“I am sorry to incommode you again so soon, sir,” said I.
“Sir,” says he, “the agreeableness of your discourse hath left me longing for this day since last I saw you. You did bestow upon me then new life, and yet I han’t never ceased teasing myself with questions that I should have asked of you, but had forgot. You can’t tell, sir, what it is to me to hear credible intelligence from one that hath himself seen my friends. During these four years I have taught myself to regard Mademoiselle de Tourvel almost as though she were dead, so entirely did she seem lost to me, but your coming has awakened again in me such a flood of thoughts as that I can scarce contain myself for eagerness to get some satisfaction of ’em.”
And with that he poured out such a throng of questions touching Madam Heliodora that I was moved almost to tears to perceive how he must have noted and remembered every particular of her daily life. And perceiving from my answers, as I suspect, the respect and admiration that possessed me towards this noble lady, he did open his heart to me still further, discoursing upon her many perfections in a strain of such lofty and yet tender eulogy, as I had never imagined outside the covers of a romance, so that I, listening, felt more than ever ashamed of the cursed presumption of my behaviour, since I had gone so far (though only in my own mind) as to disparage my lady for her insensibility towards me. What chance, pray, had I had, even though I had been as worthy of my lady as I was in reality unworthy, to gain a heart garrisoned with the remembrance of such a love as this? And here the viscount, seeing in my countenance how deeply I was moved, looked upon me sadly, though without any bitterness, and said—
“Ah, sir, sure you are happier than I, for you have seen her later. Was ever so much beauty and virtue enclosed before in a single form? Can you wonder that her image is impressed upon my heart, and that since I can’t behold my lady herself, I seize the occasion to discourse with one that hath both seen and spoke with her? You are free to depart, you may perhaps enjoy the felicity of beholding her once more, though you have remained insensible to her perfections, while I, to whom she is as much as all the world, must stay here a prisoner.”
And with that he left speaking, and remained for some time plunged in melancholy, while I considered his words, though not without some pain, and took counsel with myself whether I might in any way help him. And venturing to interrupt his melancholical musings by declaring respectfully my desire and readiness to assist him, he looked up with his usual cheerfulness, and answered—
“Sir, you have very much helped me already, and do continue to help me so long as you are good enough to speak to me of my lady and to let me speak with you of her. I don’t know why I should thus burden you with my sad and passionate humours, but I have feared now and again lest I should go mad through having none with whom I might speak on this topic, and in you I find always a sympathy that encourages me to continue.”
Methought that I might well have sympathy with him, since my case was even worse than his own; but this I did not say, only declaring to him that whatever I might do for his comfort should be done, and entreating him to take courage and look confidently for deliverance and enlargement. And this he did, following my counsel with a very childlike and perfect trust in God that moved me to admiration, since he strove always to accustom himself to the will of Providence, and would pass quickly from despondency to comfort, reminding himself of the many blessings he enjoyed that one in his situation could not have looked for nor expected.
And this I may as well say now as afterwards—viz., that that which time led me most to admire in this gentleman was that he bare all untoward chances with a great patience, receiving them as from the hand of God, which at first did much surprise me; for my bane in life hath ever been a certain heat and rashness, such as hath carried me on without reflection to do deeds that had been better undone. And these deeds once done, ’twas natural to me to sit down in a sort of sullenness and as it were pagan resignation, as who should say, ’Tis done now, and can’t be undone. Let Fortune do her worst. ’Tis naught to me. But the viscount was wont to take the buffets of fate most calmly, as though they were but parts of a lesson that it should be well for him to learn, and to strange chances and vicissitudes he endeavoured always to fit himself, since it was God’s will for him to undergo them. And I once making him some compliment upon the firmness and constancy of his carriage, “Mr Carlyon,” says he, “you don’t know what it is to belong to an oppressed people. In France we Hugonots are thankful if it be permitted us to breathe in peace, and we are glad to seize upon any opportunity of quiet living that offers itself without dishonour. ’Tis a good school for the teaching contentment.”
And I, truly, agreed with him in this, yet must you not think that he was one of those poor and feeble spirits that seek any shelter rather than face the storm. Of his exploits as a soldier and a captain I need not speak, for all the world knows on’t, yet this I would say,—that in all the rubs and petty trials of that adventure which we did afterwards undertake together, I found him to be at once a most daring and experienced leader, and also the most cheerful and pleasant companion that ever a man had. Of his bravery at this time I will speak in its place, but so indifferent was he to all the praise and credit offered him later upon the matter, that he would put it aside with a laugh, and profess himself to dislike that topic. In a word, he proved himself to me the kindest and sprightliest of cameradoes, and this none the less that in ignorance of the cause I had for sadness, he did discourse to me continually regarding her that was the reason on’t, and look for me to declare my sympathy with him. But in all that I saw of him (and this wan’t little, since he did speedily made it his custom, without any pretext of business, to spend great part of every day discoursing with me at my lodging in the caravan-serawe) I perceived only the more clearly how much better he was fitted than I to awaken the love of Madam Heliodora, and called myself dolt and fool for my ever imagining that I could prevail against him. Also the more I felt my inferiority compared with him, the more I found myself possessed with a prodigious affection for him, and a desire to do what I might for the restoring so excellent a person to the happiness he so well deserved. And this without prejudice to my own resentiments[121] towards her ladyship; for so sadly and yet so tenderly did I feel towards her now, when I saw my love to be without any disguise altogether hopeless, that it seemed to me I would fain see these two happy, and would then be willing to die. But in thinking thus I was ignorant of my own self.
And now I did begin to cudgel my brains for to discover in what manner I might effect the escape of the viscount from this city, and his safe conveying to some port whence he might take ship for France. And first I spake concerning this to our friend the physician, that had first made the viscount known to me; but to my no small surprise, as soon as ever I had opened the matter to him, he clapped his hands to his ears, and cried, as though in great fear—