YES,—and then—. Ye whose clay-cold heads and luke-warm hearts can argue
down or mask your passions, tell me, what trespass is it that man should
have them? or how his spirit stands answerable to the Father of spirits
but for his conduct under them?
If Nature has so wove her web of kindness, that some threads of love and
desire are entangled with the piece,—must the whole web be rent in
drawing them out?—Whip me such stoics, great Governor of Nature! said I
to myself:—wherever thy providence shall place me for the trials of my
virtue;—whatever is my danger,—whatever is my situation,—let me feel the
movements which rise out of it, and which belong to me as a man,—and, if
I govern them as a good one, I will trust the issues to thy justice; for
thou hast made us, and not we ourselves.
As I finished my address, I raised the fair _fille de chambre_ up by the
hand, and led her out of the room:—she stood by me till I locked the door
and put the key in my pocket,—and then,—the victory being quite
decisive—and not till then, I press’d my lips to her cheek, and taking
her by the hand again, led her safe to the gate of the hotel.
THE MYSTERY.
PARIS.
If a man knows the heart, he will know it was impossible to go back
instantly to my chamber;—it was touching a cold key with a flat third to
it upon the close of a piece of music, which had call’d forth my
affections:—therefore, when I let go the hand of the _fille de chambre_,
I remained at the gate of the hotel for some time, looking at every one
who pass’d by,—and forming conjectures upon them, till my attention got
fix’d upon a single object which confounded all kind of reasoning upon
him.
It was a tall figure of a philosophic, serious, adust look, which passed
and repass’d sedately along the street, making a turn of about sixty
paces on each side of the gate of the hotel;—the man was about
fifty-two—had a small cane under his arm—was dress’d in a dark
drab-colour’d coat, waistcoat, and breeches, which seem’d to have seen
some years service:—they were still clean, and there was a little air of
frugal _propreté_ throughout him. By his pulling off his hat, and his
attitude of accosting a good many in his way, I saw he was asking
charity: so I got a sous or two out of my pocket ready to give him, as he
took me in his turn.—He pass’d by me without asking anything—and yet did
not go five steps further before he ask’d charity of a little woman.—I
was much more likely to have given of the two.—He had scarce done with
the woman, when he pull’d off his hat to another who was coming the same
way.—An ancient gentleman came slowly—and, after him, a young smart
one.—He let them both pass, and ask’d nothing. I stood observing him
half an hour, in which time he had made a dozen turns backwards and
forwards, and found that he invariably pursued the same plan.
There were two things very singular in this, which set my brain to work,
and to no purpose:—the first was, why the man should _only_ tell his
story to the sex;—and, secondly,—what kind of story it was, and what
species of eloquence it could be, which soften’d the hearts of the women,
which he knew ’twas to no purpose to practise upon the men.
There were two other circumstances, which entangled this mystery;—the one
was, he told every woman what he had to say in her ear, and in a way
which had much more the air of a secret than a petition;—the other was,
it was always successful.—He never stopp’d a woman, but she pull’d out
her purse, and immediately gave him something.