The expression of sprightly good-humor that characterized the marquis’ physiognomy suddenly changed to one grave and almost sombre.
“Stop, George,” said he in an agitated voice.
“Pardon me, Adelardi, but truly there are subjects on which I cannot conceive why we should not agree.”
Adelardi remained some minutes without speaking, then with an apparent effort resumed:
“Listen, George. I have a most sincere friendship for you, and you would not doubt it if you knew what it costs me to prolong the subject to which our conversation has led, but perhaps it will not be unprofitable for you to listen to me. Allow me to say a few words on a subject you know I generally avoid, having sufficient control over myself to be silent on certain points, but not enough to speak of them with coolness. When I was young, younger than you now are, I was carried away with an enthusiasm only known to those whose country is enslaved. Yes,” he continued with an emotion quite unusual with him, “a country, prosperous, glorious, honored, and powerful, doubtless merits a devotion no noble heart can refuse; but to feel this devotion transformed into a wild and painful passion, one must see his country crushed and humiliated. It must be trodden under foot in the dust, and its name effaced from every memory—refused the very right of bearing a name, and even of existence!”
“Ah! I easily comprehend such a sorrow, Adelardi,” cried George with an accent of earnest sympathy.—“I understand it but too well. But Italy is not the only down-trodden country in Europe, and the chance which binds a man to such a land does not oblige him to participate in its excesses, nor forbid him, I imagine, from deploring them!”
“I will reply to that presently, George. But let me finish what I was saying, for this conversation will never be renewed. Under the influence of this passion, as well as others, alas! of my age, rank, and country, I yielded to the folly of a culpable course, or at least I gave reason for suspicion, and, like many others of more worth than I, and a great many whom I surpass, I suffered, as you know, imprisonment, confiscation, and exile, one after the other. I do not regret these trials, for when we cannot serve our country there is a certain pleasure in suffering for it, but what I regret is having merited them.”
“Merited?”
“Yes, certainly, for I belonged for a time to one of those secret societies which are our ruin. Like many others, I naturally thought myself excusable—the impulse to which I yielded seemed so powerful! the aim proposed, so noble! Well, George—” The marquis stopped a moment, and then continued with evident pain, but earnestly: “Well, I tell you there is neither courage, nor honor, nor virtue, nor loyalty, nor probity, nor anything that can render a man worthy of respect, or even of esteem—nothing, I say, that can resist the empoisoned atmosphere of those accursed places. My punishment was tardy, for my denunciation only took place after I left, but I was justly punished for entering them!”
George, affected and surprised, made no attempt to interrupt him.