The Naval Officer/Chapter XXVIII
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!
Two Noble Kimmen.
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 any thing which had yet befallen us?
I was at this period in a misanthropic state of mind, hating myself and every one 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, flashed at once into my overcrowded 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, staunching 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 maître, Monsieur, où est-il?"
"I have murdered him," said I, "and you will find him in 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—une mariage de convenance—which Talbot had resisted in consequence of his attachment to Clara.
I have already stated that Talbot was 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 gens d'armes 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 mothers' 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 one 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 maître; 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 procès-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 affair 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 été fait en règle, et vous êtes 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.
"Oh, 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 remove out of its way. I ascertained also that the ball had entered his liver, and had passed out without doing farther injury.
I now dressed myself, and devoutly thanking God for his miraculous preservation, took my seat by the bed-side 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, I returned slowly, and much depressed in spirits, to Quillac'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 any thing, 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, was I 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 snow. There would I remain for hours, musing on their fate: the purity of the air admitted neither putrefaction, or 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 to 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 Quillac'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.