Not very fond am I of painting disagreeable pictures of human nature; but yet one can not shut one's eyes; and if it has been our misfortune to be in any spot or neighborhood where something very wicked has been perpetrated, the sums of pleasure and of pain produced are forced into the two scales, where we may weigh them both together, if we choose but to raise the balance. Take the worst case that ever was known: a murder which has deprived a happy family--four young children and an amiable wife--of a father and a husband--poor things, they must have suffered sadly, and the father not a little, while his brains were being knocked out. 'Tis a great amount of evil, doubtless. But now let us look at the other side of the account. While they are weeping, one near neighbor is telling the whole to another near neighbor, and both are in that high state of ecstasy which is called a terrible excitement. They are horrified, very true; but, say what they will, they are enjoying it exceedingly. It has stirred up for them the dull pond of life, and broken up the duckweed on the top. Nor is the enjoyment confined to them. Every man, woman, and child in the village has his share of it. Not only that, but wider and wider, through enlarging circles round, newspapers thrive on it, tea-tables delight in it, and multitudes rejoice in the "Barbarous Murder!" that has lately been committed. I say nothing of the lawyers, the constables, the magistrates, the coroner. I say nothing of the augmented gratuities to the one, or the increased importance of the other; of the thousands who grin and gape with delight at the execution; but I speak merely of the pleasure afforded to multitudes by the act itself, and the report thereof. Nor is this merely a circle spreading round on one plane, such as is produced by a stone dropped into the water, but it is an augmenting globe, the increment of which is infinite. The act of the criminal is chronicled for all time, affords enjoyment to remote posterity, and benefits a multitude of the unborn generation. The newspaper has it first; the romance writer takes it next; it is a subject for the poet--a field for the philosopher; and adds a leaf to the garland of the tragic dramatist.
What would the world have done if Macbeth had not murdered Duncan, or Œdipus had not done a great many things too disagreeable to mention?
This is a wicked world, undoubtedly; but, nevertheless, the most virtuous enjoy its wickedness very much, in some shape or another.
The above is my short excuse for deviating from my usual course, as I am about to do, and betraying, as I must, some of the little secret tricks of a science of great gravity practiced in former days by bearded men, but now fallen into the hands of old women and Egyptians.
Jean Charost, in issuing forth from the Duke of Burgundy's presence, found Martin Grille in a deplorable state of anxiety concerning him, and, to say the truth, not without cause. It was in vain, however, that the poor man endeavored to draw his young master into some secret corner to confer with him apart. The whole house was occupied by the attendants of the Duke of Burgundy or of Madame De Giac; and, although the young secretary felt some need of thought and counsel, he soon saw that the only plan open to him was to mount his horse as speedily as possible and quit the inn. Armand Chauvin, the courier or chevaucheur; of the Duke of Orleans, was sitting in the wide hall of the inn, with a pot of wine before him, apparently taking note of nothing, but, in reality, listening to and remarking every thing that passed; and toward him Jean Charost advanced, after having spoken a single word to Martin Grille.
"The horses must be rested by this time, Armand," said the young gentleman, aloud. "You had better get them ready, and let us go on."
"Certainly, sir," replied the man, rising at once; and then, quickly passing by the young gentleman, he added, in a whisper, "They are saddled and bridled; follow quick. The horseboys are paid."
Jean Charost paused for a moment, spoke a word or two, in a quiet tone, to Martin Grille, with the eyes of a dozen men, in all sorts of dresses, upon them, and then sauntered out to the door of the inn. The stable was soon reached, the horses soon mounted, and, in less than five minutes after he had quitted the presence of the Duke of Burgundy, Jean Charost was once more upon the road to Blois.
Twice the young gentleman looked back up the street in the clear moonlight. Nobody was seen following; but he could hear some loud calls, as if from the stables of the inn, and turning to the courier, he said, "I fear our horses are not in fit case to ride a race to-night."
"I think not, sir," replied the man, briefly. "We had better get out of the town, and then turn into a wood."