But how was he to recover the cheque? It was valid in her hands: for even if she had connived at her mother’s forgery, the collusion could not be brought home to her. Still, the Marquis did not at all admire the idea of paying another sixty thousand—especially for one who had so grossly deluded him.
By degrees the old nobleman’s thoughts became so bewildering that he felt as if he were going mad. He had lost his daughter—he had lost his mistress—he had been duped out of his money—and, vile though Laura evidently was, he nevertheless still adored her image with a devouring passion.
He walked up and down his room in a state of excitement that was increasing cruelly, and that produced a hurry in the brain—a confusion in the ideas—a delirium in the imagination.
The fever of his reflections augmented to such a height that he began to conjure up a variety of evils and annoyances which did not really exist. He pictured to himself his bankers laughing heartily at his folly—retelling the scandal as an excellent joke—and propagating the most offensive rumours all over the town. He fancied that he beheld his friends and acquaintances endeavouring to conceal their satirical smiles as they accosted him—he beheld the entire House of Lords forgetting their dignity and whispering together in a significant manner as he entered the assembly. Then his thoughts suddenly travelled to Agnes; and all his ancient doubts and fears relative to his paternity in respect to her, returned with overpowering violence; until he felt convinced that she was indeed the offspring of an adulterous connexion between his wife and Sir Gilbert Heathcote. Lastly, by a rapid transition, his imagination wandered to the abode of the Count and Countessa of Carignano; and he pictured the lovely—seducing—voluptuous Laura in the arms of a rival!
All these reflections maddened the old man—deprived him of his reason—rendered him desperate—and made life appear to him a burthen of anguish and an intolerable misfortune.
He did not remember his boundless wealth—his proud titles—his stately mansions—and all the means of pleasure, enjoyment, and solace that were within his reach: his morbid condition of mind obtained such a potent sway over him, that he only saw in himself a lone—desolate—wretched old man,—deprived of his daughter—deprived of his mistress—deprived of his money—and with the myriad fingers of scorn pointing towards him.
Though the sun was shining joyously, and its golden beams penetrated into the chamber through the opening in the rich drapery,—yet all seemed dark—dreary—and cheerless to the miserable Marquis of Delmour: his powerful intellect—his vigorous understanding—his moral courage, were all subdued—crushed—overwhelmed beneath a weight of trifling realities and tremendous fancies.
In this state of mind the miserable man suddenly rushed to his toilette-case—seized his razor—and inflicted a ghastly wound upon his throat.
At the same instant that he fell—the blood pouring forth like a torrent—a valet entered the room, bearing a letter upon a silver tray.