“No,” he said thoughtfully, “no. But I was in London for nearly eighteen months: the chaplain to the Embassy. Your father was a boy then, Louis, and I taught him as I have taught you.”
This was coming upon a subject which I had often wished to broach, but which he had never even approached before. I know not what were the feelings which had prevented me from asking questions. Perhaps they were mingled. We recollect such sensations more indistinctly than facts that strike the eye and ear, and fix themselves upon memory by many holds. Certain I am, however, that it was not want of curiosity or interest, especially during our residence in Germany and Switzerland, where I began to think of every thing, and of my own fate and situation more than any thing else. As far as I can recollect, Father Bonneville’s careful avoidance of the subject, and a sort of dark awe I felt at removing the veil from what was evidently a mystery, a sort of impression that there was something dreadful and horrible behind, often sealed my lips at the moment I was about to speak. Now, however, I had tasted enough of sorrow in the world to have manly resolution, and though Father Bonneville’s weak state of health had prevented me from inquiring since we had again met, I asked, at once,
“Who was my father?”
He laid his hand gently upon mine, as I sat beside him, near the table, and looked in my face with an expression not to be forgotten—so mild—so tender—so sorrowful.
“Ask me no questions, Louis,” he said. “Ask me no questions just now. You will hear soon enough; and until I know why the remittances which were always made me for your support and education were withheld when I was in America, I am bound not to speak. If what I fear, is the case, my lips will be unsealed. If not, you must wait patiently yet awhile.”
I looked down gloomily on the ground for a moment, and then asked in a cold, somewhat bitter tone,
“Tell me at least, good Father, is there any thing disgraceful in my birth.”
“Nothing, nothing,” he exclaimed, clasping his hands vehemently.
“Then was my father a villain, a knave, or a coward?” I asked.
“I loved him well,” replied Father Bonneville, in a tone of deep emotion, “and so help me heaven, as I believe there never did exist upon this earth a more gallant gentleman, a more honorable and upright man, or a more sincere Christian than your father. He was only too good for his age and for his country.”