The solitude of his prison; the pious conversations of his friend; and, above all, the presence of death, which, like the light of an unknown star, paints in other colors the objects we are accustomed to see; meditations on eternity; and (shall we say it?) the great efforts he had made to change his heartrending regrets into immortal hopes, and to direct to God all that power of love which had led him astray upon earth-all this combined had worked a strange revolution in him; and like those ears of corn which ripen suddenly on receiving one ray from the sun, his soul had acquired light, exalted by the mysterious influence of death.
“Just Heaven!” he repeated, “if this wretch and his master are human, can I also be a man? Behold, O God, behold two distinct ambitions—the one egoistical and bloody, the other devoted and unstained; theirs roused by hatred, and ours inspired by love. Look down, O Lord, judge, and pardon! Pardon, for we have greatly erred in walking but for a single day in the same paths which, on earth, possess but one name to whatever end it may tend!”
Joseph interrupted him harshly, stamping his foot on the ground:
“When you have finished your prayer,” said he, “you will perhaps inform me whether you will assist me; and I will instantly—”
“Never, impure wretch, never!” said Henri d’Effiat. “I will never unite with you in an assassination. I refused to do so when powerful, and upon yourself.”
“You were wrong; you would have been master now.”
“And what happiness should I find in my power when shared as it must be by a woman who does not understand me; who loved me feebly, and prefers a crown?”
“Inconceivable folly!” said the Capuchin, laughing.
“All with her; nothing without her—that was my desire.”
“It is from obstinacy and vanity that you persist; it is impossible,” replied Joseph. “It is not in nature.”