"Are you satiated with the buffoonery?" asked the fierce man of the
youth after some time. "I should have thought that you had served your
apprenticeship, and were now looking about for some more profitable
business."
"Wretched man!" exclaimed Edmond, "thou, who neither believest in God,
nor man, begone from my presence, for thy thoughts poison my mind."
"Not so haughty, young gentleman," cried the former in a bantering
tone! "today my fist, in spite of my poisonous thoughts, has rendered
you good service, that is, if you do not estimate life as cheaply as I
do; but, as yet, your milky face has not the appearance of that. Why
then are you of a disposition so inhumanly virtuous? Let me still
continue to enjoy your gracious society, for I am indeed yours; early
to-day, you begged me off indeed almost like a dog, therefore, you must
allow me to bark and to remain near you, so that no other may bite
you."
"How couldst thou then have sunk so low?" asked Edmond with some little
sympathy. "I have merely remained stationary," said the former
composedly, "I have only not been enabled to raise myself, and as I
have perceived no wings on my shoulders, I had no wish to put any on,
and still less to address myself on the subject to the first best goose
I met, who, moreover, could not have assisted me."
"Thou meanest," said Edmond, "that thou hast formerly been a man like
others?"
"Very probably," replied the robber: "now perhaps there is not so great
a gulf between you and me. If one man rates himself so highly, then
certainly to the mind the distance appears immeasureable as between the
king and the beggar; but place both naked on a desert island together,
then are they brothers and boon companions, provided the one does not
devour the other. Thus is it also with the so called souls: when they
compose verses, or are in love, then indeed they think themselves
miracles enshrined, but let them but fall into despair, become utterly
wild and untractable, then all affectation disappears like the rouge
from the cheeks of the harlot when she is compelled to wander about in
a shower of rain."
"Have you never heard my name perchance? I am called Lacoste, I should
be surprised if you had not." Edmond became thoughtful. "It occurs to
me," said he after a while, "that this name is not totally unknown to
me; but I cannot revive my memory."
"Aye, good, young soul," continued Lacoste in his peculiar way. "In
your green age, I was a gallant spendthrift, a sweet rabbit, that with
rosy smiling lips, flattered every one, only tell me, have you ever yet
loved passionately?"
"Oh silence!" angrily exclaimed Edmond: "who now would speak of that
with you?"
"A curious discourse that we are holding," said Lacoste coolly; "if you
know nothing of it, so much the better for you, but at your age, I was
so thoroughly in love and enraptured, that a mere touch from me would
have made a thousand men in love, as by the magnet the bar of iron
acquires the power of attraction. At that time, the earth, with all its
stones, appeared to me transparent, I was so benevolent and
affectionate, that I would willingly have given my eye-brows to the
nightingales, that they might carry them to their nests, to make a bed
for their young brood. And beautiful was my beloved, the blind might
almost have been aware of it, she was even still more loving and
compassionate than I was. She would indeed have voluntarily taken upon
herself all the suffering and sorrows of the whole world, would have
even suffered herself to be condemned, could she thereby have released
from hell, and make the hungry and sick, rich and healthy."
"Even in your wickedness," said Edmond, softened, "you represent this
girl as a noble one, who was well worthy of her heavenly origin."
"Heavenly," said the former, "to disgust: quite natural. That is just
what I mean. To every beggar she would have freely given her all; but
to me--she saw my love, my despair, how I only breathed in her looks,
how I withered away, and my grief, my inexpressible misery would
assuredly have driven me to the grave or to madness.--But that was
indifferent to her, more even then indifferent, it was pleasing to her."
"But how is such a thing possible?" asked Edmond.
"Every thing has its drawback," resumed Lacoste. "It is but just, when
senseless fools, such as I was, are ill-treated by women, that they may
serve as an example to other simpletons. But she would however have
leant to mercy's rather than to justice's side, had it not been for a
fault that lay within myself and which still oppresses me, although I
do not see it as such."
"And what is it?"
"The same upon which our conversation commenced; those same wings which
always sit so ridiculously upon us. To come to the point, I was not
religious; I could by no means comprehend how people made this
discovery. I had learned to think, to judge, to fancy, but I could
believe neither of the new lights of which I had heard so much. From
whence was I to derive it too? I exist, I rejoice if all goes on well
with me, shall I render thanks for that? be resigned and humble? Well,
to whom am I to rescribe the innumerable sorrows? all the sufferings of
this wretched life? the multiplied griefs? There is no one whom I dare
accuse of it. But even all this I am to receive with joy and humility!
If it go well with me: superabundant benevolence; if wrong: parental
correction. I cannot conceive such things as other brains have done.
The nameless Being, whom I know not how to represent to myself at all,
or only with giddiness and with terror, sustains worlds, permits
shipwrecks, wars and earthquakes, therefore he may now suffer me and my
thoughts. But he will, he cannot approach me closely, as they say, if I
do not draw near him with contrition, if I do not believe and speak
thus and thus of him; edifices, words, prostrations, belong thereto, in
order to lay him as by magic in fetters, that he may take an interest
in me, that he may love me, he must even first excite my commiseration.
Aye, truly all this roused my wrath. Instead of these loving, religious
men having patience, instructing and sympathising with me, they imagine
they can offer no satisfaction to their God of love, if they do not
hold me in execration."
"Fearful man!" exclaimed Edmonds "how could they do otherwise? if the
flame of the stake be kindly; it certainly is so for such as you."
"Naturally!" said Lacoste, with a loud laugh. "As the jews burn gold
out of old garments, so also out of the most hardened, callous and
heartless sinner, a little spark of religion may be extracted by
burning. The best and most supportable of all this, is that they
massacre and inflict martyrdom on one another for the sake of this
faith of love, and each treats the other as heretic, each curses the
other and gives him up to hell, but, however much all parties may rage
against one another, they still invariably agree in my damnation." "A
sign," said the youth, "that though all may err in themselves, with
regard to you, they still possess the truth."
"I envy them not their possession," replied the old man; "my life, all
my sorrows, even when I became wicked and with justice so, I have
only to thank this egoism, which calls itself humility, inspiration,
love, or religion; I was rejected, persecuted, nay to use the silly
expression, misunderstood, for what man knows another, or even himself?
Impoverished, brokenhearted, I went forth, and my friends gladly saw me
depart. In every country this self-same miserable farce was repeated.
They would willingly have lent me their aid, confided in me, probably
have loved me, had I but possessed this so called religion. The foolish
virtue of my probity was lost sight of, that I would pretend to none,
even to the very best of them. A few marriages which were almost
decided upon with me, were broken off for the same cause. It did not
fare better with me in other quarters of the world; thus am I become an
old man, thus am I become a villain, and I returned, to revenge myself
on my beloved countrymen, and on my friends. Then you came and spoiled
the thing with me: just, you yourself! strange enough!"
"How so?" asked Edmond excited.
"Come let us go," said the stranger, "we ought to seek our comrades
again."
They arose and walked as chance directed through mountain and wood.
When they ascended higher, they observed a thick smoke advancing
towards them, blackening the heavens with dark clouds. A distant cry
directed their steps. As they proceeded, they beheld on the summit of
the mountain a number of rebels moving hurriedly to and fro. When
Edmond approached he thought he recognised Roland. It was he too, but
before he was able to advance towards the leader, a young man rushed
with a terrific shout, to meet him. "Brother!" exclaimed he,
interrupted by sobs and rage, "brother, all is over! The incendiaries
have rendered thee for ever unhappy."
It was difficult for Edmond to recognise his young friend Vila. "What
is the matter with thee? whence comest thou?" asked he at length,
amazed.
"I am now one of yours!" exclaimed Vila: "I have not been able to
govern my heart, since I beheld the affliction of our people. Yes, I
will assist you to annihilate, to murder, to tear to pieces these
murderous slaves, which, to the shame of all created beings, bear but
the figures of men." When Edmond desired to question, to gain some
information, Vila drew him higher up the mountain, and the youth stood
again above, and looked down, as on that night, upon his father's
garden and house; but the house was in ruins, the fire was still raging
through the apartments, and thick columns of smoke arose, between which
was seen a consuming glow, that frequently sent red streams sideways
and upwards; shepherds and peasants stood beneath, many were gazing
fixedly on the spectacle, some seeking powerless help and deliverance.
"Where is my father?" exclaimed Edmond, when he had recovered from the
first shock. "Fled," answered Vila, "no one knows whither; child,
servants, all were compelled to escape, for the Marshal and the
Intendant had summoned him to a severe account at Nismes. When
miscreants, who call themselves soldiers, found the house quite empty,
they plundered, and then set fire to it."
"I have now nothing more to care for," said Edmond coldly.
"Ah! ha!" cried Lacoste, "has it then fared so ill with the old Lord,
my ancient rival, my former friend and foe? see now yourself, we had
lately scarcely an idea of worse than what has now happened, when you,
Ned, stopped us in the business."
No one heard him, and all gazed in silence, Edmond with deadly pale
countenance, down on the raging fire.