What they were exactly, and to what extent they went, I could not recall to memory; but it was enough that they were, in some shape, evidences of that which already to my own mind was assuming the character of a delusion.
To this faint chance I now attached myself with a last effort of desperation. Some clew might possibly be found in these papers to guide my search, and my whole thoughts were now bent upon obtaining them. With this object I sat down and wrote a few most respectful lines to the minister, stating the nature of my request, and humbly excusing myself for the intrusion on his attention. A week passed over,—a week of almost starvation,—and yet no reply reached me. I now wrote again more pressingly than before, adding that my circumstances did not admit of delay, and that if, by any mischance, the papers had been lost or mislaid, I still would entreat his Excellency's kindness to—I believe I said recall what he could remember of these documents, and thus supply the void left by their loss. This letter shared the same fate as my former one. I wrote a third time, I knew not in what terms, for I wrote late at night, after a day of mad and fevered impatience. I had fasted for nigh two entire days. An intense thirst never ceased to torture me; and as I wandered wildly here and there, my state alternated between fits of cold shuddering, and a heat that seemed to be burning my very vitals. The delusions of that terrible interval were, doubtless, the precursors of actual madness. I bethought me of every torture I had ever heard of,—of all the sufferings martyrdom had ever borne, but to which death came at last as the comforter; but to me no such release seemed possible. I felt as though I had done all that should invoke it. “Want—sickness—suffering—despair,—are these not enough,” I asked myself,—“must guilt and self-murder be added to the terrible list?” And it was, I remember, with a kind of triumphant pride I determined against this. “If mankind reject me,” said I,—“if they make of me an outcast and a victim, on them shall lie all the shame and all the sin. Enough for me the misery,—I will not have the infamy of my death!”
I have said I wrote a third letter; and to make sure of its coming to hand, I walked with it to Hounslow. The journey occupied me more than half the night, for it was day when I arrived. I delivered it into the hands of a servant, and, saying that I should wait for the answer, I sat down upon a stone bench beside the door. Overcome with fatigue, and utterly exhausted, I fell off asleep,—a sound and, strange to say, delicious sleep, with calm and pleasant dreams. From this I was aroused by a somewhat rude shake, and on looking up saw that a considerable number of persons were around me.
“Stand up, my good fellow,” cried a man, who, though in plain clothes and unarmed, proclaimed by his manner of command that he was in authority; “stand up, if you please.”
I made an effort to obey, but sank down again upon the bench, faint and exhausted.
“He wants a drink of water,” cried one.
“He wants summut to eat,—that's what he wants,” said a laboring man in front of me.
“We'll take him where he'll be properly looked after,” said the first speaker. “Just stand back, good people, and leave me to deal with him.” The crowd retired as he spoke, while, coming nearer, he bent down towards me and said, “Is your name Paul Gervois?”
“I have gone by that name,” I replied.
“And is this in your handwriting?—Mind, you need n't say so if you don't like; I only ask the question out of curiosity.”