“ ’Twas from a French gentleman I had it, sir,” says I, “on my leaving St Thomas.”
“Sir,” says he, laying aside his work and looking upon me eagerly, “you have visited St Thomas? You are acquainted with the French inhabitants there, with my lord Marquis of Tourvel, with mademoiselle his daughter, perhaps?” regarding me all the while with such an air as made me think of some poor wretch that hath been slowly starved, and sees food brought suddenly within his reach. But I was minded to try him further, and so said, as if angry—
“I have the honour of that lady’s acquaintance, sir. May I ask by what right you inquire concerning her?”
“By what right?” cries he, prodigious angry, and I had almost looked for him to strike me. “By the highest right of all, sir. Mademoiselle de Tourvel is my betrothed wife.”
“Sir,” said I, “I ask your pardon. I conceive then that you are my lord Viscount de Galampré, of whom I heard while at St Thomas.”
“The same, sir, at your service,” saith he, but quickly, as though it mattered not. “Tell me concerning ’em, I entreat you. For four years I han’t received any news of ’em. Are they still at St Thomas, or no?”
I perceived then that he had never so much as heard of the fall of that place, and took pains immediately to tell him all that I knew touching the fortunes of its garrison (though without mentioning, as you may well guess, my pretending to my lady’s hand), and answered all his questions in the best way I might, and so until dinner-time, when he rose up suddenly and would have departed, saying that he had detained me too long, but that I entreated of him to remain and dine with me, my companions being all gone to see the emperor’s fine gardens. And this he accepted of with pleasure, and indeed I never saw a man so grateful, nor so eager to hear all that I could tell him. And so at last he departed, loading me with his thanks until I was ashamed, and desiring to be my friend all my life.
CHAPTER XIV.
OF MY LEAVING THE CITY OF THE GREAT MOGUL IN THE COMPANY OF ONE THAT HAD NOT ENTERED THEREIN WITH ME.
Now because of this strange chance that was come to me—viz., to discover the Viscount de Galampré in a mean disguise in the city of Agra—I was much plunged in thought, and this of so opposite a nature, that it pulled me two ways at once. For since I had left Surat, and undertaken this journey that had brought me already so tremendous a surprise, I had been able to contemplate with, I trust, a more wholesome and sound mind, my passion for Madam Heliodora and the consequences that had followed thereon. For that which I had seen, though dimly, even when I was still pressing my suit upon her, and now perceived clearly, and blushed to perceive it—namely, my great presumption in so addressing myself to her—seemed to me to bring a perpetual sting in the remembering it, so that I wondered how I had ever had the face to look for any answer other than that I got. It had rightly served me had my lady called upon her father to chastise me for my intolerable rudeness, but in the stead thereof she had listened to me patiently, and counselled me with such kindness and gentleness as seemed to me almost angelical. More than this, she had done me the honour to tell me of her contract with Mons. de Galampré, which she might well have kept to herself, but deigned in her kindness to impart to me, and this piece of news I, in my blindness, had received worse than all that went before, and hated without cause the gentleman that it concerned.
Nay, had it not been for the extraordinary liking I conceived for this excellent person when he was still in his disguise, and his name and quality unknown to me, I had still, as I was fain to confess, remained in this uncharitable and unchristian temper. But now, having seen him and noted the fire and ardour wherewith he did thirst for news of my lady his mistress, I was seized with pity for him,—in part, I don’t doubt, because from my own example I knew well the pangs and torments of a love that seemed hopeless. I was never one to be able to go with that poet that consoles himself for the unkindness of his mistress by declaring that if she scorn him, he will scorn her scorn and turn his vows elsewhere, and I considered still that my life was blighted and that no happiness was ever to be found for me in love, but it seemed to me that ’twould ease my sad heart to bear some part in making those happy that deserved the same but wan’t like to attain thereto. And this feeling was strengthened by the viscount himself, when I had occasion to desire him next to visit me, upon some mischance that was happened to Mr Kidder’s stop-watch.[120]