“No, he buys it ready made,” replied the pacha; “and I must say I wish you had done the same; for, with all this love-making, you get on but slowly with your story. Proceed.”
I remained another week, when the bishop, who had not yet taken his departure, one morning drove over to Marseilles, and returned to dinner. “I was sent for,” observed he, as we sat down to table, “to consult as to the propriety of requesting from the Pope the canonisation of the Soeur Eustasie, of whom you have heard so much, and whose disappearance has been attributed to miraculous agency: but during our consultation, a piece of information was sent in, which has very much changed the opinion of parties as to her reputed sanctity. It appears that near the spot where the vessel was wrecked they have discovered the body of a woman dressed in man’s clothes; and it is now supposed that some miscreant has personified her at the convent, and has subsequently escaped. The officers of justice are making the strictest search; and if the individual is found, he will be sent to Rome to be disposed of by the Inquisition.”
As your highness may imagine, this was not very agreeable news: I almost started from my chair when I heard it; but I had sufficient mastery over myself to conceal my feelings, although every morsel that I put into my mouth nearly choked me.
But before dinner was over the plot thickened; a letter was brought to the marquis from my adopted father, the Comte de Rouillé, stating that such contradictory reports had been received, that he could not ascertain the truth. From one he heard that his eldest son was alive, and at the château; from others that he had been murdered; others congratulated him in their letters upon the escape of one of his sons. He requested the marquis to inform him of the real state of affairs, and to let him know by the bearer whether his eldest son was with him, or whether he had met with the unfortunate death that was reported; and as his youngest son was at home, and had been there for some months, he could not but imagine, as both of them were mentioned in the reports, that there might be some imposture in the business.
I perceived by the change of countenance in the marquis that affairs were not going well, and was to a certain degree prepared, when he gravely handed the letter to the bishop; who; having read it, passed it over to me, saying, with a stern look, “This concerns you, sir.” I read it with a composed countenance, and, returning it to the marquis, I observed with a sigh, “There is no kindness in such deception; the blow will only fall heavier upon the old man when it does come. You are aware, sir, I mentioned, it to you (or rather, I believe, it was to Mademoiselle Cerise), that my father is blind, and has been so for the last two years. They have been afraid to tell him the truth, and have made him believe that Victor is there. You must know, sir, that it was clandestinely that my dear brother quitted his father’s house to accompany me. Unhappy hour when I yielded to his intreaties! But, monsieur le marquis, I perceive that it is now imperative that I should go to my father; he will need the assurance of my existence to support him in his grief. I will therefore, with your permission, write a few lines by the bearer of this communication, and to-morrow morning at daylight must unwillingly tear myself away from your charming society.”
The cool and confident air with which I answered, removed suspicion; and having written a few lines to the comte, and requested from the marquis the loan of his seal, I applied the wax, and desired the servant to deliver it as an answer to the messenger, whom I was not sorry to see galloping by the window. “Oh,” cried I, “’tis Pierre: had I known that, I should have asked him some questions.”
This well-timed exclamation of mine, I perceived, did not fail to have its weight. We again sat down to table, and I was treated with more than usual kindness by the marquis and his brother, as if in compensation for their having, for a moment, harboured a suspicion of my honesty. But I was ill at ease; and I felt that I never had acted with more prudence than in proposing my early departure.
In the evening I was alone with Cerise. Since the news of my brother’s death, and the scene that followed, we had sworn unalterable love; and in that instance only was I sincere. I loved her to desperation, and I dote on her memory now, though years have rolled away, and she has long been mingled with the dead. Yes, Cerise, if from the regions of bliss, where thy pure spirit dwells, thou canst look down upon a wretch so loaded with guilt as I am, oh, turn not away with horror, but view with pity one who loved as fondly as man could love, and hereafter will care little for all that Paradise can offer if thy fair spirit must not bid him welcome!