Gordon followed him as far as the chamber in which the Prior Kerkabon, the Abbé St. Yves, and some neighbors, were striving to recall to life the young man, who had again fainted.
"I have been the cause of your misfortunes," said the deputy minister, when the Huron had regained consciousness, "and my whole life shall be employed in making reparation for my error."
The first idea that struck the Huron was to kill him and then destroy himself. But he was without arms, and closely watched. St. Pouange was not repulsed with refusals accompanied with reproach, contempt, and the insults he deserved, which were lavished upon him. Time softens everything. Mons. de Louvois at length succeeded in making an excellent officer of the Huron, who has appeared under another name at Paris and in the army, respected by all honest men, being at once a warrior and an intrepid philosopher.
He never mentioned this adventure without being greatly affected, and yet his greatest consolation was to speak of it. He cherished the memory of his beloved Miss St. Yves to the last moment of his life.[1]
The Abbé St. Yves and the Prior were each provided with good livings. The good Kerkabon rather chose to see his nephew invested with military honors than in the sub-deaconry. The devotee of Versailles kept the diamond earrings, and received besides a handsome present. Father Tout-à-tous had presents of chocolate, coffee, and confectionery, with the Meditations of the Reverend Father Croiset, and the Flower of the Saints, bound in Morocco. Good old Gordon lived with the Huron till his death, in the most friendly intimacy: he had also a benefice, and forgot, forever, essential grace, and the concomitant concourse. He took for his motto, "Misfortunes are of some use." How many worthy people are there in the world who may justly say, "Misfortunes are good for nothing?"
[1] In the Play, Civilization, the Huron musingly soliloquizes:
"And what is love to man? An only gift
Too precious to be idly thrown away!
For is it not as precious as our land,
Which, heeding not another's golden sky—
Soft airs, sweet flowers, hill and dale conjoin'd
By nature's cunning past comparison—
Is still our land; and, as our land, surpasses
Far such fairy worlds?
"There are some dreams that last a life—mine
Is one of these. I shall dream on till death
Shall end the vision!
"It is not hard to die! And life is but
A shadow on the wall—a falling leaf
Toy'd with by autumn winds—a flower—a star
Among the infinite, infinitesimal!
We are but breath whispering against the wind,—
Sand in the desert!—dew upon the sea!"—E.