"The Adventures of Father Silas" - читать интересную книгу автора (de Farniente Beauregard)

CHAPTER SIX

My misfortunes originate in my heart, which has an irresistible penchant for the sweets of love, and allows me to think of nothing else. An unjust and cruel mother devoted me to the cloister, and as I had no means of opposing her will, I could only show how much I dreaded the fate she had fixed for me by sighs and tears; she looked on my distress without being moved thereby, and the time was appointed for me to take the veil. As the fatal moment of sealing my death-warrant drew near, I trembled at the thought of the vow I was about to make. The horror of my prison, and the despair consequent on being deprived of my only good, threw me into an illness which would have soon terminated my sufferings, if my mother, touched at my unhappy condition, had not relented from her design. She was a boarder in the convent where she intended me to take the veil. A desire for retirement and seclusion had induced her to go there, but on reflection she thought proper to withdraw. It is not without chagrin that women can renounce pleasure or see old age approaching! It is a natural feeling that they may struggle to conceal but which they cannot entirely subdue. My mother, judging my feelings by her own, delivered me from my dungeon and reappeared in the world on the footing of a lady who had no objection to console herself for the loss of her departed lord in the arms of a fifth husband.

From my mother's disposition it was easy to see that it might be dangerous for me ever to appear as her rival, and it was very likely any lover who might present himself would prefer the younger. I imagined that the pleasures of love when snatched by stealth became more piquant, and that I could obtain my object as well in retirement as in the bustle of the world. I adopted this system, and soon was thought a devotee. I was delighted at the success of my stratagem, and set my wits to work to scheme some intrigue which I could easily carry on under cover of my assumed virtue.

A young man that I had seen at the convent suspected that I was less religious than appearances bespoke; indeed I had had a little adventure with him at the grating when he came one day to see his sister.

I here interrupted my companion, recollecting what Susan had told me of Sister Agatha, whom I compared with her, and found that they corresponded exactly. I remembered that Susan had told me Agatha had a rather long clitoris, so I proceeded to examine her as to the similarity in that respect. I laid her on her back, and when I examined her slit, I saw a rosy clitoris, somewhat long, and which seemed to be placed there for pleasure only. I no longer doubted that it was she, and embraced her in an ecstasy of delight.

“My dear Agatha,” said I “is it indeed you that heaven has sent me?”

She released herself from my arms, stared at me with surprise, and asked who had told me the name she went by in the convent.

“A young girl, the loss of whom I mourn, and who was the confident of your secrets.”

“Ah! that's Susan; then she has betrayed me.”

“It is indeed she; but no one except myself knows your secret, and I am possessed of it only through my urgent importunity.”

“What, are you Susan's brother! If so, I no more complain of her; if I did so, I should impose on myself the necessity of defending her against your censure, for she did not conceal from me what paused between you two.” We gave a tear or two to Susan's fate, and then Agatha resumed her narrative.

She has told you my adventure with Verland, and it is of him that I am going to speak. My metamorphosis surprised him; when he saw me at the convent I was gay and coquettish, and a long absence had not effaced me from his memory. At his return he heard what a reputation for devoutness I had acquired, but he could not believe it without further proof; he came to church for the purpose of seeing me and love followed him there.

As I was looking round at my neighbors, I perceived Verland; the sight of him made the color fly into my face, and my heart languished to fall into the same fault with him again. The few years that had elapsed had only exalted the character of his attractions and rendered them more effective; they were sufficient to revive my desires and drew me every day to the spot where I had seen them. I was not pleased to see him so slow in his advances; it appears that he saw this, and only waited an opportunity of addressing me, which I took care should be soon. He approached with a timid air, and said:

“May a person, who in bygone days has had the happiness to meet you, again presume to present himself before you without giving offence? If the most sincere repentance can wipe away the memory of a fault, you may now look on me without indignation.”

As he thus spoke his voice trembled, and I replied that the politeness of the man was sufficient atonement for the imprudence of the boy.

“You do not know all my faults; your goodness has just pardoned one crime, but I have more need than ever of your generosity.”

After saying this, he remained silent, and although I knew very well what he meant, I answered that I was not aware of the new imprudence of which he spoke.

“It is that of adoring you,” said he, kissing my hand.

He very well understood by my silence that his new crime was excused; and fearing to discover my feelings too far, I left him.

I had no doubt that Verland, if sincere, would find an early opportunity of proving it; he saw the motive of my retiring, and smiled as I went on. I heard his sighs, and my own responded thereto internally. What shall I say? A second interview procured him the avowal of my love, and permission to ask me in marriage of my mother. She refused; and I was almost in despair about it. Her opposition irritated our love and was almost too much for Verland. The imprudent step we had taken banished every hope, and to make matters still worse I found that my mother was my rival. This fact was easily seen by her lavishing praises on Verland.

A miserable victim of my devotion to love, I dared not ask my mother why she refused to marry me to a man whom she thought perfect. At length I could not bear up against my grief; I was equally enraged against my mother and my passion was at its height. I saw Verland every day, and we became inseparable. Would you believe that I had not yet yielded to his entreaties, though it was the only means of bringing my mother to her senses? However, the tears of my lover, his exceeding love, and my own inclination so far wrought upon me that I listened to his proposal to elope with him, and we fixed on the day, the hour, and the manner of carrying it into effect.

I was so far in love that I could think of nothing but the pleasure I anticipated with Verland. The most horrid place appeared to me a paradise if he were there. The day appointed came; as I was going out, an invisible hand arrested me. I now stood on the edge of the precipice, and as I measured its depth, I shuddered and retreated. Surprised at my weakness, I tried to smother the voice of reason, but it triumphed. I went back, and my tears began to flow. Provoked at my cowardice, I endeavored to summon courage, but all in vain. In the meantime the hour was drawing nigh, and what was I to do? Alas! I knew not what to think. At last a ray of light burst in upon me, and I became easy; I saw the means of possessing my lover and taking vengeance oh my mother. But what has all this prudence profited me? To plunge me in the abyss. I might perhaps have been happier in a foreign land, in the society of a lover that adored me; at least I should not have been the slave of those appearances that have ruined me? But why do I deceive myself? Another country would have seen my heart the same, and my love also; and I should have been as effectually destroyed there by the same causes.

I made the signal to Verland that had been agreed upon in case of the non-execution of our project, Postponing till the next day my explanation of the reasons. We were both at church, and he approached without speaking a word; his countenance expressed his grief, and I felt alarmed.

“Do you love me?” said I.

“I love you!” said he.

“Verland, I read your distress in your eyes, and it rends my heart. Lament with me a want of courage that might have snatched us from the enjoyment of our love, if despair itself has not suggested the means of consoling us both. I do not doubt your love, but I want a proof of it, as there is a cruel mother opposed to our wishes. Ah, Verland, does not the blush which suffuses my face tell you what means I wish you to employ?”

“Dear Agatha” said he as he squeezed my hand, “your love makes you feel the necessity of a thing that I have often proposed to you?”

“Yes!” I answered; “you shall no longer mourn; but to ensure our happiness I only want one word from your mouth.”

“Speak! What must I do?”

“Marry my mother!”

He stood speechless with surprise, and stared at me as if he had lost his senses.

“Marry your mother, Agatha! What is it you propose?”

“Something,” said I, “of which I repent. Your coldness proves your love; and your indifference opens my eyes to my own passion. Good heavens! Have I then given a thought to such a coward!”

“Agatha,” said he, “what do you wish to reduce me to?”

“Ungrateful wretch! When I surmount the horror of seeing you in the arms of my rival-when, to deceive her, to give myself up to you, to have the happiness of seeing you, and to enjoy your caresses, I sacrifice for you all that I hold most dear-you tremble; am I stronger than you? No; but you have not so much love.”

“Enough! enough!” said he; “you triumph; I am ashamed of myself, and our hearts shall soon be at ease.”

Delighted at his decision, I promised to recompense him on his wedding day; perhaps I should not have been able to wait, if my mother's impatience had not been as great as mine. Verland offered her his hand, and she consented too become his wife. In raptures at the conquest that she imagined to be effected by her charms, she was eager to reap the fruits of it, but they were not destined for her. The wedding day came, and my joy procured me from my mother most affectionate caresses, which I repaid by others not less sincere. My heart revelled in anticipation of pleasure and vengeance. Verland came; he was adorable; a thousand new graces animated his every action; his slightest smile enchanted me, and the most unmeaning of is words was able to inflame me! I could hardly keep my feelings under due control. In the midst of the tumult he came up to me, and said:

“I have done everything for love, will love do nothing for me?”

A glance of the eye was my only answer. I quitted the company, and he followed my example. I retired to my chamber, and he was with me in a minute. I threw myself down on the bed and he was on me instantaneously. I must beg to be excused the detail of the pleasures we enjoyed. “O mother,” cried I in the midst of our transports, “how dearly have you paid for your injustice!”

My lover was a prodigy; we remained an hour together without being idle a minute. His strength never failed him; but as Antaeus, when wrestling with Hercules, gained fresh strength every time he touched the earth, so my lover by coming in contact with me was so invigorated as to come to the charge every time with increased ability.

During his time they were looking for both of us in every direction, and had even knocked at my door. For fear of exciting suspicion, we then separated. Verland went into the garden, where they found him, as he intended they should. He was most unmercifully railed at by all the party and a regular war of jokes was carried on against him. A pretended headache came to his relief; and he said that having felt indisposed, and not wishing to disturb the amusement of others, he had retired for a few minutes without speaking. His cast-down looks, occasioned by the fatigue he had undergone, made them believe the excuse to be true.

Feeling certain that they would come to seek me in my chamber, I raised the slide that covered the keyhole, and laid myself prostrate before a crucifix. This succeeded admirably; it was thought that the rejoicings were not sufficient to withdraw me from my religious duties, and this extraordinary devotion created a kind of veneration for me.

As soon, however, as I had sufficiently recovered myself I rejoined the company, and to prevent all possibility of suspicion, I pretended that I only joined in the festivity out of complaisance to others.

After the execution of this scheme of marrying my mother with my lover, I made every arrangement to have as much as possible of his society, and to prevent discovery, I affected a greater devotion, and would not be interrupted in my prayers; I gave orders to our people not to knock at my door unless the key was outside. Verland, on his side, accustomed my mother to his absence, pretending to have business abroad, and then came to my chamber. Although somewhat constrained, we were not disgusted with our pleasures; I could have imagined they would last for ever, but was undeceived in a moment. I happened one day to meet a young person whose features I recollected, and I asked her what she was doing in the town. She said that as yet she had not situation, so I asked her if she would be my chambermaid, to which she consented.-But my dear Father, there is no need for me to conceal anything from you. This pretended maiden was no other than my Martin, of whom your sister must have spoken in telling you my story. I had not seen him since our separation, and he was still as pretty and lovely as then; his chin was scarcely covered with a slight down, and this I cut off very carefully, so that he appeared to everybody a very pretty girl, but to me he was a man of inestimable value.

I told Martin of my intrigue with Verland, and he was too happy in having found me again to be jealous about it. His docility and vigor were alike charming to me. I so managed my affairs; that the day was devoted to Verland; the night to Martin; and the day only disappeared to give place to a voluptuous night. Never did a mortal enjoy more perfect felicity; but pleasure is ever of short duration, and is followed by pain in proportion to its extent.

In his clothes, Martin could very well pass for a handsome girl. The ungrateful Verland-but why call him ungrateful? Was not I at fault, and had not my heart gone astray from him?-Verland was caught with the charms of my maid; and began to neglect his mistress. As the night always made up for any deficiency of the day, I had not perceived the indifference of Verland; he was so far master of the art of persuasion that the motives he alleged for his absence seemed to me satisfactory. If I scolded, a smile or a kiss appeased my anger. A day's repose made him more vigorous for the morrow: at last he proceeded so far as to make believe that the interest of our pleasure rendered his occasional absence necessary. I consented, and Martin supplied his place.

Yesterday! Oh unhappy day! Which I shall always recall with horror; yesterday was a day of repose for Verland. I was shut in my room with Martin my only companion; and our love assuming its usual dominion over us; we gave way to its dictates. I was laid on my bed; with my bosom naked; my clothes turned up, and my thighs parted, waiting for Martin to recover his strength. He was also naked; and putting his right thigh between mine; had one hand on my bubbies and the other on my left thigh. Whilst his eyes and his mouth sought to revive his ardor, Verland unexpectedly entered and surprised us in this position. He had time to shut the door and to come up to us before our fright allowed us to alter our attitude.

“Agatha,” said he, “I do not blame your pleasures, but you ought to have some consideration for me; I love Javote (that was the name Martin had assumed), and I have vigor enough to satisfy you both.”

As he finished speaking he wanted to embrace Martin, he drew him from my arms, put down his hand and found… How great was his astonishment!-Without leaving hold of Martin, he gave me a look of indignation, and as he dared not vent his rage on me, all the force of it fell on the innocent cause of it. His love was changed into madness; he beat Martin most brutally, and in so doing wounded me in my most sensible part. I threw myself between the rivals.

“Hold!” said I to Verland, embracing him, “respect his youth for God's sake, for our love's sake! Verland take pity on his weakness, be sensible to my tears.”

He stood still; but Martin, who had time to recover his presence of mind, had become furious in this turn. He seized Verland's sword, and rushed upon him. At seeing this, I took to flight, and escaped by a private staircase and ran here; you know the rest.

Agatha burst into tears as she finished her story, and exclaimed, “Alas! What destiny awaits me?”

“The happiest,” said I; “take courage, Agatha; it is very probable that you have no real cause to lament. If you bemoan the loss of your pleasures, still greater attend you.”

It was impossible for me to keep her any longer in my chamber without discovery, and I thought my best plan would be to turn her over to our seraglio. I had no fear of promising her too much, in assuring her that the pleasures she had hitherto known were but a faint image of those that were reserved for her. The fish house must be a heavenly abode for a temperament like hers.

“My dear friend,” said she, “do not abandon me; can I remain with you? Your answer must decide my fate; if I lose you, I shall be wretched.” I assured her that I would not abandon her.

“Then I have now but one thing that disturbs me; your love is strong enough to overlook my weakness.”

I perceived what she alluded to, and offered to go and obtain information of the condition of her lovers, and respecting the effect produced by her own flight, for which she thanked me fervently. I left her alone, and went out with a promise to return speedily.

I went into the town and made inquiries whether there was any news; I then proceeded to the neighbourhood of Verland's residence, but could not learn that anything had transpired; so I supposed that the incident had no other consequences than the elopement of Agatha. I was returning to the convent, when I saw a servant running to meet me. He told me that Father Andrew had charged him to give me a letter and a purse containing a hundred pistoles. I at first thought the Father wished me to execute some commission for him. I opened the letter and read as follows:

Your precautions have betrayed you: they have opened your chamber and found the treasure which you wished to secrete from your brethren, have seized it, and consigned it to the fish-house. You know the nature of monks, my dear Silas; fly, fly, and save yourself the horrors of an eternal prison.

Father Andrew

I was completely thunderstruck on reading this letter which in a manner, deprived me of my senses.

“O heaven!” I cried, “what will become of me! Shall I expose myself to monkish vengeance, or fly? Unhappy man! I must not hesitate, but hasten far away. But whither! Where can I secrete myself?”

It suddenly struck me that Ambrose might afford me an asylum in the present emergency; so I took courage and resolved to go thither, thinking myself fortunate at being preserved from the resentment of the monks by the generous interference of Father Andrew.

I could not without grief exile myself from a place where I left all that was most dear to me. My mind writhing under the lashings of remorse and oppressed by despair, I arrived at the cottage of Ambrose. Annette was alone, she wept over my misfortunes, and what was still better, offered to aid me as far as lay in her power. In the first place she gave me some of her husband's clothes to conceal my priestly estate. The next day, I started for Paris, hoping to find there some mode of life that might compensate for my recent loss.

As I left my native province, I shook off the dust of my feet, in imitation of the apostles, as a testimony against its ingratitude, and on foot, staff in hand, I pursued my journey to Paris. When I reached the metropolis, I thought myself safe from the monks, and the purse sent me by Father Andrew and some addition made to it by Annette, would very well support me for some months. My first intention was to look out for a situation as a teacher, and await a chance of getting something better. I had acquaintances in Paris who could have been of service to me in that way, but I thought it might be dangerous to discover myself to them. I changed my peasant's dress for one much more respectable by giving a moderate sum into the bargain; and happy should I have been, had I changed my nature as completely as my personal appearance. The dreadful situation into which my amorous propensity had brought me made me hope that I should henceforward be able to keep it in due subjection. I had even sworn to do so; foolishly thinking to enchain by a voluntary oath what the most sacred bonds had failed to restrain. What a bundle of weaknesses is man!

One day, when walking in the street, I was pushed down; the push was not very violent, as it proceeded from the elbow of a coquettish young woman, who, on applying it, exclaimed: “Well, Abbe, won't you treat me to a salad?”

“To two, if you like,” said I, stimulated by my natural character. I instantly reflected that this was rather imprudent but I was too far engaged to draw back. We proceeded into a dark, narrow passage, and I thought a thousand times that I must break my neck in the twisting staircase, for the steps were so unlevel and slippery that I stumbled every moment, though my lass kept hold of my hand. I will acknowledge that having never been in similar circumstances I could not avoid feeling a kind of timidity at which my conductress would have laughed heartily, had she known my quality. At last after much trouble we reached the door of my companion's abode. When we knocked, an old hag, apparently more ancient than the Cumean sibyl, opened to us, or rather only half-opened.

“My little king,” said she, “you must wait a moment, for there is company; go up a little higher.”

To go up higher was rather difficult, unless one went up into the sky; I felt a door near me, and as it gave way to my hand, I went in, I soon found by the odor of the place where I had got to.

As I stood thus alone, in a horrid place, at the extremity of the world, in a bad neighborhood, among people altogether unknown to me, I could not avoid a feeling of terror thrilling through my frame. The danger that I had incurred presented itself to my mind; and I had determined to effect my escape. Something, however, more powerful than my own resolution arrested my steps; it seemed as if an immense expanse of ocean spread out before my eyes and prevented my gaining the opposite shore. Has not heaven engraved in our hearts the presentiment of what is to befall us? There can be no doubt of it; I experienced it. At this instant the fatal door opened, and some one called me. I was then rushing on my destruction, but how great was the joy that preceded it.

I entered the room with a timid bashful air, and sat down without speaking, supporting my elbow upon a rickety table, and covering my eyes with my hand as if to seek shelter from the reflections that oppressed me. The infernal old hag came to ask me to pay the usual fee of admission; I gave her a liberal present and she thanked me. My sorrowful appearance astonished the priestesses of the temple, and the old woman again approached to ask me the cause of it. I repulsed her sternly, and she said I was uncivil.

“Let him alone, Madame,” said the youngest to her; “perhaps the gentlemen is in distress.”

The sound of this voice smote my heart. I trembled, and fearing to look towards the place whence it proceeded, I closed my eyes, and remained occupied with the feeling that it had awakened in me. But in a few minutes, I reproached myself for being thus indifferent, and wished to ascertain the truth of my suspicions, so I rose and went towards the person, and, O heavens! It was Susan. Her features, though changed by the lapse of time, were too deeply engraved on my heart for me to forget them. I fell into her arms, and my tears flowed abundantly.

“My dear sister,” said I, in a broken voice, “do you recognize your brother?”

She uttered a piercing cry and fell in a swoon. The old woman, in amazement, ran and wanted to aid her; gently put her away and pressed my lips on those of my Susan, that the fire of my kisses might restore her sensibilities. I pressed her against my bosom, and bathed her face with my tears. She soon opened her eyes, and said to me:

“Leave me, Silas; leave a wretched woman.”

“My dear sister, is the sight of your brother so disagreeable to you? Can you refuse his caresses?”

Feeling the justice of my reproaches, she gave me the most lively marks of her love. She resumed her usual gaiety of demeanor, and even the old hag seemed to share her good humor; I gave the latter some money to prepare us a supper. I could freely have given all I had; for in finding Susan, I thought myself rich indeed.

While supper was preparing, I kept Susan in my arms; we neither of us had sufficient courage to make inquiries what adventures could have thus brought us together in a place so distant from our common home. We continued to gaze at each other, and our eyes were the only interpreters of our souls; they shed tears of joy and of sorrow at the same time; our mutual passions had swallowed up every other sentiment in our bosoms. The heart was so full, the mind so occupied, that we were tongue-tied, and could only sigh; if we opened our mouths, we pronounced nothing but words without connection; every feeling seemed centered in the reflection how happy it was to be together. At last I broke the silence.

“Susan, my dear Susan, is it indeed you that I have found? By what hazard art thou restored to me? But in what a place!”

“Oh God! You see in me a wretched creature who has experienced all the vicissitudes of fortune, nearly always exposed to her frowns, and forced to live in a condition that reason condemns, that the heart detests, but that necessity has rendered inevitable. I see you are impatient to hear the recital of my misfortunes? Can I give any other name to the life I have led since I lost you? Less sensible to the shame of pouring my sorrows into your ear, I will tell you without reserve all I have gone through. Shall I tell you the truth? You are in a great measure the cause of them; but my heart shares therein, and has indeed dug the pit into which I have fallen. Do you remember those happy days when you described to me your youthful passion? From that time, I have adored you; in telling you the adventures of Agatha, and laying before you our most secret mysteries, I meant to inflame you, to instruct you, and saw with pleasure the pleasant effect of my discourse. I was witness to your transports with Madame Dinville and your caresses were so many daggers thrust into my heart. When I took you to my chamber, I was devoured by a fire that you had not the power of quenching. That is the first epoch of my misfortunes. You never knew what caused the horrible noise that we heard; it was the Abbe Pilot, that miscreant vomited out of hell, and destined for the scourge of my existence.

“He had conceived a love for me that he was resolved to gratify at any cost. He had chosen that night for the execution of his purpose, and was concealed behind the bed. Alas! he had an easy victory over an unhappy girl that had fainted through fright; he did as he pleased. Revived by the pleasure, and deceived by my passion, I thought I was indebted to you for it, and did my utmost to increase the pleasure of a monster whom I overwhelmed with reproaches as soon as I recognized him. He tried to appease me by caresses, which I refused with loathing; he then threatened to reveal to Madame Dinville what I had been doing with you. The rascal employed those arms against me that I ought to have used against him; however he gained by his menaces what I had denied to his transports. In this manner I granted everything to a man whom I abhorred, and fate snatched me from the arms of the one I adored.

“I soon experienced the bitter fruits of my imprudence. I concealed my shame as much as I could, but I should have betrayed myself by a too obstinate seclusion. I had driven away the abbe, and he consoled himself in the arms of Madame Dinville. I was compelled to recall him; I told him how I was situated, and he pretended to sympathize with me. He offered to take me to Paris, promising to establish me there in the most comfortable manner, and added that he desired nothing for his service than that I would permit him to return them, I only cared for being in a place where I might get rid of my burden, not expecting anything further from him, excepting his influence to place me in a situation with some lady. His promises prevailed on me to accompany him, and I accordingly stared, having assumed the costume of an abbe as my traveling dress. “His attentions towards me on the road were the kindest possible, and little did I suspect what coldness of heart they were intended to conceal. The jolting of the carriage deceived my calculations, and I brought into the world at a village about a league from Paris the unhappy pledge of my miserable love. Everybody was astonished at the circumstance, and some not a little amused. My infamous fellow traveller disappeared, and left me to my grief and misery. A charitable lady took pity on my wretched condition, put me in a carriage, and brought me to Paris, and left me at an hospital. She only saved me from the arms of death to leave me in those of indigence. I should very shortly have felt the utmost horrors that awaited my hapless lot, if chance had not made me acquainted with a girl of the town, and my distress forced me to give way to my natural propensity.

“You need not ask anything further. My subsequent life has been nothing but a succession of pleasure and chagrin. If I have sometimes felt my heart enjoy a temporary happiness, it only served to show me in stronger colors the load of sorrow that overwhelmed me. Will this sorrow ever leave me? But now I have regained you, I ought not to complain. My dear brother, do not let me remain in suspense; have you left your convent? What chance brought you hither to Paris!”

“A misfortune, like your own,” answered I, “caused by your best friend.”

“My best friend!” cried she with a sigh; “have I one still left in the world? Ah, it can be no other than Agatha.”

“Exactly so,” I replied; “but let us now sup, my story will occupy too much time.”

Sitting by Susan's side, I made a most delicious repast. My desire to be alone with her, and her own anxiety to hear my story, made us rise from table immediately the meal was over. We retired to her chamber, where without witnesses, upon a bed worthy of the place where we were, and which had never before served for two such tender lovers, with Susan on my knees and my face pressed against her, I related my adventures from the day I first left the cottage of my supposed parents.

“Well, I am no longer your sister,” cried she when I had finished.

“Do not regret that; it is a quality that the blood confers but which the heart does not always sanction. If you are no more my dear sister, you will always be my idol. My dearest friend, let us forget our woes, and begin to reckon our existence from the day that has reunited us.”

As I uttered these words, I kissed her bosom, and was going to lay her down, having my hand already between her thighs, when she sprung from my arms and exclaimed, “Hold, hold!”

“Cruel one! What thanks have I to render to fortune if you thus repulse the proofs of my love?”

“You must overcome your passion,” said she; “I cannot listen to it without being criminal. Make an effort to suppress your desires, and I will set you the example.”

“Alas! Susan, you have but little love left if you advise me to suppress mine. And for what cause am I to do this, when nothing obstructs our happiness?”

“Nothing to oppose our happiness! How I wish you spoke the truth in saying so!” and she burst into tears, of which I asked the cause.

“Would you,” said she, “partake with me the sad consequences of my debauchery? And if you would, could I have the cruelty to consent to it?”

“Do you think to restrain me by so weak a reason? I would readily die with my Susan, and shall I shrink from sharing her misfortunes?” So saying I threw her down on the bed and prepared to prove by acts that I feared no dangers.

“Ah, Silas! You will destroy yourself.”

“If I do, it will be in your arms,” said I in a transport of passion.

She gave way to me, and I effected an entry: let me be permitted here to imitate the sagacious Greek, who, in his picture of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, after having exhausted on the countenances of the assistants every trait characteristic of the deepest grief, threw a veil over the face of Agamemmon, leaving it for the imagination of others to conceive what must be the immolation of an adored daughter. I leave you, dear reader, the pleasure of imagining; but I address myself to you only who have experienced all the crosses of love, and after long years of waiting, have seen your passion crowned by the beloved object of it. Recall your transports, stretch your imagination still farther, if possible, and still you will fall short of my ecstasies. But what demon, jealous of my tranquility, is continually holding up to my view the recollection which can almost make me shed tears of blood?

The day came before we were aware that the night had fled. I had forgotten my griefs, and everything else in the embraces of Susan.

“We will never part, my dear brother,” said she; “where can you find one to love you more; one whose passion for you can be more ardent?”

I swore to live with her always; I swore it, alas! And we were that moment on the point of an eternal separation. The storm burst over our heads, but we saw it not till too late to save ourselves from its violence.

“Fly, Susan, fly!” cried a terrified girl as she burst into our room. “Fly by the back staircase.”

All amazed, we hastened to get up; but it was too late: a fierce-looking officer entered the moment we were out of bed. Susan, trembling and bewildered, threw herself into my arms, but he tore her from me in spite of my efforts, and was going off with her. This sight made me furious; rage increased my strength, and despair made me invincible. A dog-iron that I snatched up from the fire-place became a deadly weapon in my hands. I flew at the officer, and in a moment Susan's ravisher was stretched on the floor at my feet. His comrades rushed forwards upon me; I could no longer defend myself, but surrendered, and was made prisoner. They bound me,” and would scarcely permit me to take the half of my clothes.

“Adieu! My dear sister, adieu!” I cried, stretching out my hands as well as I could.

They dragged me down the staircase by my legs; and the pain caused by my head thumping against the steps soon made me insensible.

I ought here to close the recital of my misfortunes. Ah, reader! if you have a tender heart, suspend your curiosity, and be content to bemoan my lot. But why must the sense of sorrow always prevail? Have I not wept enough? I have reached my port, and I regret still the dangers of the sea. Read, and you will see the sad termination of debauchery; lucky will you be if you do not pay dearer for it than myself.

When I recovered my sense, it was to find myself on a miserable bed in the middle of a hospital. I asked where I was, and was told at Bicetre. Good heavens, at Bicetre! My grief petrified me, a fever seized me, and I only recovered from that to fall into a still worse malady, the pox. I received this additional chastisement from the hand of Providence without a murmur, saying to myself that I would not lament my own fate while Susan was suffering from the same disease.

I gradually became so much worse that the doctors were compelled to have recourse to the most violent remedy to save me from the death that threatened me. I will spare my readers the pain of reading a detail of my sufferings during and after the operation to which I owed my life, though I was reduced to so weak a state that my life was despaired of. How much happier for me if I had never recovered from the fit of insensibility that followed the anguish of that awful moment! But I recovered, and the first thing I did on regaining my senses was to put my hand to the part where I felt the most acute pain. I shrieked with terror on finding that I was no longer a man, and fell into a swoon. When I came to myself I felt like Job on his dung-hill, overwhelmed with grief but resigned to the will of heaven, and in the bitterness of my heart I exclaimed: The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord!

I now had no wish but to die; I had lost all power of enjoying life, and the grave was the end of my every hope. I was desirous of hiding even from myself what I had been, and I could not without horror think of my present condition.

“Here then am I,” said I to myself, “the unfortunate Father Silas, the man once so cherished by the women; but the better part of me is no more; a cruel blow has struck off what I prized more than mere existence. I was a hero, and am now nothing but… Die unhappy one, die; is it possible to survive this loss? You are but an eunuch.”

But Death was deaf to my supplications; my health returned, and I was well again. The Superior of the hospital came and told me that I was free.

“Free,” cried I; “Alas! Of what use to me is the liberty that you give me. To one situated as I am, it is the most disagreeable favor you can confer. But, sir, may I venture to ask after a young woman that was brought here the same day as myself.”

“She is happier in her fate than yourself,” he replied; “she died under the treatment.”

“Died!” cried I, quite prostrated by this last stroke; “Susan is dead! Oh, heavens! And I still live.”

Such was my despair that I should have instantly put an end to my miserable existence, had not the attendants prevented me. They saved me from my own fury, and put me in the way to take advantage of the liberty I had recovered, that is to say, they turned me out of doors.

For a moment I was as if annihilated; the tears that flowed from my eyes were the only signs of life. My despair was extreme. Covered with a miserable coat, having scarcely anything to live on, and not knowing where to go, I threw myself on the care of Providence. I took the road to Paris, and on arriving there the walls of a convent of the Carthusians struck my eye, and a hope arose in my mind that I might there find a refuge from the pranks of fortune among its inmates. I went and asked permission to see the Superior, and it was granted. When introduced to him I threw myself down at his feet, and told him the sad tale of my woes.

“O my son,” said he, embracing me with kindness, “praise the Lord, who has reserved this port for you to repose in after so many troubles. Come and live here, and, if possible, be happy.”

I accepted the invitation of the pious old man and was formally received. I was in the convent some time before I had any employment, but at last a trifling office was given to me. I rose by degrees to the rank of door porter, and have retained the situation to the present moment.

Here the hatred of the world that had been engendered by my difficulties and trials in passing through its sweet and thorny paths, gained deep hold of my heart, and I await death without fearing its approach or wishing to hasten the moment of its coming; and come when it may, I hope to meet it with the same collectedness of spirit with which I can now contemplate the enjoyment of its imperturbable repose.