[CHAPTER II.]
Oswald ceased for some minutes. Corinne had listened so tremblingly that she too was silent, fearful of retarding the moment when he would renew his narrative.—"I should have been happy," he continued, "had my acquaintance with Madame d'Arbigny ended there—had I never more set foot in France. But fate, or, rather perhaps my own weakness, has poisoned my life forever. Yes, dearest love! even beside you. I passed a year in Scotland with my father: our mutual tenderness daily increased. I was admitted into the sanctuary of that heavenly spirit; and, in the friendship that united us, tasted all the consanguine sympathies whose mysterious links belong to our whole being. I received most affectionate letters from Raimond, recounting the difficulties he found in transferring his property, so as to join me; but his perseverance in that aim was unwearied. I loved him for it; but what friend could I compare with my father? The reverence I felt for him never checked my confidence. I put my faith in his words as in those of an oracle; and the unfortunate indecision of my character was suspended while he spoke. 'Heaven has formed us for a love of what is venerable,' says an English author. My father knew not, could not know, to what degree I loved him; and my fatal conduct might well have taught him to doubt whether I loved him at all. Yet he pitied me, while dying, for the grief his loss would inflict. Ah, Corinne! I draw near the recital of my woes; lend my courage thy support, for in truth I need it"—"My dear friend," she answered, "be it some solace that you unveil your nobly sensitive heart before the being who most admires and loves you in the world." Nevil proceeded: "He sent me to London on business; and I left him without one warning fear, though never to see him again. He was more endearing than ever in our last conversation: it is said that the souls of the just, like flowers, breathe their richest balms at the approach of night. He embraced me with tears, saying, that at his age all partings were solemn; but I believed his life like mine: our souls understood each other so well; and I was too young to think upon his age. The fears and the confidence of strong affection are alike inexplicable: he accompanied me to the door of that old hall which I have since beheld desert and devastated, like my own heart. I had been but a week in London, when I received the cruel letter of which I remember every word: 'Yesterday, the 10th of August, my brother was massacred at the Tuileries, while defending his king. I am proscribed, and forced to fly, to hide from my persecutors. Raimond had taken all my fortune, with his own, to settle in England. Have you yet received it? or know you whom he trusted to remit it? I had but one line from him, written when the chateau was attacked, bidding me only apply to you, and I should know all. If you could come hither and remove me, you might save my life. The English still travel France in safety; but I cannot obtain a passport under my own name. If the sister of your hapless friend sufficiently interests you, my retreat may be learned at Paris of my relation, Monsieur Maltigues: but should you generously wish to aid me, lose not a moment; for it is said that war will shortly be declared between our two countries.' Imagine the effect this took on me! my friend murdered, his sister in despair, their fortune, she said, in my hands, though I had not received the least tidings of it; add to these circumstances, Madame d'Arbigny's danger, and belief that I could preserve her; it was impossible to hesitate. I sent a messenger to my father with her letter, and my promise to return in a fortnight; then set forth instantly. By the most distressing chance the man fell ill on the way, and my second letter, from Dover, reached my father before the first. Thus he knew of my flight, ere informed of its motives; and ere the explanation came, had taken an alarm which could not be dissipated. I arrived at Paris in three days, and found that Madame d'Arbigny had retired to a provincial town sixty leagues off; thither I followed her. We were both much agitated at meeting. She appeared more lovely in her distress than I had ever thought her—less artificial, less restrained. We wept together for her noble brother, and distracted country. I anxiously inquired as to her fortune. She told me that she had no news of it; but in a few days I learned that the banker to whom Count Raimond confided it, had returned it to him; and, what was more singular, a merchant of the town in which we were, who told me this by chance, assured me that Madame d'Arbigny never needed to have felt a moment's doubt of its safety. I could not understand this; went to ask her what it meant; and found M. Maltigues, who, with the readiest coolness, informed me that he had just brought from Paris intelligence of the banker's return, as, not having heard of him for a month, they had thought he was gone to England.[1] She confirmed her kinsman's statements, and I believed them; but, since, have recollected her pretexts for not showing me the note from Raimond, mentioned in her letter, and am now convinced that the whole was but a stratagem to secure me. It is certain that, as she was rich, no interested motives blended with her scheme; but her great fault lay in using address where love alone was required, and dissimulating when candor would better have served the cause of her sentimental enterprise: she loved me as much as those can love, who preconcert not only their actions but their feelings, and conduct an affair of the heart with the policy of a state intrigue. I formerly declared that I would never marry without my father's approval; yet I could not forbear betraying the transports her beauty and sadness excited. Her plan being to make me captive at any price, she let me perceive that she was not thoroughly resolved on repulsing my wishes. As I now retrace what passed between us, I am assured that she hesitated from motives quite independent of love and virtue; nay, that their apparent struggles were but her own secret deliberations. I was constantly alone with her; and my delicacy could not long resist the temptation. She imposed on me all the duties, in yielding me all the rights of a husband; yet displayed more remorse, perhaps, than she really felt; and thus so bound me to her, that I would fain have taken her to England, and implored my father's consent to our union; but she refused to quit France, unless as my wife. There she was wise, indeed; but, well knowing my filial resolutions, she erred in the means she used to retain me in spite mine every duty. When the war broke out, my desire to leave France became stronger, and her obstacles to it multiplied. She could obtain no passport; and if I went alone, her reputation would be ruined; nay, she should be doubly suspected, for her correspondence with me. This woman, so mild, so equable, in general, then gave way to a despair which perfectly overwhelmed me. She employed her wit and graces to please, her grief to intimidate me. Perhaps women are wrong in commanding by tears, enslaving by the strength of their weakness; yet, when they fear not to exert this weapon, it is nearly always victorious, at least for awhile. Doubtless, love is weakened by this sort of usurpation; and the power of tears, too frequently exerted, chills the imagination; but, at that time, there were a thousand excuses for them in France. Madame d'Arbigny's health, too, seemed daily to decrease: another terrible instrument of female tyranny is illness. Those who have not, like you, Corinne, a just reliance on their minds, or are not, like Englishwomen, so proudly modest that feigning is impossible, have always recourse to art; and the best we can then hope of them is that their deceit is caused by a real attachment. A third party was now blended with our connection,[2] Monsieur Maltigues. She pleased him; he asked nothing better than to marry her; though a speculative immorality rendered him indifferent to everything. He loved intrigue as a game, even while not interested in the stake; and seconded Madame d'Arbigny's designs on me, ready to desert this plot if occasion served for accomplishing his own. He was a man against whom I felt a singular repugnance; though scarcely thirty, his manners and person were remarkably hackneyed. In England, where we are accused of coldness, I never met anything comparable with the seriousness of his demeanor on entering a room. I should never have taken him for a Frenchman, if he had not possessed some taste and pleasantry, with a love of talking very extraordinary in a man who seemed sated of the world, and who carried that disposition to a system. He pretended that he was born a sensitive enthusiast, but that the knowledge of mankind he owed to the revolution had undeceived him. He perceived, he said, that there was nothing good on earth, save fortune, or power, or both; and that fine qualities must give way to circumstances. He practised on this theory cleverly enough; his only mistake lay in proclaiming it; but though he had not the national wish to please, he nevertheless desired to create some sensation, and that rendered him thus imprudent: he differed in these respects from Madame d'Arbigny, who sought to attain her end without betraying herself, or seeking to shine, even in her errors. What was most strange in these two persons is, that the ardent one could keep her secret, while the insensible knew not how to hold his tongue. Such as he was, Maltigues had a great ascendency over his relative; either he guessed it, or she told him all; for even from her habitual wariness, she required, now and then, to take breath, as it were, by an indiscretion. If Maltigues looked on her severely, she was always disturbed; if he seemed discontented, she would take him aside to ask the reason; if he went away angry, she almost instantly shut herself up to write to him. I explained this to myself from the fact of his having known her from her childhood; he had managed her affairs since she had lost all nearer ties; but the chief cause was her project, which I discovered too late, of marrying him, if I left her; for at no price would she pass for a deserted woman. Such a resolution might make you believe that she loved me not; yet love alone could have induced her preference: but through life she could mix calculation even with passion, and the factitious pretences of society with her natural feelings. She wept when she was agitated, but she could also weep because that was the way to express emotion. She was happy in being loved, because she loved, but also because it did her honor before the world. She had right impulses while left to herself, but could only enjoy them when they were rendered profitable to her self-love. She was a person formed for and by 'good company,' and made that false use even of truth itself, which is so often found in a country where a zeal for producing effect, by certain sentiments, is much stronger than the sentiments themselves. It was long since I had heard from my father, the war having cut off all communication. At last, chance favored the arrival of a letter,[3] in which he adjured me to return, in the name of my duty and his affection; at the same time declaring that, if I married Madame d'Arbigny, I should cause him the most fatal sorrow; begging me, at least, to decide on nothing until I had heard his advice. I replied to him instantly, giving my word of honor that I would shortly do as he required. Madame d'Arbigny tried, first prayers, then despondence, to detain me; and finding these fail, resorted to a fresh stratagem; but how could I then suspect it? She came to me one morning pale and dishevelled, threw herself into my arms as if dying with terror, and besought me to protect her. The order, she said, was come for her arrest, as sister to Count Raimond, and I must find her some asylum from her pursuers; at this time women, indeed, were not spared, and all kinds of horrors appeared probable. I took her to a merchant devoted to my interest, and hoped to save her, as only Maltigues shared the secret of her retreat. In such a situation, how could I avoid feeling a lively interest in her fate? how separate myself from her? how say: 'You depend on my support, and I withdraw it?' Nevertheless, my father's image continually haunted me, and I took many occasions to intreat her leave for setting forth alone; but she threatened to give herself up to the assassins if I quitted her, and twice, at noonday, rushed from the house in a frantic state that overwhelmed me with grief and fear. I followed, vainly conjuring her to return; fortunately it happened (unless by conspiracy) that each time we were met by Maltigues, who brought her back with reproaches on her rashness. Of course, I resigned myself to stay, and wrote to my father, accounting, as well as I could, for my conduct; though I blushed at being in France, amid the outrages then acting there, while that country, too, was at war with my own. Maltigues often rallied me on my scruples; but, clever as he was, he did not perceive the effect of his jests, which revived all the feelings he sought to extinguish. Madame d'Arbigny, however, remarked this; but she had no influence over her kinsman, who was often decided by caprice, if self-interest was absent. She relapsed into her griefs, both real and assumed, to melt me; and was never more attractive than while fainting at my feet; for she knew how to heighten her beauty as well as her other charms, and wedded each to some emotion in order to subdue me. Thus did I live, ever anxious, ever vacillating, trembling when I received no letter from my father, still more wretched when I did; enchained by my infatuation for Madame d'Arbigny, still more dreading her violence; for, by a strange inconsistency, though the gentlest, and often the gayest of women, habitually she was the most terrible person in a scene. She wished to bind me both by pleasure and by fear, and thus always transformed her nature to her use. One day, in September, 1793, more than a year after my coming to France, I had a brief letter from my father; but its few words were so afflicting, that I must spare myself their repetition, Corinne; it would too much unman me. He was already ill, though he did not say so; his pride and delicacy forbade; but his letter breathed so much distress, both on account of my absence, and of my possible marriage, that, while reading it, I wondered how I could have been so long blind to the misfortunes with which I was menaced. I was now, however, sufficiently awakened to hesitate no more, and went to Madame d'Arbigny, perfectly decided to take leave of her. She perceived this, and at once retiring within herself, rose, saying: 'Before you go, you ought to be informed of a secret which I blush to avow. If you abandon me, it is not me alone you kill. The fruit of my guilty love will perish with me.' Nothing can describe my sensations; that new, that sacred duty, absorbed my whole soul, and made me more submissively her slave than ever. I would have married her at once, but for the ruinous consequences that must have befallen me, as an Englishman, in then and there giving my name to the civil authorities. I deferred our union, therefore, till we could fly to England, and determined never to leave my victim till then. At first, this calmed her; but she soon renewed her complaints against me, for not braving all impediments to make her my wife. I should shortly have bent to her will, for I had fallen into the deepest melancholy, and passed whole days alone, without power to move—a prey to an idea which I never confessed to myself, though its persecution was incessant. I had a forboding of my father's illness, which I considered a weakness unworthy of belief. My reason was so bewildered by the shock my mistress had dealt me, that I now combated my sense of duty as a passion; and that which I might have then thought my passion, tormented me as a duty. Madame d'Arbigny was perpetually writing me entreaties to visit her; at last I went, but did not speak on the subject which gave her such rights over me: indeed, she now less frequently alluded to it herself than I expected; but my sufferings were too great for me to remark that at the time. Once, when I had kept my house for three days, writing twenty letters to my father, and tearing them all, M. Maltigues, who seldom sought me, came, deputed by his cousin, to tear me from my solitude. Though little interested in the success of his embassy, as you will discover, he entered before I had time to conceal that my face was bathed in tears. 'What is the use of all this, my dear boy?' he said; 'either leave my cousin, or marry her. The one step is as good as the other, each being conclusive.'—'There are situations in life,' replied I, 'where even by sacrificing one's self, one may not be able to fulfil every duty.'—'That is, there ought to be no such sacrifice,' he added. 'I know of no circumstances in which it is necessary; with a little address, one may back out of anything. Management is the queen of the world.'—'I covet no such ability,' said I; 'but at least would wish, in resigning myself to unhappiness, to afflict no one that I love.'—'Have nothing to do, then, with the intricate work they call love; it is a sickness of the soul. I am attacked by it at times, like any one else; but when it so happens, I tell myself that it shall soon be over, and always keep my word.' Seeking to deal, like himself, with generalities—for I neither could nor would confide in him—I answered: 'Do what we will with love, we cannot banish honor and virtue, that often oppose our inclination.'—'If you mean, by honor, the necessity for fighting when insulted, there can be no doubt on that head; but, in other respects, what interest have we in allowing ourselves to be perplexed by a thousand fastidious chimeras?'—'Interest!' I repeated; 'that is not the word in question.'—'To speak seriously,' he returned, 'there are few men who have a clear view of this subject. I know they formerly talked of honorable misfortunes, and glorious falls; but now that all men are persecuted, knaves as well as those by courtesy called honest, the only difference is between the birds who are trapped, and those who escape.'—'I know of other distinctions,' I replied, 'where prosperity is despised, and misfortune honored by the good.'—'Show me the good, though,' he said, 'whose courageous esteem would console you for your own destruction. On the contrary, the self-elected virtuous are those who excuse you if happy, and love you if powerful. It is very fine in you, no doubt, to repent thwarting a father, who ought no longer to meddle with your affairs; yet, do anything rather than linger where you may lose your life in a thousand ways. For my part, whatever happens to me, I would, at any price, spare, my friends the sight of my sufferings, and myself their long faces of condolence.'—'In my opinion,' interrupted I, 'the aim of an honest man's life is not the happiness which serves only himself, but the virtue which is useful to others.'—'Virtue!' exclaimed Maltigues, 'virtue——' he hesitated for a moment, then, with more decision, continued; 'that's a language for the vulgar, that even priests cannot talk between themselves without laughing. There are good souls whom certain harmonious words still move; for their sakes let the tune be played: all the poetry that they call conscience and devotion was invented to console those who cannot get on in the world, like the de profundis that is sung for the dead, The living and the prosperous are by no means ambitious of like homage.' I was so irritated that I could not help saying, haughtily, 'I shall be sorry, sir, when I have a right in the house of Madame d'Arbigny, if she persists in receiving a man who thinks and speaks as you do.'—'When that time comes,' he answered, 'you may act as you please; but if my cousin is led by me, she will never marry a man who looks forward in such affright to his union with her. I have always, as she can tell you, censured her folly, and the means she has wasted on an object so little worth her trouble,' At these words, which their accent rendered still more insulting, I made him a sign to follow me; and, on our way, it is but justice to tell you that he continued to develop his system with the greatest possible coolness: he might be no more in a few minutes, yet said not one serious, one feeling word. 'If I had been addicted to all the absurdities of other young men,' he pursued, 'would not what I have seen in my own country have cured me? When has your scrupulousness done you any good?'—'I agree with you,' said I, 'that in your country, at present, it is of less utility than elsewhere; but in time, or beyond time, each man has his reward,'—'Oh, if you include Heaven in your calculations——'—'And And why not? One or other of us, perhaps, will soon know what it means.'—'If I die,' he laughed forth, 'I am sure I shall know nothing about it; if you are killed, you won't come back to enlighten me.' I now remembered that I had taken no precautions for informing my father of my probable fate, or making over to Madame d'Arbigny part of my fortune, on which I thought she had claims. We drew near Maltigues's house, and I asked leave to write two letters there: he assented. As we resumed our route, I gave them to him, and recommended Madame d'Arbigny to him, as to a friend of hers on whom I could rely. This proof of confidence touched him; for, be it observed, to the glory of honesty, that the most candid profligates are much flattered if they chance to receive a mark of esteem; our relative position, too, was grave enough to have affected even him; but as he would not for worlds have had me guess this, he said jestingly, though I believe prompted by deeper feelings: 'You are a good fellow, my dear Nevil; I'd fain do something generous by you; it may bring me luck, as they say; and truly generosity is so babyish a quality, that it ought to be better paid in Heaven than on earth. But ere I serve you, our conditions must be made plain, say what I will—we fight, nevertheless.' I returned a disdainful consent, for I thought such preface unnecessary. Maltigues proceeded, in his cold, careless way: 'Madame d'Arbigny does not suit you; you are in no way congenial; your father would be in despair if you made such a match, and you would run mad at having distressed him; therefore it would be better, if I live, that I should marry the lady; if you kill me, still better that she should marry another; for my cousin is so highly sagacious, even while in love, that she never fails to provide against the chance of being loved no longer. All this you will learn by her letters. I bequeath them to you: here is the key of my desk. I have been her intimate ever since she was born; and you know that, mysterious as she is, she has no secrets with me—little dreaming that I should ever tell; it is true I feel no impulse hurry me on, but I do not attach much importance to these things; and I think that we men may say what we like to each other about women. Also, if I die, it is to her bright eyes that I shall owe such accident; and though I am quite ready to die for her, with a good grace, I am not too obliged by the situation in which her double intrigue has placed me; for the rest, it is not quite sure that you will kill me.' So saying, as we were now beyond the town, he drew his sword, and stood upon his guard. He had spoken with singular vivacity. I was confounded by what I had heard. The approach of danger, instead of agitating, animated him; and I knew not whether he had betrayed the truth, or invented a falsehood out of revenge. In this suspense I was very careful of his life; he was not so adroit a swordsman as myself; ten times might I have run him through the breast, but I contented myself with slightly wounding and disarming him; he seemed sensible of this. I led him to his own house, and brought him back to the conversation which our duel had interrupted. He then said: 'I am vexed at having so treated my cousin; but peril is like wine, it gets into one's head; yet, I can now excuse myself; it rested with you to kill me, and you spared my life; you could not be happy with her, she is too cunning; now to me that is nothing; for, charmed as I am both with her mind and person, she can never do anything to my disadvantage, and we shall be of service to each other when marriage makes a common interest. But you are romantic, and would be her dupe, therefore I cannot refuse the letters I promised you—read them, start for England, and do not worry yourself too much as to Madame d'Arbiguy's regrets. She will weep, because she loves you, but she will soon be comforted; she is too rational a woman to be long unhappy, or, above all, to appear so. In three months she shall be Madame de Maltigues.' All that he told me was proved true by her correspondence with him. I felt convinced that her blushing confession was a falsity, used but to force me into marriage. This was the basest imposition she had practised on me. She certainly loved me, for she even told Maltigues so; yet flattered him with such art, left him so much to hope, and studied to please him in a character so contrasted from that she had ever worn for me, that it was impossible to doubt her intention of marrying him, if her union with me was prevented. Such was the woman, Corinne, who had forever wrecked the peace of my heart and conscience. I wrote to her ere I departed, and saw her no more. As Maltigues predicted, I have since heard that she became his wife. But I was far from having tasted the bitterest drop that awaited me. I hoped to obtain my father's pardon; sure that, when I told him how I had been misled, he would love me the more, the more pitiable I became. After above a month's journey, by night and day, I crossed Germany, and arrived in England, full of confidence in the inexhaustible bounty of paternal love. Corinne, I had scarce landed, when a public paper informed me that my father was no more. Twenty months have passed since that moment, yet it is ever present, like a pursuing phantom. The letters that formed the words: 'Lord Nevil has just expired,' are written in flames, to which those of the volcano before us are nothing. I heard that he died of grief at my absence in France; fearing that I should renounce my military career, that I should marry a woman of whom he had an indifferent opinion, and settle in a country at war with my own, entirely forfeiting my reputation as an Englishman. Corinne, Corinne! am I not a parricide? Tell me."—"No," she cried, "no; you are only unfortunate; your generosity involved you. I respect as much as I love you; judge yourself by my heart; make that your conscience! Your grief distracts you: believe one who loves you from no illusion—it is because you are the best, the most affectionate of men, that I adore you."—"Corinne," said Oswald, "these tributes are not due to me; though, perhaps, I am less guilty than I think; my father pardoned me before he died. I found the last address he wrote me full of tenderness. A letter from me had reached him, somewhat to my justification; but the evil was done; his heart was broken. When I returned to the Hall, his old servants thronged round me; I repulsed their consolations, and accused myself to them. I knelt at his tomb, swearing, if time for atonement yet were left me, that I would never marry without his consent. Alas! I promised to one who was no more; what now availed my ravings? I ought, at least, to consider them as engagements to do nothing which he would have disapproved had he lived. Corinne, dear love! why are you thus depressed? He might command me to renounce a woman who owed to her own artifice the power she exerted over me; but the most sincere, natural, and generous of her sex, for whom I feel my first true love, which purifies instead of misguiding my soul, why should a heavenly being wish to separate me from her?
"On entering my father's room, I saw his cloak, his footstool, and his sword still in their wonted stations, though his place was vacant, and I called on him in vain. This memento of his thoughts alone replied. You already know a part of it," Oswald added, giving the manuscript to Corinne. "Read what he wrote on the Duty of Children to their Parents: your sweet voice, perhaps, may familarize me with the words." She thus obeyed:——
"Ah, how slight a cause will teach self-mistrust to a father or mother in the decline of life! They are easily taught that they are no longer wanted on earth. What use can they believe themselves to you, who no longer ask their advice! ye live but in the present; ye are wedded to it by your passions, and all that belongs not to that present appears to you superannuated;—ye are so much occupied by your young hearts and minds, that, making your own day your point of history, the eternal resemblances between men and their times escape your attention. The authority of experience seems but a vain fiction, formed for the credulity of age, as the last enjoyment of its self-love. What an error is this!
"That vast theatre, the world, changes not its actors: it is always man who appears there, though he varies; and as all his changes depend on some great passion, whose circle hath long and oft been trod, it would be strange, if in the little combinations of private life, experience, the science of the past, were not the plenteous source of useful instruction. Honor your fathers and mothers, then! respect them, if but for the sake of their bygone reign, the time of which they were the only rulers—if but for the years forever lost, whose reverent seal is imprinted on their brows. Know your duty, presumptuous children, impatient to walk alone on the path of life. They will leave you, do not fear, though so tardy in yielding you place: that father, whose discourses are still tainted by unwelcome severity; that mother, whose age imposes on you such tedious cares. They will go, those watchful guardians of your childhood, these zealous protectors of your youth, they will depart, and you will seek in vain for better friends: when they are lost, they will wear new aspects; for time, which makes the living old before our eyes, renews their youth when death has torn them away. Time then lends them a might unknown before: we see them in our visions of eternity, wherein there is no age, as there are no gradations; and if they have left virtuous memories behind, we adorn them with a ray from heaven: our thoughts follow them to the home of the elect; we see them in scenes of felicity, and, beside the bright beams of which we form their glory, the light of our own best days, our own most dazzling triumphs, is extinguished."[4] "Corinne!" cried Nevil, almost heart-broken, "think you it was against me he breathed that eloquent complaint?"—"No, no," she replied: "remember how he loved you, and believed in your affection. I am of opinion that these reflections were written long ere you committed the faults with which you reproach yourself. Listen rather to these thoughts on indulgence, that I find some pages later: 'We go through life surrounded by snares and with unsteady steps; our senses are seduced by deceptive allurements; our imaginations mislead us by a false glare; our reason itself each day receives but from experience the degree of light and confidence for that day required. So many dangers for so much weakness; so many varied interests with such limited foresight and capacity; in sooth, so many things unknown, and so short a life, show us the high rank we should give to indulgence among the social virtues. Alas! where is the man exempt from foibles, who can look back on his life without regret and remorse? He must be a stranger to the agitations of timidity, and never can have examined his own heart in the solitude of conscience.'[5]
"These," said Corinne, "are the words your father addresses to you from above."—"True," sighed Oswald, "consoling angel! how you cheer me; yet could I but have see him for a moment, ere he died—could I have said how unworthy of him I felt myself, and been believed, I should not tremble like the guiltiest of mankind. I should not evince the vacillation of conduct and gloom of soul which can promise happiness to no one. Courage must be born of conscience; how then should it triumph over her? Even now, as the darkness closes in, methinks I see, in yon cloud, the thunderbolt that is armed against me. Corinne, Corinne! comfort your unhappy lover, or leave me on the earth, which, perhaps, will open at my cries, and let me descend to the abode of death."[6]
[1] This is the less clear for being literal. I cannot comprehend how the banker's return should concern Madame d'Arbigny, if he had previously restored Raimond's fortune; nor who possessed it.—TR.
[2] The lady's professed aversion to a third party in her attachments seems unaccountably reversed.—TR.