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Devereux, Book III.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Devereux, Book III.




I remember one evening, in especial. The rich twilight had gathered
over us, and we sat by a slender and soft rivulet, overshadowed by some
stunted yet aged trees. We had both, before she spoke, been silent for
several minutes; and only when, at rare intervals, the birds sent from
the copse that backed us a solitary and vesper note of music, was the
stillness around us broken. Before us, on the opposite bank of the
stream, lay a valley, in which shadow and wood concealed all trace of
man's dwellings, save at one far spot, where, from a single hut, rose a
curling and thin vapour, like a spirit released from earth, and losing
gradually its earthier particles, as it blends itself with the loftier
atmosphere of heaven.

It was then that Isora, clinging closer to me, whispered her forebodings
of death. "You will remember," said she, smiling faintly, "you will
remember me, in the lofty and bright career which yet awaits you; and I
scarcely know whether I would not sooner have that memory--free as it
will be from all recollection of my failings and faults, and all that I
have cost you, than incur the chance of your future coldness or decrease
of love."

And when Isora turned, and saw that the tears stood in my eyes, she
kissed them away, and said, after a pause,--

"It matters not, my own guardian angel, what becomes of me: and now that
I am near you, it is wicked to let my folly cost you a single pang. But
why should you grieve at my forebodings? there is nothing painful or
harsh in them to me, and I interpret them thus: 'If my life passes away
before the common date, perhaps it will be a sacrifice to yours.' And
it will, Morton--it will. The love I bear to you I can but feebly
express now; all of us wish to prove our feelings, and I would give one
proof of mine for you. It seems to me that I was made only for one
purpose--to love you; and I would fain hope that my death may be some
sort of sacrifice to you--some token of the ruling passion and the whole
object of my life."

As Isora said this, the light of the moon, which had just risen, shone
full upon her cheek, flushed as it was with a deeper tint than it
usually wore; and in her eye--her features--her forehead--the lofty
nature of her love seemed to have stamped the divine expression of
itself.

Have I lingered too long on these passages of life? They draw near to a
close, and a more adventurous and stirring period of manhood will
succeed. Ah, little could they, who in after years beheld in me but the
careless yet stern soldier--the wily and callous diplomatist--the
companion alternately so light and so moodily reserved--little could
they tell how soft, and weak, and doting my heart was once!



CHAPTER VI.

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.--CONJECTURE AND ANTICIPATION.

THE day for the public solemnization of our marriage was at length
appointed. In fact, the plan for the future that appeared to me most
promising was to proffer my services to some foreign court, and that of
Russia held out to me the greatest temptation. I was therefore anxious,
as soon as possible, to conclude the rite of a second or public
nuptials, and I purposed leaving the country within a week afterwards.
My little lawyer assured me that my suit would go on quite as well in my
absence, and whenever my presence was necessary he would be sure to
inform me of it. I did not doubt him in the least--it is a charming
thing to have confidence in one's man of business.

Of Montreuil I now saw nothing; but I accidentally heard that he was on
a visit to Gerald, and that the latter had already made the old walls
ring with premature hospitality. As for Aubrey, I was in perfect
ignorance of his movements; and the unsatisfactory shortness of his last
letter, and the wild expressions so breathing of fanaticism in the
postscript, had given me much anxiety and alarm on his account. I
longed above all to see him, to talk with him over old times and our
future plans, and to learn whether no new bias could be given to a
temperament which seemed to lean so strongly towards a self-punishing
superstition. It was about a week before the day fixed for my public
nuptials that I received at last from him the following letter:--


MY DEAREST BROTHER,--I have been long absent from home,--absent on
affairs on which we will talk hereafter. I have not forgotten you,
though I have been silent, and the news of my poor uncle's death has
shocked me greatly. On my arrival here I learned your disappointment
and your recourse to law. I am not so much surprised, though I am as
much grieved as yourself, for I will tell you now what seemed to me
unimportant before. On receiving your letter, requesting consent to
your designed marriage, my uncle seemed greatly displeased as well as
vexed, and afterwards he heard much that displeased him more; from what
quarter came his news I know not, and he only spoke of it in innuendoes
and angry insinuations. As far as I was able I endeavoured to learn his
meaning, but could not, and to my praises of you I thought latterly he
seemed to lend but a cold ear; he told me at last, when I was about to
leave him, that you had acted ungratefully to him, and that he should
alter his will. I scarcely thought of this speech at the time, or
rather I considered it as the threat of a momentary anger. Possibly,
however, it was the prelude to that disposition of property which has so
wounded you: I observe, too, that the will bears date about that period.
I mention this fact to you; you can draw from it what inference you
will: but I do solemnly believe that Gerald is innocent of any fraud
towards you.

I am all anxiety to hear whether your love continues. I beseech you to
write to me instantly and inform me on that head as on all others. We
shall meet soon.

Your ever affectionate Brother,

AUBREY DEVEREUX.


There was something in this letter that vexed and displeased me: I
thought it breathed a tone of unkindness and indifference, which my
present circumstances rendered peculiarly inexcusable. So far,
therefore, from answering it immediately, I resolved not to reply to it
till after the solemnization of my marriage. The anecdote of my uncle
startled me a little when I coupled it with the words my uncle had used
towards myself on his death-bed; namely, in hinting that he had heard
some things unfavourable to Isora, unnecessary then to repeat; but still
if my uncle had altered his intentions towards me, would he not have
mentioned the change and its reasons? Would he have written to me with
such kindness, or received me with such affection? I could not believe
that he would; and my opinions of the fraud and the perpetrator were not
a whit changed by Aubrey's epistle. It was clear, however, that he had
joined the party against me; and as my love for him was exceedingly
great, I was much wounded by the idea.

"All leave me," said I, "upon this reverse,--all but Isora!" and I
thought with renewed satisfaction on the step which was about to insure
to her a secure home and an honourable station. My fears lest Isora
should again be molested by her persecutor were now pretty well at rest;
having no doubt in my own mind as to that persecutor's identity, I
imagined that in his new acquisition of wealth and pomp, a boyish and
unreturned love would easily be relinquished; and that, perhaps, he
would scarcely regret my obtaining the prize himself had sought for,
when in my altered fortunes it would be followed by such worldly
depreciation. In short, I looked upon him as possessing a
characteristic common to most bad men, who are never so influenced by
love as they are by hatred; and imagined, therefore, that if he had lost
the object of the love, he could console himself by exulting over any
decline of prosperity in the object of the hate.

As the appointed day drew near, Isora's despondency seemed to vanish,
and she listened, with her usual eagerness in whatever interested me, to
my Continental schemes of enterprise. I resolved that our second
wedding, though public, should be modest and unostentatious, suitable
rather to our fortunes than our birth. St. John, and a few old friends
of the family, constituted all the party I invited, and I requested them
to keep my marriage secret until the very day for celebrating it
arrived. I did this from a desire of avoiding compliments intended as
sarcasms, and visits rather of curiosity than friendship. On flew the
days, and it was now the one preceding my wedding. I was dressing to go
out upon a matter of business connected with the ceremony, and I then,
as I received my hat from Desmarais, for the first time thought it
requisite to acquaint that accomplished gentleman with the rite of the
morrow. Too well bred was Monsieur Desmarais to testify any other
sentiment than pleasure at the news; and he received my orders and
directions for the next day with more than the graceful urbanity which
made one always feel quite honoured by his attentions.

"And how goes on the philosophy?" said I: "faith, since I am about to be
married, I shall be likely to require its consolations."

"Indeed, Monsieur," answered Desmarais, with that expression of
self-conceit which was so curiously interwoven with the obsequiousness
of his address, "indeed, Monsieur, I have been so occupied of late in
preparing a little powder very essential to dress, that I have not had
time for any graver, though not perhaps more important, avocations."

"Powder--and what is it?"

"Will Monsieur condescend to notice its effect?" answered Desmarais,
producing a pair of gloves which were tinted of the most delicate
flesh-colour; the colouring was so nice, that when the gloves were on,
it would have been scarcely possible, at any distance, to distinguish
them from the naked flesh.

"'Tis a rare invention," said I.

"Monsieur is very good, but I flatter myself it is so," rejoined
Desmarais; and he forthwith ran on far more earnestly on the merits of
his powder than I had ever heard him descant on the beauties of
Fatalism. I cut him short in the midst of his harangue: too much
eloquence in any line is displeasing in one's dependant.

I had just concluded my business abroad, and was returning homeward with
downcast eyes and in a very abstracted mood, when I was suddenly
startled by a loud voice that exclaimed in a tone of surprise:
"What!--Count Devereux,--how fortunate!"

I looked up, and saw a little dark man, shabbily dressed; his face did
not seem unfamiliar to me, but I could not at first remember where I had
seen it: my look, I suppose, testified my want of memory, for he said,
with a low bow,--

"You have forgotten me, Count, and I don't wonder at it; so please you,
I am the person who once brought you a letter from France to Devereux
Court."

At this, I recognized the bearer of that epistle which had embroiled me
with the Abbe Montreuil. I was too glad of the meeting to show any
coolness in my reception of the gentleman, and to speak candidly, I
never saw a gentleman less troubled with /mauvaise honte/.

"Sir!" said he, lowering his voice to a whisper, "it is most fortunate
that I should thus have met you; I only came to town this morning, and
for the sole purpose of seeking you out. I am charged with a packet,
which I believe will be of the greatest importance to your interests.
But," he added, looking round, "the streets are no proper place for my
communication; /parbleu/, there are those about who hear whispers
through stone walls: suffer me to call upon you to-morrow."

"To-morrow! it is a day of great business with me, but I can possibly
spare you a few moments, if that will suffice; or, on the day after,
your own pleasure may be the sole limit of our interview."

"/Parbleu/, Monsieur, you are very obliging,--very; but I will tell you
in one word who I am and what is my business. My name is Marie Oswald:
I was born in France, and I am the half-brother of that Oswald who drew
up your uncle's will."

"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed; "is it possible that you know anything of
that affair?"

"Hush--yes, all! my poor brother is just dead; and, in a word, I am
charged with a packet given me by him on his death-bed. Now, will you
see me if I bring it to-morrow?"

"Certainly; can I not see you to-night?"

"To-night?--No, not well; /parbleu/! I want a little consideration as
to the reward due to me for my eminent services to your lordship. No:
let it be to-morrow."

"Well! at what hour? I fear it must be in the evening."

"Seven, /s'il vous plait/, Monsieur."

"Enough! be it so."

And Mr. Marie Oswald, who seemed, during the whole of this short
conference, to have been under some great apprehension of being seen or
overheard, bowed, and vanished in an instant, leaving my mind in a most
motley state of incoherent, unsatisfactory, yet sanguine conjecture.



CHAPTER VII.

THE EVENTS OF A SINGLE NIGHT.--MOMENTS MAKE THE HUES IN WHICH YEARS ARE
COLOURED.

MEN of the old age! what wonder that in the fondness of a dim faith, and
in the vague guesses which, from the frail ark of reason, we send to
hover over a dark and unfathomable abyss,--what wonder that ye should
have wasted hope and life in striving to penetrate the future! What
wonder that ye should have given a language to the stars, and to the
night a spell, and gleaned from the uncomprehended earth an answer to
the enigmas of Fate! We are like the sleepers who, walking under the
influence of a dream, wander by the verge of a precipice, while, in
their own deluded vision, they perchance believe themselves surrounded
by bowers of roses, and accompanied by those they love. Or, rather like
the blind man, who can retrace every step of the path he has /once/
trodden, but who can guess not a single inch of that which he has not
yet travelled, our Reason can re-guide us over the roads of past
experience with a sure and unerring wisdom, even while it recoils,
baffled and bewildered, before the blackness of the very moment whose
boundaries we are about to enter.

The few friends I had invited to my wedding were still with me, when one
of my servants, not Desmarais, informed me that Mr. Oswald waited for
me. I went out to him.

"/Parbleu/!" said he, rubbing his hands, "I perceive it is a joyous time
with you, and I don't wonder you can only spare me a few moments."

The estates of Devereux were not to be risked for a trifle, but I
thought Mr. Marie Oswald exceedingly impertinent. "Sir," said I, very
gravely, "pray be seated; and now to business. In the first place may I
ask to whom I am beholden for sending you with that letter you gave me
at Devereux Court? and, secondly, what that letter contained? for I
never read it."

"Sir," answered the man, "the history of the letter is perfectly
distinct from that of the will, and the former (to discuss the least
important first) is briefly this. You have heard, Sir, of the quarrels
between Jesuit and Jansenist?"

"I have."

"Well--but first, Count, let me speak of myself. There were three young
men of the same age, born in the same village in France, of obscure
birth each, and each desirous of getting on in the world. Two were
deuced clever fellows, the third, nothing particular. One of the two at
present shall be nameless; the third, 'who was nothing particular' (in
his own opinion, at least, though his friends may think differently),
was Marie Oswald. We soon separated: I went to Paris, was employed in
different occupations, and at last became secretary, and (why should I
disavow it?) valet to a lady of quality and a violent politician. She
was a furious Jansenist; of course I adopted her opinions. About this
time, there was much talk among the Jesuits of the great genius and deep
learning of a young member of the order, Julian Montreuil. Though not
residing in the country, he had sent one or two books to France, which
had been published and had created a great sensation. Well, Sir, my
mistress was the greatest /intriguante/ of her party: she was very rich,
and tolerably liberal; and, among other packets of which a messenger
from England was /carefully/ robbed, between Calais and Abbeville (you
understand me, sir, /carefully/ robbed, /parbleu/! I wish I were robbed
in the same manner, every day in my life!), was one from the said Julian
Montreuil to a political friend of his. Among other letters in this
packet--all of importance--was one descriptive of the English family
with whom he resided. It hit them all, I am told, off to a hair; and it
described, in particular, one, the supposed inheritor of the estates, a
certain Morton, Count Devereux. Since you say you did not read the
letter, I spare your blushes, Sir, and I don't dwell upon what he said
of your talent, energy, ambition, etc. I will only tell you that he
dilated far more upon your prospects than your powers; and that he
expressly stated what was his object in staying in your family and
cultivating your friendship,--he expressly stated that L30,000 a year
would be particularly serviceable to a certain political cause which he
had strongly at heart."

"I understand you," said I, "the Chevalier's?"

"Exactly. 'This sponge,' said Montreuil, I remember the very
phrase,--'this sponge will be well filled, and I am handling it softly
now in order to squeeze its juices hereafter according to the uses of
the party we have so strongly at heart.'"

"It was not a metaphor very flattering to my understanding," said I.

"True, Sir. Well, as soon as my mistress learned this she remembered
that your father, the Marshal, had been one of her /plus chers amis/; in
a word, if scandal says true, he had been /the cher ami/. However, she
was instantly resolved to open your eyes, and ruin the /maudit Jesuite/:
she enclosed the letter in an envelope and sent me to England with it.
I came, I gave it you, and I discovered, in that moment, when the Abbe
entered, that this Julian Montreuil was an old acquaintance of my
own,--was one of the two young men who I told you were such deuced
clever fellows. Like many other adventurers, he had changed his name on
entering the world and I had never till now suspected that Julian
Montreuil was Bertrand Collinot. Well, when I saw what I had done, I
was exceedingly sorry, for I had liked my companion well enough not to
wish to hurt him; besides, I was a little afraid of him. I took horse,
and went about some other business I had to execute, nor did I visit
that part of the country again, till a week ago (now I come to the other
business), when I was summoned to the death-bed of my half-brother the
attorney, peace be with him! He suffered much from hypochondria in his
dying moments,--I believe it is the way with people of his
profession,--and he gave me a sealed packet, with a last injunction to
place it in your hands and your hands only. Scarce was he dead--(do not
think I am unfeeling, Sir, I had seen very little of him, and he was
only my half-brother, my father having married, for a second wife, a
foreign lady who kept an inn, by whom he was blessed with
myself)--scarce, I say, was he dead when I hurried up to town.
Providence threw you in my way, and you shall have the document upon two
conditions."

"Which are, first to reward you; secondly, to--"

"To promise you will not open the packet for seven days."

"The devil! and why?"

"I will tell you candidly: one of the papers in the packet I believe to
be my brother's written confession,--nay, I know it is,--and it will
criminate one I have a love for, and who, I am resolved, shall have a
chance of escape."

"Who is that one? Montreuil?"

"No: I do not refer to him; but I cannot tell you more. I require the
promise, Count: it is indispensable. If you don't give it me,
/parbleu/, you shall not have the packet."

There was something so cool, so confident, and so impudent about this
man, that I did not well know whether to give way to laughter or to
indignation. Neither, however, would have been politic in my situation;
and, as I said before, the estates of Devereux were not to be risked for
a trifle.

"Pray," said I, however, with a shrewdness which I think did me
credit,--"pray, Mr. Marie Oswald, do you expect the reward before the
packet is opened?"

"By no means," answered the gentleman who in his own opinion was nothing
particular; "by no means; nor until you and your lawyers are satisfied
that the papers enclosed in the packet are sufficient fully to restore
you to the heritage of Devereux Court and its demesnes."

There was something fair in this; and as the only penalty to me incurred
by the stipulated condition seemed to be the granting escape to the
criminals, I did not think it incumbent upon me to lose my cause from
the desire of a prosecution. Besides, at that time, I felt too happy to
be revengeful; and so, after a moment's consideration, I conceded to the
proposal, and gave my honour as a gentleman--Mr. Oswald obligingly
dispensed with an oath--that I would not open the packet till the end of
the seventh day. Mr. Oswald then drew forth a piece of paper, on which
sundry characters were inscribed, the purport of which was that, if,
through the papers given me by Marie Oswald, my lawyers were convinced
that I could become master of my uncle's property, now enjoyed by Gerald
Devereux, I should bestow on the said Marie L5000: half on obtaining
this legal opinion, half on obtaining possession of the property. I
could not resist a smile when I observed that the word of a gentleman
was enough surety for the safety of the man he had a love for, but that
Mr. Oswald required a written bond for the safety of his reward. One is
ready enough to trust one's friends to the conscience of another, but as
long as a law can be had instead, one is rarely so credulous in respect
to one's money.

"The reward shall be doubled if I succeed," said I, signing the paper;
and Oswald then produced a packet, on which was writ, in a trembling
hand,--"For Count Morton Devereux,--private,--and with haste." As soon
as he had given me this precious charge, and reminded me again of my
promise, Oswald withdrew. I placed the packet in my bosom, and returned
to my guests.

Never had my spirit been so light as it was that evening. Indeed the
good people I had assembled thought matrimony never made a man so little
serious before. They did not however stay long, and the moment they
were gone I hastened to my own sleeping apartment to secure the treasure
I had acquired. A small escritoire stood in this room, and in it I was
accustomed to keep whatever I considered most precious. With many a
wistful look and murmur at my promise, I consigned the packet to one of
the drawers of this escritoire. As I was locking the drawer, the sweet
voice of Desmarais accosted me. Would Monsieur, he asked, suffer him to
visit a friend that evening, in order to celebrate so joyful an event in
Monsieur's destiny? It was not often that he was addicted to vulgar
merriment, but on such an occasion he owned that he was tempted to
transgress his customary habits, and he felt that Monsieur, with his
usual good taste, would feel offended if his servant, within Monsieur's
own house, suffered joy to pass the limits of discretion, and enter the
confines of noise and inebriety, especially as Monsieur had so
positively interdicted all outward sign of extra hilarity. He implored
/mille pardons/ for the presumption of his request.

"It is made with your usual discretion; there are five guineas for you:
go and get drunk with your friend, and be merry instead of wise. But,
tell me, is it not beneath a philosopher to be moved by anything,
especially anything that occurs to another,--much less to get drunk upon
it?"

"Pardon me, Monsieur," answered Desmarais, bowing to the ground: "one
ought to get drunk sometimes, because the next morning one is sure to be
thoughtful; and, moreover, the practical philosopher ought to indulge
every emotion, in order to judge how that emotion would affect another;
at least, this is my opinion."

"Well, go."

"My most grateful thanks be with Monsieur; Monsieur's nightly toilet is
entirely prepared."

And away went Desmarais, with the light, yet slow, step with which he
was accustomed to combine elegance with dignity.

I now passed into the room I had prepared for Isora's /boudoir/. I
found her leaning by the window, and I perceived that she had been in
tears. As I paused to contemplate her figure so touchingly, yet so
unconsciously mournful in its beautiful and still posture, a more joyous
sensation than was wont to mingle with my tenderness for her swelled at
my heart. "Yes," thought I, "you are no longer the solitary exile, or
the persecuted daughter of a noble but ruined race; you are not even the
bride of a man who must seek in foreign climes, through danger and
through hardship, to repair a broken fortune and establish an
adventurer's name! At last the clouds have rolled from the bright star
of your fate: wealth, and pomp, and all that awaits the haughtiest of
England's matrons shall be yours." And at these thoughts Fortune seemed
to me a gift a thousand times more precious than--much as my luxuries
prized it--it had ever seemed to me before.

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