"At these words Paul seized her in his arms, and, holding her pressed fast to his bosom, cried, in a piercing tone, 'I will go with her; nothing shall divide us.' We ran towards him, and Madame de la Tour said to him, 'My son, if you go, what will become of us?'
"He, trembling, repeated the words, 'My son:—My son'—You my mother,' cried he; 'you, who would separate the brother from the sister! We have both been nourished at your bosom; we have both been reared upon your knees; we have learnt of you to love each other; we have said so a thousand times; and now you would separate her from me! You send her to Europe, that barbarous country which refused you an asylum, and to relations by whom you were abandoned. You will tell me that I have no right over her, and that she is not my sister. She is everything to me, riches, birth, family, my sole good; I know no other. We have had but one roof, one cradle, and we will have but one grave. If she goes, I will follow her. The governor will prevent me! Will he prevent me from flinging myself into the sea? Will he prevent me from following her by swimming? The sea cannot be more fatal to me than the land. Since I cannot live with her, at least I will die before her eyes; far from you, inhuman mother! woman without compassion! May the ocean, to which you trust her, restore her to you no more! May the waves, rolling back our corpses amidst the stones of the beach, give you, in the loss of your two children, an eternal subject of remorse!'
"At these words I seized him in my arms, for despair had deprived him of reason. His eyes flashed fire, big drops of sweat hung upon his face, his knees trembled, and I felt his heart beat violently against his burning bosom.
"Virginia, affrighted, said to him, 'Oh, my friend, I call to witness the pleasures of our early age, your sorrow and my own, and every thing that can forever bind two unfortunate beings to each other, that if I remain, I will live but for you; that if I go, I will one day return to be yours. I call you all to witness, you who have reared my infancy, who dispose of my life, who see my tears. I swear by that Heaven which hears me, by the sea which I am going to pass, by the air I breathe, and which I never sullied by a falsehood.'
"As the sun softens and dissolves an icy rock upon the summit of the Apennines, so the impetuous passions of the young man were subdued by the voice of her he loved. He bent his head, and a flood of tears fell from his eyes. His mother, mingling her tears with his, held him in her arms, but was unable to speak. Madame de la Tour, half distracted, said to me, 'I can bear this no longer. My heart is broken. This unfortunate Voyage shall not take place. Do take my son home with you. It is eight days since any one here has slept.'
"I said to Paul, 'My dear friend, your sister will remain. To-morrow we will speak to the governor; leave your family, to take some rest, and come and pass the night with me.'
"He suffered himself to be led away in silence; and, after a night of great agitation, he arose at break of day, and returned home.
"But why should I continue any longer the recital of this history? There is never but one aspect of human life which we can contemplate with pleasure. Like the globe upon which we revolve, our fleeting course is but a day: and if one part of that day be visited by light, the other is thrown into darkness."
"Father," I answered, "finish, I conjure you, the history which you have begun in a manner so interesting. If the images of happiness are most pleasing, those of misfortune are more instructive. Tell me what became of the unhappy young man."
"The first object which Paul beheld in his way home was Mary, who, mounted upon a rock, was earnestly looking towards the sea. As soon as he perceived her, he called to her from a distance, 'Where is Virginia?' Mary turned her head towards her young master, and began to weep. Paul, distracted, and treading back his steps, ran to the harbour. He was there informed, that Virginia had embarked at break of day, that the vessel had immediately after set sail, and could no longer be discerned. He instantly returned to the plantation, which he crossed without uttering a word.