Talbot refused to measure his,
but stood perfectly still. I walked ten paces, and turned round.
"Ready," said I, in a low voice.
We both raised our arms; but Talbot, instantly dropping the muzzle of
his pistol, said, "I cannot fire at the brother of Clara!"
"I can at her insulter," answered I; and, taking deliberate aim, fired,
and my ball entered his side. He bounded, gave a half-turn round in the
air, and fell on his face to the ground.
How sudden are the transitions of the human mind! how close does remorse
follow the gratification of revenge! The veil dropped from my eyes; I
saw in an instant the false medium, the deceitful vision, which had thus
allured me into what the world calls "an affair of honour." "Honour,"
good Heaven! had made me a murderer, and the voice of my brother's blood
cried out for vengeance.
The manly and athletic form, which one minute before excited my most
malignant hatred, when now prostrate and speechless became an object of
frantic affection. I ran to Talbot, and when it was too late perceived
the mischief I had done. Murder, cruelty, injustice, and, above all,
the most detestable ingratitude, flushed at once into my over-crowded
imagination. I turned the body round, and tried to discover if there
were any signs of life. A small stream of blood ran from his side, and,
about two feet from him, was lost in the absorbing sand; while from the
violence of his fall the sand had filled his mouth and nostrils. I
cleaned them out; and stanching the wound with my handkerchief, for the
blood flowed copiously at every respiration, I sat on the sea-shore by
his side, supporting him in my arms. I only exclaimed, "Would to God
the shark, the poison, the sword of the enemy, or the precipice of
Trinidad, had destroyed me before this fatal hour!"
Talbot opened his languid eyes, and fixed them on me with a glassy
stare; but he did not speak. Suddenly recollection seemed for a moment
to return--he recognised me, and, O God! his look of kindness pierced my
heart. He made several efforts to speak, and at last said, in broken
accents, and at long and painful intervals.
"Look at letter--writing-desk--read all--explain--God bless--" His head
fell back, and he was dead!
Oh, how I envied him! had he been ten thousand times more guilty than I
had ever supposed him, it would have given no comfort to my mind. I had
murdered him, and too late, I acknowledged his innocence. I know not
why, and can scarcely tell how I did it, but I took off my neckcloth,
and bound it tightly round his waist, over the wound. The blood ceased
to flow. I left the body, and returned to our lodging, in a state of
mental prostration and misery proportioned to the heat and excitement
with which I had quitted it.
My first object was to read the letters which my poor friend had
referred to. On my arrival, both our servants were up. My hands and
clothes were dyed with blood, and they looked at me with astonishment.
I ran hastily upstairs to avoid them, and took the writing-desk, the key
of which I knew hung to his watch-chain. Seizing the poker, I split it
open, and took out the packet he mentioned. At this moment his servant
entered the room.
"_Et mon maitre, monsieur, ou est-il_?"
"I have murdered him," said I, "and you will find him on the sands, near
the signal-post; and," continued I, "I am now robbing him!"
My appearance and actions seemed to prove the truth of my assertion.
The man flew out of the room; but I was regardless of everything, and
even wonder why I should have given my attention to the letters at all,
especially as I had now convinced myself of Talbot's innocence. The
packet, however, I did read; and it consisted of a series of letters
between Talbot and his father, who had engaged him to a young lady of
rank and fortune, without consulting him--_un mariage de convenance_--
which Talbot had resisted in consequence of his attachment to Clara.
I have already stated that Talbot of high aristocratic family; and this
marriage being wished for by the parents of both parties, they had given
it out as being finally settled to take place on the return of Talbot to
England. In the last letter, the father had yielded to his entreaties
in favour of Clara; only requesting him not to be precipitate in
offering himself, as he wished to find some excuse for breaking off the
match; and, above all, he fatally enjoined profound secrecy till the
affair was arranged. Here, then, was everything explained. Indeed,
before I had read these letters, my mind did not need this damning proof
of his innocence and my guilt.
Just as I had finished reading, the _gendarmes_ entered my room, and,
with the officers of justice, led me away to prison. I walked
mechanically. I was conducted to a small building in the centre of a
square. This was a _cachot_ with an iron-grated window on each of its
four sides, but without glass. There was no bench, or table, or
anything but the bare walls and the pavement. The wind blew sharply
through. I had not even a great-coat; but I felt no cold or personal
inconvenience, for my mind was too much occupied by superior misery.
The door closed on me, and I heard the bolts turn. There was not an
observation made on either part, and I was left to myself.
"Well," said I, "fate has now done its worst, and fortune will be weary
at last of tormenting a wretch that she can sink no lower! Death has no
terrors for me; and, after death--!" But, even in my misery, I scarcely
gave a thought to what might happen in futurity. It might occasionally
have obtruded itself on my mind, but was quickly dismissed: I had
adopted the atheistical creed of the French Revolution.
"Death is eternal sleep, and the sooner I go to sleep the better!"
thought I. The only point that pressed itself on my mind was, the dread
of a public execution. This my pride revolted at; for pride had again
returned, and resumed its empire, even in my _cachot_.
As the day dawned, the noise of the carts and country people coming into
the square with their produce, roused me from my reverie, for I had not
slept. The prison was surrounded by all ages and all classes, to get a
sight of the English murderer; and the light and the air were stopped
out of each window by human faces pressed against the bars. I was gazed
at as a wild beast; and the children, as they sat on their mother's
shoulders to look at me, received a moral lesson and a warning at my
expense.
As a tiger in his cage wearies the eye by incessantly walking and
turning, so I paced my den; and if I could have reached one of the
impertinent gazers, through the slanting aperture and three-foot wall, I
should have throttled him. "All these people," said I, "and thousands
more, will witness my last moments on the scaffold!"
Stung with this dreadful thought, with rage I searched in my pockets for
my penknife, to relieve me at once from my torments and apprehensions;
and had I found it, I should certainly have committed suicide.
Fortunately I had left it at home, or it would have been buried, in that
moment of frenzy, in the carotid artery; for, as well as others, I knew
exactly where to find it.
The crowd at length began to disperse; the windows were left, except now
and then an urchin of a boy showed his ragged head at the _grille_.
Worn out with bodily fatigue and mental suffering, I was going to throw
myself along upon the cold stones, when I saw the face of my own
servant, who advanced in haste to the window of the prison, exclaiming
with joy:--
"_Courage, mon cher maitre; Monsieur Talbot n'est pas mort_!"
"Not dead!" exclaimed I, falling unconsciously on my knees, and lifting
up my clasped hands and haggard eyes to heaven; "not dead! God be
praised. At least there is a hope that I may escape the crime of
murder."
Before I could say more, the mayor entered my _cachot_ with the officers
of the police, and informed me that a _proces-verbal_ had been held;
that my friend had been able to give the clearest answers to all their
questions; and that it appeared from the evidence of _Monsieur Talbot_
himself, that it was an _affaire d'honneur_, fairly decided; that the
brace of pistols found in the water had confirmed his assertions: "and
therefore, _monsieur_," continued the mayor, "whether your friend lives
or dies _tout a ete fait en regle, et vous etes libre_."
So saying, he bowed very politely, and pointed to the door; nor was I so
ceremonious as to beg him to show me the way; out I ran, and flew to the
apartment of Talbot, who had sent my servant to say how much he wished
to see me. I found him in bed. As I entered, he held out his hand to
me, which I covered with kisses and bathed with my tears.
"O Talbot!" said I, "can you forgive me?"
He squeezed my hand, and from exhaustion let it fall. The surgeon led
me out of the room, saying, "All depends on his being kept quiet." I
then learned that he owed his life to two circumstances--the first was,
my having bound my neckcloth round the wound; the other was, that the
duel took place below high-water mark. The tide was rising when I left
him; and the cold waves as they rippled against his body, had restored
him to animation. In this state he was found by his servant, not many
minutes before the flood would have covered him, for he had not strength
to move out of its way. I ascertained also that the ball had entered
his liver, and had passed out without doing further injury.
I now dressed myself, and devoutly thanking God for His miraculous
preservation, took my seat by the bedside of the patient, which I never
quitted until his perfect recovery. When this was happily completed, I
wrote to my father and to Clara, giving both an exact account of the
whole transaction. Clara, undeceived, made no scruple of acknowledging
her attachment. Talbot was requested by his father to return home. I
accompanied him as far as Calais, where we parted; and in a few weeks
after, I had the pleasure of hearing that my sister had become his wife.
Left to myself, returned slowly, and much depressed in spirits, to
Quillacq's; where, ordering post-horses, I threw myself into my
travelling-carriage into which my valet had by my orders previously
placed my luggage.
"Where are you going to, _monsieur_?" said the valet.
"_Au diable_!" said I.
"_Mais les passeports_?" said the man.
I felt that I had sufficient passports for the journey I had proposed;
but correcting myself, said, "to Switzerland." It was the first name
that came into my head; and I had heard that it was the resort of all my
countrymen whose heads, hearts, lungs, or finances were disordered. But
during my journey, I neither saw nor heard anything, consequently took
no notes, which my readers will rejoice at, because they will be spared
that inexhaustible supply to the trunk-makers, "A tour through France
and Switzerland." I travelled night and day; for I could not sleep.
The allegory of Io and the gad-fly in the heathen mythology, must surely
have been intended to represent the being who, like myself, was
tormented by a bad conscience. Like Io I flew; and like her, I was
pursued by the eternal gad-fly, wherever I went; and in vain did I try
to escape it.
I passed the Great St. Bernard on foot. This interested me as I
approached it. The mountains below, and the Alps above, were one mass
of snow and ice, and I looked down with contempt on the world below me.
I took up my abode in the convent for some time; my ample contributions
to the box in the chapel made me a welcome sojourner beyond the limited
period allowed to travellers, and I felt less and less inclined to quit
the scene. My amusement was climbing the most frightful precipices,
followed by the large and faithful dogs, and viewing Nature in her
wildest and most sublime attire. At other times, when bodily fatigue
required rest, I sat down, with morbid melancholy, in the receptacle for
the bodies of those unfortunate persons who had perished in the show.
There would I remain for hours, musing on their fate: the purity of the
air admitted neither putrefaction nor even decay, for a very
considerable time; and they lay, to all appearance, as if the breath had
even then only quitted them, although, on touching those who had been
there for years, they would often crumble into dust.
Roman Catholics, we know, are ever anxious to make converts. The prior
asked me whether I was not a Protestant? I replied, that I was of no
religion; which answer was, I believe, much nearer to the truth than any
other I could have given. The reply was far more favourable to the
hopes of the monks than if I had said I was a heretic or a Moslem. They
thought me much more likely to become a convert to _their_ religion,
since I had none of my own to oppose it. The monks immediately arranged
themselves in theological order, with the whole armour of faith, and
laid constant siege to me on all sides; but I was not inclined to any
religion, much less to the one I despised. I would sooner have turned
Turk.
I received a letter from poor unhappy Eugenia--it was the last she ever
wrote. It was to acquaint me with the death of her lovely boy, who,
having wandered from the house, had fallen into a trout-stream, where he
was found drowned some hours after. In her distracted state of mind she
could add no more than her blessing, and a firm conviction that we
should never meet again in this world. Her letter concluded
incoherently; and although I should have said, in the morning, that my
mind had not room for another sorrow, yet the loss of this sweet boy,
and the state of his wretched mother, found a place in my bosom for a
time, to the total exclusion of all other cares. She requested me to
hasten to her without delay, if I wished to see her before she died.
I took leave of the monks, and travelled with all speed to Paris, and
thence to Calais. Reaching Quillacq's hotel, I received a shock which,
although I apprehended danger, I was not prepared for. It was a letter
from Eugenia's agent, announcing her death. She had been seized with a
brain fever, and had died at a small town in Norfolk, where she had
removed soon after our last unhappy interview. The agent concluded his
letter by saying that Eugenia had bequeathed me all her property, which
was very considerable, and that her last rational words to him were that
I was her first and her only love.
I was now callous to suffering. My feelings had been racked to
insensibility. Like a ship in a hurricane, the last tremendous sea had
swept everything from the decks--the vessel was a wreck, driving as the
storm might chance to direct. In the midst of this devastation, I
looked around me, and the only object which presented itself to my mind,
as worthy of contemplation, was the tomb which contained the remains of
Eugenia and her child. To that I resolved to repair.