University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

The letter which Claude had taken from Elkington
he sent again, by a more faithful messenger,
to Count Carolan, without stating anything of
the scene which we have described respecting it.
The same hour he received a challenge from little

General Le Beau. The general was made acquainted
with the resolution of Claude not to receive it.

The alternative to meet Le Beau himself was
then submitted to him. This was also politely declined;
upon which General Le Beau declared his
intention to horsewhip Mr. Wyndham in the street,
if he did not punish him more seriously.

“I shall certainly horsewhip you or shoot you,”
said General Le Beau, with a nervous twist of the
body, which awkward habit he had acquired from
the wound already mentioned.

“I am extremely obliged to you,” said Claude,
“for notifying me of your intention; and as being
shot, from what I see, is a disagreeable thing, I shall
instantly take measures to protect myself from a
calamity which seems as little favourable to grace
as temper.”

“You are a coward, sir!” said Le Beau. The
fierce little general believed that this word would
cause his antagonist to explode like a powder-magazine
at the application of a torch; and he even
stepped slightly back, as if, being secure of his ultimate
course, he was willing, either from curiosity
or prudence, to observe, at a reasonable distance,
the first burst which was to follow this cabalistic
epithet. Though obviously prepared to be astonished,
his surprise more than equalled his anticipations,
when, instead of turning deadly pale or furiously
red, trembling in the knees, and endeavouring
to knock his (the general's) brains out or his own
with the first adequate utensil within his reach,
Wyndham, with a very quiet smile and a wave of
the hand, which actually had some appearance of
being intended for satirical, replied,

“You will not be offended, general, if I remark,
that I differ from your opinion of me as much as I
do from that which you appear to entertain of yourself.”

“You shall be posted, sir!” said the general, with
a prodigious twist; “and since, sir, you are—”

“I am very sorry, general,” said Claude, “to be
unable at present to listen to your interesting observations,
especially as your ideas are so extremely
sensible. I have at present the misfortune to be
occupied with more important duties. There is
one thing, however, upon which I should really like
your candid opinion.”

“I am not afraid to give my opinion upon any
subject, and to stand by it like a gentleman,” said
the general, with a formidable frown.

“Well, then, you have, I believe, had time to examine
fully the interior of my apartment. I now
wish you to direct your attention to—”

“To what, sir? to what, sir?” demanded the
general, the gash upon his cheek becoming doubly
inflamed by the effects of rage.

“The outside!” said Mr. Wyndham, rising quietly
and opening the door.

The formidable little man opened his eyes, or,
rather, his eye, for one of them was so drawn down
by the wound as to be always extended to about
twice the size of its companion; and never did Jupiter,
in one of his grand fits of fury, look more indignant
and threatening. Luckily, however, he
possessed his rage without his thunder. If he had
been gifted with that dangerous weapon, at Claude's
order to his servant to show the general down stairs!
our hero's merriment would have probably received
a check which must have ended him, and these volumes
as a consequence. It was evident that the
general had some desperate intention; so, while he
was gone to render an account of his mission to
Elkington, Claude quietly presented himself at the
police, and laid a statement of the affair before that
tribunal, after which General Le Beau gave him no
farther trouble. On meeting him in the street a few
days afterward, he looked exceedingly ferocious, and
gave an unusually violent twist with his body, which,
with his wounded cheek, rendered him a formidable

object, although his enmity did not proceed farther
than several glances of a decidedly indignant kind.
The general was subsequently heard to say, that, if
it had not been for the interference of the police, he
would have sent Monsieur Claude Wyndham to the
devil, au plus vîte! He at the same time lamented
that he lived in an age so far sunk in barbarism
as not to allow intrepid little generals like him to
shoot people, without subjecting them to that sort of
ungentlemanly annoyance.

Claude had scarcely arranged this affair, which
he did much to his amusement, and without making
any mention to the police of Elkington, when he
received a roughly-written, dirty note in German.
It was from a stranger, in the following words:

This letter was odd, and, taken in connexion with
his last night's adventure in the Park, might possibly
be a snare. He knew no Monsieur Rossi, and
at first he determined not to go. In a few moments,
however, he took a different view of the subject.
This might be some poor fellow in distress, from
which his hand might relieve him; and the idea of
leaving unnoticed an appeal from some unhappy
being, perhaps on the bed of death, who had selected
him from the crowd as one not likely to be callous
to such an appeal, induced him to change his

mind. It was late in the day, and nearly the hour
of dinner; but, having no other occupation, he determined
to go at once. He had not walked far,
when he met Digby, who was passing him without
recognising him, so busily was the poor fellow engaged
in his own thoughts. Whoever watches the
ever-flowing current of a city population, will often
observe persons who, although borne by their corporeal
legs along the street and through the crowd,
are, in fact, as far as their minds are concerned, acting
some part in a different scene. Many go on
talking to themselves, moving their lips, and showing,
by the changes of their features, how entirely
they are absorbed in their own cogitations. Digby
was one of these. As he went by he was evidently
engaged in some violent imaginary dispute, probably
with Mrs. Digby, or perhaps with Elkington,
who now received a more fluent setting-down than
he had been able to give him on the real occasion
of their quarrel. His brows were contracted, his
face was red, his lips were in rapid motion, and he
was swinging his arms backward and forward, not
without their occasionally and unconsciously coming
in contact with a passer by; more than one face
was turned to take a second look at him. The shopkeepers,
lounging at their doors, arched their eye-brows;
and more than one little boy—those acute
observers—stopped to gaze with astonishment into
his face; and, when he was at a reasonable distance,
gave a hearty laugh or a loud whoop, which the
honest fellow little thought directed against himself.
Suddenly he appeared in the crisis of his conversation,
and, inattentive to everything else, he strided
on in the path of a rough-looking man, who turned
out half way, but against whom, notwithstanding
this courtesy, Digby ran with such force that each
was whirled round by the violence of the collision.
The stranger turned back, with a fierce countenance
and clinched fist, and demanded in German
what he meant. Digby stood stupidly gazing at
his angry face. The question was repeated in a
more furious tone, and answered in English with a
stammering hesitation which would have rendered
any language unintelligible; and the insulted pedestrian,
losing patience at the idea that the insult was
intentional, seized Digby by the collar, amid a crowd
which had already began to collect, and was in the
act of inflicting a summary vengeance, when Claude
stepped up to his relief. He explained that he was
a stranger, ignorant of the language, and that he
could answer for his absence of mind, which had
occasioned the accident. The good man willingly
received the apology from one of Claude's appearance
and manners, and respectfully assured him of
his satisfaction. The parties separated, the crowd
dispersed, and Digby said he would accompany
Claude on his walk.

“Did you ever see such — a — a — born fools,”
said Digby, “as these Germans are? Only to—to
think, now, of that great fellow setting on me in that
style. In England such a thing would be impossible.”

“In England he would probably have knocked
you down without a word!” said Claude.

“Well—if he had—I should have had—him up
—and—a—a—punished him. But here—no laws
—no newspapers—no courts—no Parliament—no—
a—a—no nothing.”

“You must not be so severe upon my good
friends here,” said Claude; “and remember that a
poor Prussian in London would be even worse off
than you are here.”

“Ah! if I could catch one of these fellows there,
wouldn't I let him have it? Why, I haven't met
one here who hasn't either—a—a—cheated me—a
—a—kicked me, or tried to knock me — a — a —
down. It's infamous! I think I've done with travelling
this king's reign. So I've made up my mind,
and I'm going up to London.”

“But will madam consent?”

“I've turned over a new leaf with Mrs. D—.
She's a woman, and women are all alike, and must
be treated in the same way. They must be governed.
Don't you think so?”

“Why, as to their being all alike—” said Claude,
Mrs. Digby's form recurring to his memory by the
side of Ida's.

“Oh, I mean,” interrupted Digby, “not in person;
some are tall—some are short—some lean—some
fat—some handsome—and some ugly; but I mean
in their hearts. Come afoul of any of their kinks,
and they're as like as two peas. They're all of 'em
women—and that's the whole of it.”

“They certainly are women,” said Claude, “but
we must, on that account, not be too hard upon them.
Heaven has made them of a finer material—a more
fragile construction—and we should accommodate
ourselves” (he was thinking of Ida) “to their softer
and more delicate natures.”

“Why, so I do,” said Digby; “but, d—n her!
it's of no use. `Delicate nature!' `fragile construction!!'
Ah! if you had to deal with my wife one
week!”

“Pooh! pooh! I should get along with her charmingly.”

“Egad, I should like to see you try it. She? the
devil himself couldn't manage her. If she gets a
knot in her head, there it sticks, in spite of the old
Satan. She's now got an idea that she is a fine
woman—her head's as full as it can cram of ho-tong
—and bong-tong—and boo-monde—and all that sort
of thing. Then she thinks to marry Mary to a lord,
and that Elkington is to be the man. Now, between
you and me, I wouldn't have that fellow in my
house. He's a—a—” (Digby looked around to assure
himself that the formidable object of his displeasure
might not be within hearing) “a puppy,
and thinks just as much of marrying Mary as he

does her interesting mamma. I've told Mrs. Digby
so—but no, nothing'll do. She must push into every
—a—a—soirry where she can get an invitation.
There she goes a gallivanting about with old Beeswax.”

“Beeswax?”

“Yes, old `long pockets'—Lippe, you know—a
buying all sorts a things—and she's got all the milliners
and mantuamakers in Berlin about her—and
she and Moll are so transmogrified, that, egad, I don't
know 'em when I meet 'em in the street. What do
you think I caught 'em at yesterday?”

“Indeed, I hope nothing seriously disagreeable.”

“Yes, very seriously. I returned home from a
ride, and went into my wife's room. There she
stood—half undressed—and Mary in the same predicament;
and by their side—what do you think?—
a man, sir—a great man—with a pair of mustaches
as long as my arm—a standing between them—as—
cool, sir—as—as a—a cucumber; pleasant, wasn't
it?”

“A man!”

“A man, sir—a tailor, sir—a lady's tailor! While
I was staring at him the door opened, and old `long
pockets' poked his ears in, walks me up to the ladies,
with a pair of gamborge coloured gloves on—
and they in that situation. They had sent for him
to enterpret for them. I stood by, and heard `long
pockets' explaining to the tailor how their frocks
were to be cut higher here—and lower there—and
not to have any wrinkles in this place—and to be
made a little fuller in that. If you catch me a travelling
for pleasure again, you may eat me, sir.”

“Oh, nonsense; you're too serious about it.”

“The tailor had no sooner gone than in steps a
strapping fellow dressed like a duke, and with a
pair of mustaches that you might have tied in a
bowknot behind his ears—the fellow! and down sat
my interesting females to have their heads dressed,
and a bushel basket full of wheat, and flowers, and

things stuck in. `Madam Digby,' says I, `ain't you
ashamed of yourself—to admit men—in this fashion
into—into your room?' `Good gracious, John,' says
she, `how can you be such an awful fool?' You
know that's a very favourite expression of hers.
`Don't you see,' says she, `these poor creatures are
no more than dumb beasts, and don't understand a
word we say!' `And, papa!' says Mary, `everybody
does so—and what everybody does can't be wrong!'
Then comes a bill for dresses, three hundred thalers—then
a subscription ticket for the theatre and
the opera—and the French theatre. Then their
learning to play whist—and Mrs. Digby loses a few
guineas a night; and, to cap all, some fellow is a
going to give a ball costoomy, and Mary's going as
Hebe, and Madam Digby as Mary, Queen of Scots.”

“I should think Mrs. Digby would look Queen
Elizabeth better,” said Claude, smiling.

“No, sir—she'll look back to London — that's
what she'll look—and old `long pockets' 'll look for
some other place. I've cut the French. It's the
greatest trash on earth. Did you ever candidly see
such a pack of stuff as it is? If these fellows can
get a que—and a se—and a lui, and a y huddled
in, neck and heels together, and always the cart before
the horse, they think they're elegant; and then
old `long pockets'—how horribly he talks through
his nose! He never says no—he says non so non.
I believe that's one reason he has such large nostrils.
The fellow has them like a horse. He kept
me half an hour the other day trying to say non. I
wouldn't do it, sir.”

“I fear you have not been much pleased with
Berlin.”

“Berlin—I utterly detest it! I don't understand
anything nor anybody. There isn't a newspaper
that I can read—a sign that I can make out—all the
bills and things pasted up along the street. There,
now! look at all that trash yonder!—see that!—

that's all Greek to me—though there's always a
crowd about them a reading them with their mouths
wide open. I can't buy anything, for they don't
understand me. When a bill comes in, I pay it
without knowing what it is; and I've no doubt I
pay one two or three times over. Yesterday I
walked out and came to a place where there were a
thousand people collected—all greatly excited about
something. `What's the matter here?' says I, forgetting
that the poor wretches couldn't speak English.
The man began palavering to me, with his
eyes starting out of his head, and pointed at somebody
who was going along. `Thank you, sir,' says
I, `for your information.' Then I asked another—
and another; no one could talk to me in a civilized
tongue. All of a sudden, up jumped a great big fellow
on a barrel—and began to shout. The crowd
gathered around him, I among the rest. He went
on at a violent rate for five minutes, then they all
began to clap. He went on a little longer, then
they set up a laugh; and when he had said something
more, they gave three cheers, and then cleared
out. Now what the devil all that was about, I
shall never know to my dying day. `Give me old
England yet,' says I. But this I found out a short
time after, namely, that my watch was gone. Some
infernal, infamous scoundrel had picked my pocket.”

“Oh, you must not mind these trifles!” said
Claude; “when you are an older traveller, you'll
think nothing of them.”

“I don't know what you call trifles—but I don't
call them—a—a—any such things. Last night I
went to the opera alone. I went into the pit, and
it being early, I got a good seat near the stage. Just
as the house was full, there came a man and—a—
a—began to talk to me. I told him I couldn't understand
him, and there was no use o' his going on.
But, notwithstanding that, he continued a talking on,
louder and louder; and at length, taking me by the

shoulder, hauled me out of my seat, and shoved me
along away to the back part of the pit, where I
couldn't see anything, pointing at the same time to
a number on the seat and to a number on the ticket
I had given him.”

“Have you been much into society lately?”

“No; once I allowed my women to wheedle me
into one soirry, and that was the last. Why, sir,
the people that knew me perfectly well in my own
house wouldn't speak to me. `Can you tell me
who yonder gentleman is?' said I to one. `Bon
soir,' said he, and he passed me. `Are we to have
a supper?' said I to another. `Bon soir,' said he,
and off shot he. `Good-evening,' said I to a lady
whom I had talked to half an hour the evening before.
She opened her eyes, looked right over my
shoulder, and began a talking to a big man behind
me in a uniform. `Well,' says I, `don't be discouraged,'
says I to myself; so I went up to a very remarkably
civil young gentleman, who had come to
my house with Elkington—drank my Champagne,
and won ten Louis of me at whist—with an eyeglass
stuck into his cheek, and held up by wrinkling
his eyebrow over it, without holding on to it with his
fingers. `This is rather a curious sort of a company,'
says I to the very civil young gentleman;
`don't you think so, Mr. Whattle?' What do you
think he did?”

“Contradicted your opinion, I suppose,” said
Claude.

“No, sir—he wheeled about—stuck his face right
plump into mine—peering at me through his glass,
with his eyebrow all wrinkled up; so, egad, I
thought he was going to butt me over like a ram,
after regarding me a little while in this way, so that
he will know me again if he meets me in Jerusalem;
and, just as I had began to smile in a very familiar
way, and held out my hand, thinking he was
a going to say, `How are you, my dear Digby—is
this you?' what do you think he did?”

“Turned away, I suppose,” said Claude, scarcely
suppressing a smile.

“Flat as a flounder!” said Digby, in a tone of indignation;
“and, holding out his hand to a person
standing next to him, he says, says he, `Devilish
hot! ain't it?' says he. `Devilish!' says the other;
and then he told another fellow on the other side of
me that he had called on him that afternoon, and the
other fellow said he was `enchanté.' Do you think
I'll submit to such impertinence? Not I.”

At length they reached the house designated by
the note. It was a wretched building; a filthy gutter
ran from the court into the street through the
archway which formed the principal entrance. The
walls were dirty, black, and dilapidated, the stairs
broken and unswept, the doors hanging on one
hinge, the court full of offals and stagnant water.
When they arrived at the third story, they were
received by a man of indigent appearance, and
ushered into rooms desolate and almost unfurnished.
On making particular inquiries respecting the
young invalid, the good man informed him that this
poor fellow was a teacher of languages, who had
lived with him for a long time, exciting his curiosity
by his eccentricities; at first he denied himself
the common comforts of life, but laid out what little
money he could gain at his precarious occupation
on his toilet.

“He seemed always particularly anxious to appear
well dressed,” said the man; “in this, for some
time, he succeeded, but latterly he had grown less
and less tidy; his old and much-worn clothes were
no longer renewed. His manners, from cheerful
gayety, became deeply serious. He avoided all society
and amusement, and appeared plunged in profound
grief. One day, not long ago, he had been
brought home in a state of insensibility, which was
succeeded by a raging delirium. He screamed and
raved all night. He had no money to pay a physician,

and I was as poor as he. We thought of carrying
him to the asylum for lunatics, on the idea
that he had grown mad, when his malady took a
new turn; he became dangerously ill, grew weak
and subdued, and gave us no farther trouble than the
necessity of taking care of him and feeding him.
I would willingly continue to do this, sir,” continued
the poor man, “for I never saw a more unhappy
creature, and I sincerely pity him; but I am a
poor labourer myself, and have a wife and child
also, occupied with their own tasks; we have no
time, and no money to spend upon him more; and
we were thinking of having him removed to the
hospital, when he got an inkling of our design, which
I believe he did by listening through the keyhole—
for he's as cunning as a fox. He taxed me with it;
begged, entreated, and prayed so earnestly that we
would spare him from such a fate—for I think, sir,
he has an idea that being in an hospital is worse than
it is—that I told him, if he had means of paying anything,
ever so small, for his board and lodging—if
he had any friend who would aid him, I would consent
to charge nothing for trouble, and to take care
of him without profit, only in case of being secured
against loss. Well, he then said there was a
gentleman who perhaps would assist him if he knew
his situation, and he mentioned the name of Mr.
Claude Wyndham; a name which, in his delirium,
he had often uttered in many various tones.”

“Indeed!” said Claude. “This is strange. I
am not aware that I know any such person.”

“So, in short, sir, I took the liberty of complying
with his request, and sending you a note. He told
me your address himself. Now, sir, I would only
say that, unless you are prepared to do something
for the poor devil, you might as well not see him;
for he counts upon you. He told me that you were
rich, and had powerful friends, and that you could
easily gratify his wishes. Will you see him, sir?

I really do not believe he will tax your charity
long.”

Claude explained this to Digby, and asked him if
he would go in.

“A—a—I—a—beg your pardon,” said the latter,
looking at his watch. “I am—a—a—I have an
appointment at this very moment—and I shall have
to go a mile. You must excuse me from going in
to see this poor creature. Besides, I cannot bear—
any—a—a—scene of distress. It always hurts—a
—my feelings. But don't let me—a—interrupt you.
Probably he has something to say to you in private.
Good-morning. Adieu.”

And, with some marks of precipitation, he withdrew.

Claude drew an unfavourable opinion of his
friend's character from this little incident; for, under
all his stupidity and vulgarity, he had conceived an
idea that he was generous and charitable. Being,
however, thus deserted, he allowed himself to be
ushered into the patient's room. It was a sad home
for any one, but struck Claude's feelings with peculiar
mournfulness when he reflected that it was
the abode, and perhaps the last one on earth, of the
dying. There was no furniture but a rough pine-board
bedstead and a wooden bench. The cobwebs
hung around the smoked and broken ceiling, and the
summer light and fresh air were kept out of the
little window by a high black wall which excluded
the view. Upon this miserable pallet lay a
young man of a sallow and pale complexion, much
emaciated, and so absorbed in thought that he was
totally unconscious that any one had interrupted his
gloomy solitude. His hair was black, and very thick
and long. His large and dark eyes were fixed upon
the ceiling as he was extended on his back. His
beard was unshorn, and had grown rank and stiff
about his cheeks, mouth, and throat. A faint recollection
of such a countenance, scarcely recognisable
through the alterations of disease and the overgrown

beard, crossed Claude's mind; and the invalid,
at a gentle shake from his host, had no sooner
started, turned his eyes towards the new-comers,
and fixed them with a stern and bewildered look on
Claude, than he recognised the young man whom
he had first seen planted before the portrait of Ida;
whom he had afterward met in the same place and
position; who had so oddly deceived him as to the
original of the portrait; and who, Ida had informed
him, was her Italian master. The recognition was
mutual; and a faint suffusion of red over the pallid
countenance of the invalid, succeeded almost immediately
by a hue more ashy than before, indicated
that he knew his guest, and that his image called up
some agitating reflection.

“How strange!” said the young man; “I didn't
think you'd come. I never had any claim on you;
but something whispered me to try you—to catch at
you, as a drowning man catches at a spar. Oh, sir,
what must you think of me?”

“My friend,” said Claude, with much sympathy,
“you are unfortunate, and ill; and you have done
very right to claim the assistance of others. I beg
you will not distress yourself, or excite yourself to
speak. I have heard your whole story from your
friend here; and I agree to furnish you the means
not only to remain here, but, if you please, to seek
more comfortable lodgings.”

“God bless you! You are the only being on all
this wide and crowded earth that—some angel surely
whispered me to send for you—but you have not
heard my whole story.”

“Well, well, some other time; now you are
weak; you are—”

“Some other time may be too late,” said the
young man, peevishly; “I do not believe I am long
for this world. I must tell you now, and the more
so as my story partly concerns yourself.”

“What can you mean?”

Rossi motioned the landlord to retire, and they
were alone.

“There is something about you, Mr. Wyndham,
which makes me feel I can unbosom myself to you
—my weaknesses—my crimes even—without being
ridiculed or betrayed. Perhaps I may have assistance
from your hand or counsel from your lips.
There is something in you which gives me confidence.
I shall therefore tell you my story. It deeply
concerns you, and I tell it partly in gratitude, and
partly to relieve my own bosom.”

Claude for a moment forgot the invalid in the
interest excited by his words. Confused hopes
that something respecting his family might be the
subject of the promised revelation—that it might refer
to the late mysterious attempt upon his life—
in short, he scarce knew what to think, and he betrayed
his curiosity in his countenance.

“I came to Berlin,” said Rossi, “from France, a
poor exile. Count Carolan, to whom I had been
recommended, employed me as the Italian master
of his daughter; for I am Italian by birth and education,
though I have spent the latter years of my
life in France, and there rendered myself obnoxious
to a great man, who compelled me to abandon the
country at the peril of the Bastile. For two years
I was in the habit of reading one hour a day with
the young Countess Ida. We read the most eloquent
and romantic works in our literature. I was
friendless and wretched, and very soon after we
commenced our lessons, the beauty and character
of my young pupil began to sink into my heart like
enchantment. We were almost alone at these periods.
Madame Wharton always sat with us, but
neither she nor Ida dreamed of the feelings I concealed
under my calm, cold manner, needy dress,
and respectful air. I was thus often left, by a fearful
and fatal privilege, to watch daily—at my leisure—in
almost uninterrupted solitude, the bewildering

charms of a mind and form, for which half the
nobility of Berlin sighed—for one familiar hour in
whose company many a young noble would have
perilled his life. She was with me all grace, modesty,
and gentle sweetness. There was no reserve—
no pride--no supercilious dignity in her demeanour.
She was kind and unguarded before me as if I had
been a brother. My very insignificance gained me
her bounty, and created a kind of delightful intimacy,
fascinating and dangerous beyond my power of
resistance. She was also the only female I spoke
to—the only friend I had. Her sunshiny and loving
nature made her take an interest in me—from my
history—my loneliness—my extreme melancholy—
and perhaps, unsuspected by herself, from the deep
fervour of my respect and submission to her. It
sometimes happened, at moments, that our minds
and souls met in a kind of equality over some scene
in poetry—of intellectual beauty — of passionate
love. Then we conversed together in my own language,
as two young girls might upon such subjects
—of the world—of the vicissitudes and distinctions
of society. It seemed to me, sometimes, that she
blushed to find that fate had placed her on such an
elevation of rank and fortune, and that her heart
wandered beyond their gorgeous precincts, to seek
simple nature and sweet human happiness, as they
lie around the steps and in the heart of cottage
maidens.”

There was something in this rhapsody of Rossi
that awakened singular emotions in the heart of
Claude, and, at the same time, exceedingly interested
him in the ardour and eloquence with which
the poor fellow opened his history.

“No one can conceive,” continued Rossi, “the
deep enchantment of these interviews to me. The
hour spent with her was the only one of the twenty-four
not a burden. It was the single star in the
sky elsewhere blank. It was the ray of sunshine

in the subterranean dungeon of the captive; the
sole link which holds him from utter darkness, and
connects him with earth and heaven. Month after
month rolled away—oh God! how sweetly. I had
the address to conceal the fire in my veins, though
it only burned stronger for being hidden. Her numerous
acts of bounty, sympathy, and gentle consideration
only added to its power. She had no
prejudices—no pride. She bestowed upon me the
same real courtesy which she would have bestowed
upon a prince; which, by the absence of formality,
was only the more ravishingly sweet to my soul.
All other human beings were to me despots, tyrants,
and fiends. They frowned on me—trampled on
me—put me aside as a useless, worthless thing.
Among them I shrank—I crawled—I skulked like
a beaten dog. I hated the very sight of my fellow-beings
worse than a boar or an adder. Oppression
and poverty had taken from my spirit its natural
courage and erectness, and made me such a sycophant
that I loathed myself. It was only with her
that I felt myself a human being, and formed in the
image of Him who made my soul immortal. Yes,
the truth at last forced itself upon me. I loved this
young girl. A blissful madness took possession of
me. I never thought how it was to end; that I
must one day be separated from her, and banished
from her presence, even when residents of the same
city, as effectually as if I had been in another continent.
I never thought that she regarded me as
she might have done, a poor mendicant, totally unconscious
that my ideas were other than to receive
the recompense of my daily toils, and that I was
pleased when it was given kindly. I never imagined
that this sweetness—these gentle words—these
sunshiny smiles, were not mine alone, but were
only shed around on the common air, as the perfume
of a flower or the beams of a star. It never
occurred to me that this light and happy being
might—nay, must, at some time—love—and love
another—till, one day, I came at my usual hour, and
entered the boudoir where I usually gave my lesson.
She was not there. I found myself alone, in
that gorgeous and hallowed spot, full of traces of
her hand and tokens of her presence. Her drawings—her
music—her paintings—her books—her
flowers—her writing utensils—her gloves—her embroidery.
Sweet objects! they filled my heart
with joy, and my eyes with tears. I could not but
offer up my humble prayer to Heaven, that, although
this beloved creature was not destined for me, I was
thus permitted to see her sometimes—to behold the
places she inhabited—the things she touched. I
approached some of them. I kissed them with
wild rapture. The guilty stealth with which I did
this inflamed my soul to go on farther with my tender
thefts. I pressed her embroidery against my
bosom. I approached a rose; it leaned, sweet and
odorous, amid the fresh verdure. I touched its cool
leaves with my audacious and burning lips. I felt
that I was embracing her image; the soothing odour
I inhaled as her breath, and the soft and crimson
leaves seemed her mouth. I fancied her soul was
hidden in this half-opened flower. Lost in a kind
of ecstasy, I cast my eyes upon her table. They
fell upon a letter. It was addressed to her father.
On the corner was your name. A half-instinctive,
half-imagined dream that you had made an impression
on her heart, had already crossed me. This
letter recalled it to me, and made me start. It lay
there like a snake amid the flowers. Suddenly her
step was heard—light as the young fawn that scarcely
brushes the morning dew; and a low-hummed
air, from a voice that thrilled my heart, had the melody
of the birds' warble in the silent wood.”

“Poor fellow!” said Claude, his eyes scarcely
discerning the anguish-stricken countenance of the
young madman through his rising tears.

“I do not know what induced me to step back.
Perhaps it was a sense of guilt. I felt like Satan
caught in Paradise; for I had become accustomed
to consider my poverty as the bitter badge of meanness,
misery, and shame. I stepped behind a heavy
curtain. She entered and looked around. There
is a sensation in watching a young girl like her,
when she believes herself perfectly alone—a rapture
I never felt before. It seemed as if I—an
earthly wanderer—had, by some daring chance,
climbed the gates of heaven and gazed into its sacred
groves. Alas! alas! for such a blasphemy,
the sudden thunder struck me. Breathless—trembling,
I knew not why—I fixed my eyes upon her.
She went to a broad mirror, and gazed a moment
at her full-length form. She then took from her
bosom a paper, and read aloud a verse. It was the
tender blessing of a girl upon one unnamed. In the
weakness and folly of my nature, I thought for one
exquisite moment—and it almost paid me for any
suffering—that I was shadowed forth in this short
and girlish expression of feeling; but, as she finished
it, she reached forth her hand to the letter written
by you—opened it—read your name aloud—
and pressed it to her lips. The step of Madame
Wharton startled her. She left the room by one
door. I came from my place of concealment.
Madame Wharton entered, and presently afterward
Ida, once more all gentleness—all gayety—the little
hypocrite!

“We proceeded with our lesson, but the incident
had almost unseated my reason. Madame Wharton
sat at some distance with a book. Ida's hand
lay so near my own on the table as to touch it.
Love and despair combined to take from me all
command over myself. I determined that this
should be the last time I should see her, but that
I would not leave her without once touching that
charming hand with a kiss of love. The impudence—the

folly—the guilt of such an act did not
restrain me. I was mad. I knelt at her feet—I
seized her hand—I raised it to my lips—I covered
it with wild and burning kisses. She started back,
turned very pale, and uttered a faint shriek.

“`Mr. Rossi,' said Madame Wharton, starting forward,
with a dignity and indignation that abashed
me at once, `what do you mean?'

“`Farewell for ever!' said I. `Forgive my delirium.'

“`Unhappy boy,' said Madame Wharton; `what
fatal infatuation!'

“`Yes—it is infatuation. It is—madness,' said I;
`but never more shall your sight be polluted by the
presence of a wretch who must ever after be hated
and despised.'

“I turned to leave the room, when Lord Elkington
stood before me. He had seen the whole incident.
He is a demon—that man; and, as such, one
day I will pursue him. He advanced and took me
by the throat. I was a child in his grasp. He
dragged me to the door, and there struck me. The
ruffian struck me!” The poor fellow's face flushed
crimson at the recollection. “A blow! and before
her! I could not resent it. My life failed me. I
rushed out of the house. I fell senseless long before
I reached home. This is my story. I am dying.
I shall not long be here, to suffer a life which
has always been a shame and curse to me. Should
I ever recover, my first task shall be to be revenged
on Elkington. It is that alone which makes me
wish for life. It is his heart's blood which alone
can wash out the stain I have received. I have
now,” continued Rossi, sinking back exhausted on
his pillow, “given you my history, and I don't give
it you for nothing! I expect that you will supply
me with the comforts of life while life lasts. For
my part, if I could but end at once the existence
of Elkington and Ida—and my own—I should die

happy; and that is my nightly dream and my daily
prayer!”

It would be difficult to describe the emotion with
which Claude heard this long recital, and the secret
rapture which the passage concerning himself awakened
in his heart. He was, then, beloved. He
had but to present himself to Ida, and her innocent
and gentle nature would not conceal the impulses
of her soul. But the restraints upon him were invincible.
He felt that, instead of triumphing, he
ought to lament that he had so far won the affections
of a young girl, whom her happiness, as well
as his own duty, compelled him to desert, and to
seem to betray. There were some parts of the
narration, and particularly the manner of relating it,
which suggested the idea that Rossi was not yet
altogether in his right mind; and that, in its turn,
caused a doubt of the truth of the statement. He,
however, assured him and the landlord that every
care should be taken of him; that he might send in
bills to him to the amount of three thalers a week;
and that he would, in addition, procure him a physician,
and certain other comforts. The landlord, on
being called in, agreed to this proposition; and
Rossi discovering an inclination to sleep, Claude
gave his card to the host, begging him to send for
Doctor B— in his name, and to let him know in
case anything should occur. Thus having done
everything for the present which he could think of
towards satisfying both host and tenant, he retraced
his steps towards home.