"I will tell you, my good Father, most sincerely,"--I replied, seeing that the feelings of the Confessor were, in truth, most deeply interested; "Indeed I will give you an answer that will show you I speak without reserve. Did I not believe, then, that during the four or five days preceding the dreadful accident which lately happened, the mind of Monsieur de Villardin was decidedly deranged, I would not stay in his house another hour."
"It is enough, my son, it is enough," replied the Priest. "So thinks the physician,--and so he thinks himself," added the Confessor, in a lower tone; giving what he said more the appearance of a reflection addressed to himself than to me. "And yet," he continued, "his mind must have been dreadfully worked upon by others: at least, it would seem so from all that I can hear in the house."
"The more reason, Father," I replied, "for supposing that their irritating suggestions had affected his brain. People seldom go mad without some cause, unless they are very madly disposed indeed."
The Priest mused; and, after a long pause, he replied, "Well, well, let us always lean to the side of charity. We are all too fallible to judge rigidly."
I saw that the fear of approaching, even in the slightest degree, the facts which had been confided to him under the seal of confession, prevented Father Ferdinand from speaking with me more candidly upon a subject which occupied so great a part in the thoughts of both at that time. Of course I did not press the topic, and the conversation turned to other matters.
What I had said to him was, nevertheless, true; for certainly had I not believed that, for several days before the death of Madame de Villardin, the Duke himself had been positively insane, I would, without hesitation, have restored to him all his gifts, and would have quitted for ever a man to whom I could not help attaching, in my own mind, the darkest of suspicions. But his whole previous conduct had so firmly impressed me with the idea, that at no period between my return from St. Malo and the death of his unhappy wife, had he possessed the complete command of his own reason, that I felt him to be more an object of pity than of censure. Even more--regarding his conduct in this light, and looking upon him as one whose happiness had been cast away for ever, under the influence of mental disease, all that had occurred proved a strong, though mournful tie, which bound me to him more firmly than ever; and when I remembered the promise which I had so shortly before made to this unhappy lady who was now no more, I determined that no time nor circumstances should ever induce me to quit entirely the child that she had left, till I saw her hand given to some one who would have the right and power to protect her. I say that my determination was not to quit her entirely, because the conduct of Monsieur de Villardin towards me, since his recovery had been such, that I knew not whether he either desired my longer abode with him, or whether it was to be upon such terms as I could now alone endure.
Although no son could have attended upon a father with more care and anxiety than I had done upon him, yet he had scarcely addressed ten words to me since his convalescence began. Those that he had spoken, indeed, had always been kind and affectionate; and I had often caught his eyes fixed upon me with a look of intense interest,--mournful, perhaps painful, but still full of regard and feeling. Nevertheless, the strangeness of his silence, which I ought to have attributed to other causes, made me anxious and unhappy; and, as I was not a person to express any of that loud indignation for ill-requited kindness, which is sure to pile contempt upon ingratitude, I frequently thought of asking his permission, calmly and tranquilly, but firmly and urgently, to return to Paris, and to mingle in the scenes of strife and turmoil which were again beginning to agitate the unquiet capital of France.
I was saved, however, from the pain which such a request would have occasioned to us both. On the day following that in the course of which I had reason to believe he had relieved his bosom of the load that weighed upon his heart, and had poured forth both his sorrows and his faults to the ears of the Confessor, he beckoned me immediately after breakfast towards his library, and led the way thither himself. I followed, and closed the door; and as soon as I had done so, he put his hand upon my shoulder, and gazing in my face with an expression of deep grief, he said, "Why--why, my dear boy, did you save my life?--why--why did you preserve me to daily sorrow and continual regret?"
Although I was seldom destitute of a reply, his question might have been a painful one to answer, had not my conversations with Father Ferdinand given me altogether a new view of human life from that which I had formerly entertained.
"My lord," I answered, boldly, "every man, I have heard, has something to repent of in this world, and it is always better to have time here, where repentance avails us, than to go where it is a punishment instead of a penance."