“I had left with De Beauvais some few relics of my dear brother, hoping you would accept them for his sake. General d'Auvergne's sword,—the same he wore at Jena,—he desired might be conveyed to you when you left the service. These, and this ring,” said she, endeavoring to withdraw a rich brilliant from her finger, “are the few souvenirs I would ask you to keep for their sakes, and for mine. You mean to return to England, sir?”
“Yes, Madame; that is, I had intended,—I know not now whither I shall go. Country has few ties for one like me.”
“I, too, must be a wanderer,” said she, half musingly, while still she endeavored to remove the ring from her finger. “I find,” said she, smiling, “I must give you another keepsake; this will not leave me.”
“Give it me, then, where it is,” said I. “Yes, Marie! the devotion of a heart, wholly yours, should not go unrewarded. To you I owe all that my life has known of happiness,—to memory of you, every high and noble hope. Let me not, after years of such affection, lose the guiding star of my existence,—all that I have lived for, all that I love!”
These words, poured forth with all the passionate energy which a last hope inspires, were followed by a story of my long-concealed love. I know not how incoherently the tale was told; I cannot say how often I interrupted my own recital by some appeal to the past,—some half-uttered hope that she had seen the passion which burned within me. I can but remember the bursting feeling of my bosom, as she placed her hand in mine, and said,—
“It is yours!”
These words ended the story of a life whose trials were many, and encountered at an age in which few have braved the world's cares. The lessons I had learned, however, were acquired in that school,—adversity,—where few are taught in vain; and if the morning of my life broke in clouds and shadow, the noon has been not less peaceful and bright. And the evening, as it draws near, comes with an aspect of calm tranquillity, ample enough to recompense every vicissitude of those early days when the waves of fortune were roughest.
A PARTING WORD.
Dear Friends,—Time has hallowed the custom of a word at
parting, and I am unwilling to relinquish the privilege. In
the tale I have just concluded, my endeavor was to portray,
with as little aid from fiction as might be, some lights and
shadows of the most wonderful and eventful period of modern
history,—the empire of Napoleon. The character I selected
for my hero was not all imaginary, neither were many of the
scenes, which bear less apparent proofs of reality. The
subject was one long meditated on before undertaken; but as
the work proceeded, I felt at some places, the difficulty of
creating interest for persons, and incidents removed both by
time and country from my reader; and at others, my own
inadequacy to an effort, which mere zeal could never
accomplish. These causes induced me to deviate from the plan
I originally set down for my guidance; and combined with
failing health, have rendered what might have been a matter
of interest and amusement to the writer, a task of labor and
anxiety.
It is the first time I have had to ask my reader's
indulgence on such grounds; nor should I now allude to it,
save as affording the only apology I can render for the many
defects in a story, which, in defiance of me, took its
coloring from my own mind at the period, rather from the
reflex of the events I related.
The moral of my tale is simple,—the fatal influence crude
and uncertain notions of liberty will exercise over a
career, which, under happier direction of its energies, had
won honor and distinction, and the impolicy of the effort,
to substitute an adopted for a natural allegiance.
My estimate of Napoleon may seem to some to partake of
exaggeration; but I have carefully distinguished between the
Hero and the Emperor, and have not suffered my unqualified
admiration of the one to carry me on to any blind devotion
of the other.
Having begun this catalogue of excuses and explanations, I
know not where to stop. So, once more asking forgiveness for
all the errors of these volumes, I beg to subscribe myself,
in great respect and esteem,
Your humble and obedient servant,
Harry Lorrequer.
Templeogue House,
August 26th, 1844.