I FIRST informed the Count of the terrific melancholy I had endured when
separated from him; and he declared he had been haunted with a similar
temptation to suicide. “Let us take advantage,” he said, “of the little
time that remains for us, by mutually consoling each other. We will
speak of God; emulate each other in loving him, and inculcate upon each
other that he only is Justice, Wisdom, Goodness, Beauty—is all which is
most worthy to be reverenced and adored. I tell you, friend, of a truth,
that death is not far from me. I shall be eternally grateful, Silvio, if
you will help me, in these my last moments, to become as religious as I
ought to have been during my whole life.”
We now, therefore, confined our conversation wholly to religious
subjects, especially to drawing parallels between the Christian
philosophy and that of mere worldly founders of the Epicurean schools.
We were both delighted to discover so strict an union between
Christianity and reason; and both, on a comparison of the different
evangelical communions, fully agreed that the catholic was the only one
which could successfully resist the test of criticism,—which consisted of
the purest doctrines and the purest morality—not of those wretched
extremes, the product of human ignorance.
“And if by any unexpected accident,” observed Oroboni, “we should be
restored to society, should we be so mean-spirited as to shrink from
confessing our faith in the Gospel? Should we stand firm if accused of
having changed our sentiments in consequence of prison discipline?”
“Your question, my dear Oroboni,” I replied, “acquaints me with the
nature of your reply; it is also mine. The vilest servility is that of
being subjected to the opinions of others, when we feel a persuasion at
the same time that they are false. I cannot believe that either you or I
could be guilty of so much meanness.” During these confidential
communications of our sentiments, I committed one fault. I had pledged
my honour to Julian never to reveal, by mention of his real name, the
correspondence which had passed between us. I informed poor Oroboni of
it all, observing that “it never should escape my lips in any other
place; but here we are immured as in a tomb; and even should you get
free, I know I can confide in you as in myself.”
My excellent friend returned no answer. “Why are you silent?” I
enquired. He then seriously upbraided me for having broken my word and
betrayed my friend’s secret. His reproach was just; no friendship,
however intimate, however fortified by virtue, can authorise such a
violation of confidence, guaranteed, as it had been, by a sacred vow.
Since, however, it was done, Oroboni was desirous of turning my fault to
a good account. He was acquainted with Julian, and related several
traits of character, highly honourable to him. “Indeed,” he added, “he
has so often acted like a true Christian, that he will never carry his
enmity to such a religion to the grave with him. Let us hope so; let us
not cease to hope. And you, Silvio, try to pardon his ill-humour from
your heart; and pray for him!” His words were held sacred by me.