It may seem extraordinary that I should instantly have known him. He
was sitting at a table, covered with papers, and with one or two
aides-de-camp waiting to receive his orders. He was clothed in complete
armour, and his casque was resting on the ground by his side. When
I entered, his eye was fixed on a despatch that day received from
the great palatine of Hungary; but, in little more than a minute, he
raised his head, and his countenance was completely presented to my
view. It was fifteen years since I had beheld it; he was then scarcely
above half his present age, a mere stripling, in whom the first blush
of manhood had awakened the sentiment of independence and an honour
impatient of a shade; he was now a leader of warlike bands, his
complexion olived over with service, and his eye rendered steady with
observation and thought. But I knew him; I knew him in a moment. My
soul, with the rapidity of lightning, told me who he was. Not all the
arts in the world could have hid him from me; not all the tales that
delusion ever framed could have baffled me; I could have challenged him
against the earth!
I have already had occasion to explain the complexity of my feelings,
when, after a long absence, I visited the heiresses of the house of St.
Leon. The sweets of recognition, that transporting effervescence of the
mind, where the heart bounds to meet a kindred heart, where emotions
and tears mingle in speechless encounter, where all is gazing love and
strict embrace,--these pleasures were denied me. I stood stiff and
motionless in the presence of my child. My heart might burst; but it
must not, and it could not communicate its feelings.
After an instant’s pause of overwhelming sensation, I sunk back on
myself, and considered my own figure. It happened that, exactly
opposite to me, in the tent of my son, hung his armour, and over
the rest his polished shield, in which I saw my own person clearly
reflected. The youth of my figure indeed was still visible; but the
hardships of my dungeon had imprinted themselves in glaring characters
on my face. My beard was neglected, my hair was matted and shaggy,
my complexion was of a strong and deadly yellow. My appearance to a
considerable degree told my story without the need of words. Charles
enquired of those who brought me, where they had found this wretched
and unhappy figure; and was told that I had been seen a few minutes
before coming out from the ruins of Bethlem Gabor’s castle. He humanely
and naturally concluded, that I was a victim on whom the tyrant had
exercised his ferocity, and that I had been shut up in some dungeon of
the fortress: it was impossible that any person above ground in the
castle should have come out alive from the operation of the flames. He
commanded that I should be led to a neighbouring tent and taken care
of. After having been refreshed with food and rest, and attired with
other apparel, he directed that I should be brought to him again, that
he might hear my story.
Under these circumstances there was nothing for which I was more
anxious, than that I might recruit myself, and shake off as quickly as
possible the effects of my confinement. Cordials were brought me, and
I tasted of them: I bathed in a neighbouring stream: one of my son’s
attendants removed my beard, and arranged my hair. I now desired to be
left alone, that I might take some needful repose. I could not sleep;
but I reclined my limbs upon a couch, and began to collect my thoughts.
I saw myself in one hour the sport of the most complete reverse of
fortune that could happen to a mortal. I had been the prisoner of a
cavern so wild and pathless, as almost to defy the utmost extent of
human sagacity to explore its recesses. From this cavern, but for the
sudden and extraordinary event which had just occurred, I could never
have come forth alive. All sober calculation would have taught me to
expect that I should have remained there, chained up like a savage
tiger in his cage, as long as Bethlem Gabor existed; and that, when
he died, I should perish, unheard, unknown; no creature that lived
suspecting my situation, no lapse of ages ever bringing to light my
dismal catastrophe. The remorse and relenting of Bethlem Gabor towards
me seemed so little to accord with any thing that I had personally
witnessed of his habits and his mind, that even now I feel myself
totally unable to account for it. As it was however, I was once again
free. From the state of an outlaw imprisoned for life, I suddenly saw
myself at large, inspirited by the light of the sun, and refreshed
by his genial rays, in the full possession of youth and all its
faculties, enabled to return amidst my clients of Buda, or to seek
some new adventure, in any corner of the earth to which my inclination
led me. There is no man, however overwhelmed with calamities, however
persecuted with endless disappointment, however disgusted with life and
all its specious allurements, to whom so sudden and admirable a change
would not convey some portion of elasticity and joy.
But there was one thought that entirely occupied me. I cannot describe
how my soul yearned towards this my only son: the sentiment, even now
as I write, is an oppression I am scarcely able to sustain. Willingly,
most willingly, would I have traversed every region of the globe, if
so I might have discovered his unknown retreat: and now suddenly,
without the smallest effort on my part, he was placed before me. His
last solemn parting, his abjuration of my society and intercourse for
ever, rose to my memory, and gave a zest inexpressible to our present
encounter. At the thought that my son was in the neighbouring tent, all
earthly objects beside faded from my mind, and appeared uninteresting
and contemptible. I instantly resolved to devote myself to his service,
and to place all my enjoyment in the contemplation of his happiness,
and the secret consciousness of promoting it. He had, if I may so
express myself, in my own person forbidden me his presence: in my
now altered figure I might disobey his injunction without fearing
his rebuke. Let not the reader condemn me, that, endowed as I was
with unlimited powers of action, I preferred a single individual, my
own son, to all the world beside. Philanthropy is a godlike virtue,
and can never be too loudly commended, or too ardently enjoined; but
natural affection winds itself in so many folds about the heart, and
is the parent of so complicated, so various and exquisite emotions,
that he who should attempt to divest himself of it, will find that he
is divesting himself of all that is most to be coveted in existence.
It is not a selfish propensity; on the contrary, I will venture to
affirm that the generosity it breathes is its greatest charm. Beside,
in my case I considered my own existence as blasted; and I could
therefore find nothing better than to forget myself in my son. I had
made a sufficient experiment of the philosopher’s stone, and all my
experiments had miscarried. My latest trials in attempting to be
the benefactor of nations and mankind, not only had been themselves
abortive, but contained in them shrewd indications that no similar plan
could ever succeed. I therefore discarded, for the present at least,
all ambitious and comprehensive views, and believed that I ought to be
well content, if I could prove the unknown benefactor of the son of
Marguerite de Damville. I entered into a solemn engagement with myself
that I would forget and trample upon every personal concern, and be
the victim and the sacrifice, if need were, of the happiness of my
child. Dismissing my project of becoming a factor for the Hungarian
people, I determined to lay aside the name of Chatillon, and cut off
every indication that might connect my present existence with that of
the rich stranger of Buda. One of the advantages I possessed for that
purpose was, that no creature in Hungary had the slightest suspicion
that the sieur de Chatillon had ever been the prisoner of Bethlem Gabor.
Having thus arranged my thoughts, I now called for the garments that
had been assigned me. They were supplied me from the stock of my son;
and, when I had put them on, I overheard the attendants whispering to
each other their astonishment, at the striking resemblance between
their master and myself. When I came once more into the tent of their
captain, and stood as in the former instance before his shield, I did
not wonder at their remark. The coincidence of our features was so
great, that, had we passed through a strange place in each other’s
company, I should infallibly have been regarded as his younger brother.
Yet there was something of Marguerite in the countenance of Charles
that I wanted. When I recovered, as in a short time afterwards I did,
my vigour and health, I was more blooming than he; but there was
something graceful, ingenuous and prepossessing in his aspect, which
I could by no means boast in an equal degree, and which might have
carried him unhurt and honoured through the world. We shall see some
of the effects of this in what I shall presently have occasion to
relate.
When my son required of me to declare who I was, I told him, as I had
already determined to do, that I was a cadet of the house of Aubigny
in France; that, after having passed through several other countries,
I had come into Poland with the floating and half formed purpose of
entering as a volunteer against the Turk; but that, before my plan
was completely arranged, having been led, by my juvenile ardour in
a hunting party, far within the frontier of Hungary, I had been so
unfortunate as to become a prisoner to the troopers of Bethlem Gabor.
I added that, when introduced to their chief, I had given him so much
offence, by the firmness of my manner, and my refusing to comply with
certain propositions he made me, that he had thrust me into a dungeon,
from which, but for the gallant exertions of the present detachment, I
should never have come out alive.
Charles heard my story with attention and interest. He called on me to
resume my courage and my hopes, and to be confident that my sufferings
were now at an end. He told me, that he was a Frenchman as well as
myself, and like myself, had been a soldier of fortune. He felt,
he said, a powerful sympathy in my tale; there was something in my
countenance that irresistibly won his kindness; and, if I would put
myself under his protection, he did not doubt to be the means of my
future success. He spoke with great asperity of Bethlem Gabor, who,
as an intrepid, indefatigable and sanguinary partisan, had been the
author of greater mischiefs to the Christian cause, than any of the
immediate servants of the sultan of Constantinople. He congratulated
himself that the same action that had delivered the world from so
murderous a renegado, had rendered him the preserver of a youth of so
much enterprise and worth, as he doubted not I should prove. He said,
there was but one other man in Hungary, who had been so effectual an
enemy to the cause of truth and Christianity as Bethlem Gabor. The name
of this man he understood was Chatillon, and he grieved to say that
he bore the appellation of a Frenchman. To the eternal disgrace of the
nation that gave him birth, he had joined the Turkish standard, and, by
exertions difficult to be comprehended, had rescued the infidels from
famine at a time when, but for his inauspicious interference, Buda,
and perhaps every strong town in Hungary, were on the point of falling
into the hands of the Christians. It was this same man who had revived
the resources of Bethlem Gabor, after they had once before, by his
own fortunate exertions, been routed out; and whom I might therefore
in some sense consider as the author of my calamities, as well as the
inveterate foe of Christendom. Such a wretch as this was scarcely
entitled to the common benefit of the laws of war: and he would not
answer for himself if Chatillon had fallen into his power, to what
extremity his holy resentment against this degenerate fellow-countryman
might have hurried him. Providence however had overtaken him in his
impious career; and he had fallen obscurely, as he had lived basely, in
a night skirmish with a party of marauders from the Austrian camp.--The
reader may believe that I did not a little rejoice that, in announcing
myself a few moments before, I had taken the name, not of Chatillon,
but D’Aubigny. What I heard however occasioned in me a profound
reflection on the capriciousness of honour and fame, and the strange
contrarieties with which opposite prejudices cause the same action to
be viewed. I could not repress the vehemence of my emotions, while
I was thus calumniated and vilified for actions, which I had firmly
believed no malice could misrepresent, and fondly supposed that all
sects and ages, as far as their record extended, would agree to admire.
In another point of view, the invective which my son thus unconsciously
poured in my ears, had the effect of making me regard with a more
complacent satisfaction the plan I had formed of devoting myself to
his service. Here I pursued no delusive meteor of fame; the very
essence of my project lay in its obscurity. Kings and prelates,
armies and churches, would no longer find an interest in disputing
about my measures; I should indulge the secret promptings of my soul,
undisturbed alike by the censure of the world, and its applause. It
was thus that, under every change of fortune, I continued to soothe my
soul with delusive dreams.
Meanwhile my project went on with the happiest auspices. The friendship
between me and Charles continued hourly to increase. As a Frenchman,
whom chance had introduced to his acquaintance in a distant country,
it was natural that he should feel a strong bias of affection towards
me. But that sort of fraternal resemblance which the most inattentive
spectator remarked in us, operated forcibly to the increase of
Charles’s attachment. He would often, in the ingenuous opening of his
soul towards me, call me his brother, and swear that I should for
ever experience from him a brother’s love. Charles had by this time
completed the thirty-second year of his age; I was, in appearance, at
least ten years younger than he. There is something in this degree of
disparity, that greatly contributes to the cultivation of kindness,
and is adapted to the engendering a thousand interesting sentiments.
Frequently would he exclaim, “Our fortunes, my dear Henry,” that was
the name I assumed, “have been in a considerable degree similar: we
were both of us early cast on the world; I indeed at the immature age
of seventeen. I entered the world without an adviser or a friend;
but my destiny was favourable, and I escaped its quicksands and its
rocks. I have now by a concurrence of happy circumstances obtained a
place among honourable men and soldiers, and for what is to come may
reasonably regard myself with some degree of confidence. You are yet
in one of the most dangerous periods of human life; your work is all
to do; your battles are yet to fight. Suffer me, my dear friend, to
represent your better genius, and act an elder brother’s part. You
shall find me no ignorant Mentor, and no ungentle one.”
Nothing could be more gratifying to me than to see the shoots of
affection thus springing up spontaneously in Charles’s bosom. I
willingly humoured the generous deception that he was putting on
himself, and heard with transports inconceivable his assurances of
kindness and protection. We rode, and we walked together; we were in
a manner inseparable. When he went out to reconnoitre, I was his
chosen companion; when he inspected the discipline and condition of his
soldiers, he applied that opportunity to initiate me in the science of
war; when he expected to encounter the enemy, he placed me immediately
by his side.
Sometimes he would open his heart to me, and dwell with a melancholy
delight upon his secret sorrows. “It is no wonder, my Henry,” he would
say, “that I feel this uncommon attachment to you. I am alone in the
world. I have no father, no mother, and no brethren. I am an exile
from my country, and cut off for ever from those of my own lineage and
blood. It is with inexpressible delight that I thus cheat the malice
of my fate, and hold you to my bosom as if you were indeed my brother.
I would not part with the fiction for the mines of Peru; and I know
not whether I do not cultivate it more assiduously, and regard it
with a sentiment of more anxiety and zeal, because it is a fiction,
than I should do if it were a reality. I had indeed,” added Charles,
“a mother!”--And, when he had started this theme, he would dwell for
ever on her praises. I easily saw that never son loved a mother more
cordially, than Charles loved the all-accomplished Marguerite. With
what sentiments did I hear her eulogium? I could not join in her
praises; I could not be supposed to know her. I stood there, as the
statue of Prometheus might have done, if, after being informed with a
living soul, the Gods had seen fit to chain its limbs in everlasting
marble. The passion within me panted and laboured for a vent; but I
was invincibly silent. With what sentiments did I hear her eulogium?
Every word of it was a dagger to my heart; every word said, “And thou,
villain, wert not thou her murderer?” more painfully, than the fiercest
reproaches could have done.
When Charles had celebrated with an eloquence truly divine this
incomparable mother, a sudden pang of memory would make him start into
rage.----“And this mother I left! Of this mother I cannot tell whether
she is alive or dead! What shall I say? the crime, or the not less
fatal error of my father, separated me from this mother! I loved my
father: I loved him because he was my father; I had great obligations
to him; he once had virtues. But my mother,--if I could have found her
in the wildest desert of Africa, and have known her virtues, a stranger
to my blood, descended from the remotest tribe of the human race, I
should have chosen her for my friend, my preceptress and my guide,
beyond all that youth and beauty, with their most radiant charms, could
tender to my acceptance!”
Thus unconsciously, yet ingeniously, did my dear son from time to
time torture his father’s heart. I could not even deliver him from
the gloomy and wretched uncertainty, whether this mother were alive
or dead. With one word I could have composed his soul into a sober
grief; I could have said, Your adorable mother at length rests from her
sorrows; she is no longer the victim of a misguided and a cruel father;
you have no longer occasion to brood over that most disconsolate of
reflections, “I know not what anguish may be at this moment suffered by
her who is entitled to all my duty and all my affection.” With one word
I might have told this; and that word I dared not utter.