Chapter V (3)

I could see him shiver and quake, and I went on repeating the same words: “I am Louis De Lacy, the son of him you murdered. He is before you in my person. He speaks to you by my voice. He demands that you do justice to his memory, even now, when you are trembling on the brink of that grave beyond which you will soon meet face to face. Answer me, Marquis de Carcassonne. Will you at length tell the truth? Will you do justice to the dead? Will you make the only atonement you can make to the murdered, before God puts his seal upon your obduracy, and you go to judgment for your crimes unconfessed and unrepented of?”

The old man quivered in every limb and his face was as pale as death; but he answered not a word, and I went on with a hardness of heart for which I have hardly forgiven myself yet. “You were once wealthy,” I said, “and you are now poor. You were once the inhabitant of gilded halls, and soft, luxurious apartments: You are now in a miserable garret, wretched, and dark, and gloomy. Your crimes have led not to greater wealth and opulence; not to comfort and indulgence; not to the objects of ambition and desire; but to penury, distress, and want. There is a further step before you—a deep abyss, into which you seem inclined to plunge. The grave is a colder dwelling than this, the tribunal of an all-seeing God more terrible than any you can appeal to here, the hell which you have dug for yourself, more agonizing than even your conscience at this moment.”

The very vehemence with which I spoke seemed to frustrate my own purpose, and to rouse in his decaying frame, and sinking mind, a spirit of resistance which had formerly been strong within him. He grasped the arm of his chair. He sat upright. He moved his jaw almost convulsively, and then said, with serpent bitterness, “So, so—son of a traitor. You would have me lie, would you, to recover for you your father’s estates, to clear your name from the infamy that hangs upon it, and shall hang upon it to all eternity. You would have me unsay all I have said, recant all I have sworn? But mark me, boy, I will put upon record before I die the confirmation of every charge against your treacherous father. I will leave it more deeply branded on his name than ever, that he deceived his king, betrayed his country, renounced his honor, falsified his word, and sold himself to the enemy, and his name shall stand in the annals of the world, as the blackest of traitors, and the basest of men—Ha, ha! What are your threats now, fool?”

I started up, and it was with great pain I kept my hands from him; but I mastered my first rash impulse, and I said, “Then I summon you to meet him whom you have belied and murdered, whom you still, unrepenting, and unatoning, calumniate and accuse, before the throne of Almighty God, and to answer, where falsehood is vain and cunning is of no resource, where the truth is written on tables of light, and falsehood is blotted out in everlasting darkness, where hell and eternal damnation await remorseless crime, for every word you have uttered this night! As your heart judges you, so feel, and so act. Die in peace and calm assurance, or in horror, and terror, and despair.”

He shrank back, and back, and back, into his chair, and at the last words, he pressed his trembling hands upon his eyes, as if he would have shut out the fearful images I had presented to him. His face grew livid, and his whole frame heaved, as if the torture of the eternal flame had already seized upon him.

I know not whether I should have said more or not; but a moment after I had ceased speaking, and while I still stood gazing at him, writhing before me, the door opened and a venerable looking old man, dressed in black, entered the room. He gazed an instant in surprise, at the pale and trembling wretch, and at me; and then he asked in a stern and solemn tone, “Who are you?—What have you done, young man?”

“I am Louis de Lacy,” I answered coldly. “That is the Marquis de Carcassonne, the murderer of my father. What I have done is what, if you are a priest, you should do—made a dark criminal tremble, before the way to atonement, and the gates of mercy are shut against him forever;” and without waiting for any further question, I hurried away from the room, down the dark staircase, and out into the crowded street.

LIGHT FROM THE PAST.

My thoughts were in such a state of tumult and confusion, that I cannot say I considered any thing for many minutes after I quitted the den of that old snake; but I took my way, at once, toward Westover’s lodgings, and told him all that had occurred.

“You had better have left it to Jeanette, I believe,” he replied, with that mixture of worldly knowledge and pure, high feeling which I had often remarked in him. “You do not know how often, De Lacy, things can be accomplished by inferior agents and dirty tools, which all the skill and vigor of the clear-headed and high-minded are unable to effect. You see, this good woman, and this good priest, would have no scruple whatever in employing means which you would not condescend to use. I trust you have not done much mischief—perhaps some good; but at all events, now take my advice and leave the matter in the hands of Jeanette and her revered coadjutor.”

“There is no hope; there is no chance,” I said. “The man is as hard as the nether mill-stone.”

“We cannot tell what may be done,” replied Westover. “At all events one thing is very clear—you can do nothing; so if I were you, I would take myself out of town, and not fret my spirit with thinking of it any more. By the way, how go on your affairs with the beauty amongst the roses?”

“As well as I could wish,” I replied, with a smile, for he dexterously enough brought up happier images before my eyes. “She is to be mine, but not just yet. However, I forgot to tell you, Westover, that I met your grandfather to-day, and he walked up St. James’s street with me.”

“Ha! indeed!” said Westover, with a look of pleased surprise. “What did he say? How did he act?”

“Very kindly,” I answered.

“Walked up St. James’s street with you?” repeated Westover. I nodded my head, and he asked, “Did he invite you to his house?”

“No,” I replied, “nor gave any hint of such an intention.”

A shade came over my friend’s face again, and he inquired, “What did he say?”

“Nothing very particular,” I answered. “He told me that his majesty, my king, had arrived at Yarmouth, and advised me to consult you as to whether I should go to pay my respects to him.”

“By all means,” replied Westover, eagerly, “by all means. Lose not a moment. Be one of the first. Let us set off by the stage to-morrow morning.”

“Do you propose to go with me, then?” I asked.

“Oh yes, I had better,” he replied, “I can introduce you to the king. I saw him some time ago in Livonia, and dined with him twice.”

“Perhaps that may obviate your grandfather’s objections,” I said; “for he seemed to doubt whether I should be well received.”

“I think you will,” replied Westover, musing. “I think you will. I remember some conversation with the king, which makes me judge so. He can have had no reason to change his opinion since; but at all events I will see him first and ascertain.”

He spoke very thoughtfully, and gave no explanation of the strange fact, that he should have had a conversation, referring to myself, with Louis the Eighteenth, before he ever saw me. But during the last two or three months, one circumstance after another, fact following fact, incident coming after incident, had accumulated a mass of little proofs which brought conviction to my mind, that there was some strong, though secret bond between Westover’s family and myself. However, I agreed to his proposal at once. He sent a servant to take places in the coach for the following day, and ere another night fell we were in Yarmouth.

We found that the king, with his small suite, was lodging in the same hotel with ourselves, and Westover at once sent to request an interview on the following morning, which was immediately promised, with a very courteous message in reply.

At the hour appointed he went, and I remained with some impatience, thinking him very long. Not more than half an hour, however, passed in reality, before he returned, saying, “Quick, De Lacy, his majesty will see you at once. Go to him, go to him. He is prepared for you.”

I went away accordingly, leaving him there, as he did not seem inclined to accompany me, and was introduced by a mere servant who was stationed at the door, into the poor, small drawing-room of the inn, which had been assigned to the French prince. I found an ordinary looking man, somewhat inclined to corpulence—though he was not so fat as he afterward became—standing near a table. His manners, however, if not his appearance, at once displayed the prince. He took one step forward, as if to meet me, and held out his hand to me, saying, “Monsieur De Lacy, I am very happy to see you. It is most grateful to me to receive such kind visits from my countrymen and fellows in misfortune. The attachment of some of the noblest hearts of France, is no slight compensation for all the ills I have suffered.”

I bent my head to his hand and kissed it, saying, “I trust, sire, that you never will find any of my name, or race, without that warm attachment which I am sure your majesty deserves.”

I had no intention whatsoever in this reply, of leading up to any thing; but the king seemed to think I had some particular allusion, and answered at once. “I am sure of it, Monsieur De Lacy. I always was quite sure of it. In your poor father’s case I never entertained a doubt. I was certain all through—to the very end, and am now—that he was the victim of a foul conspiracy. Kings can but act, you know, according to the lights that are permitted them, and I mean not to throw the slightest blame upon my poor brother. He acted by the advice of ministers whom he loved and respected. The judgment of a regularly constituted court had been pronounced, and he cannot be censured for having suffered it to be carried into execution, contrary to all the impulses of his own heart. I could not have done so; for I was fully convinced of your father’s innocence; but his judgment was misled by a very artful knave.”

I was greatly agitated, but I replied, “I am so little aware, sire, of my father’s fate and history, that I hardly comprehend your majesty’s meaning. With the mistaken motive of sparing me pain, I believe, I have been kept in ignorance of what I know must be a very sorrowful history.”

“Your friends were wrong, Monsieur De Lacy. Very wrong, I think,” replied the king. “It is but right and necessary that you should know the whole; for the vindication of your father’s name may be a task which you have still to fulfill. Pray sit down, and I will give you a brief account of the matter—Only let me hint, in the first place, that, for the present, you must drop the title of majesty with me. I am here only the Count de Lille.”

“I, at least, can never forget that you are a king, and my king,” I replied.

“Spoken like your father’s son,” said Louis, seating himself, and pointing to a chair, and he then proceeded thus: “Your father, Monsieur De Lacy, was a very gallant and distinguished officer, of an Irish family long settled in France. He was employed in England, for some time, in a diplomatic capacity; and a few years after, was appointed to a command in one of our East Indian possessions. War had by this time broken out between France and England, and the great preponderance of the latter country in the East, rendered the maintenance of our territories there very difficult. The derangement of the finances, and the daily increasing embarrassments of the government, prevented our commanding officers, in distant parts of the world, from receiving sufficient support. Your father was besieged by the English, in a fortress, naturally very strong, but ill-furnished with provisions, ammunition, or men. He made, what was considered by all at the time, a very gallant defense, but in the end, was forced to surrender the place upon an honorable capitulation. On his return to France, he was well received; but his friends, rather than himself, sought for some distinguishing mark of his sovereign’s favor and approval, and demanded for him a high office at the court, which I happened to know, was an object of eager ambition to a personage called the Marquis de Carcassonne—indeed, he applied to me for my interest in the matter, which I refused. Your father would certainly have obtained it; but there began to be spread rumors about the court, which soon assumed consistence and a very formidable aspect, to which various circumstances, and especially the fact of your father having married an English lady, gave undue weight. It was said that he had sold the fortress to the English; that he had surrendered long before it was necessary; that he had not obtained so favorable a capitulation as he might have done. The charges in the end became so distinct, that your father himself, demanded to be tried. He was accordingly, what we call, put in accusation, and the cause was heard. One little incident I must not forget. This Marquis de Carcassonne said, in the hearing of several persons who were sure to repeat his words, that it mattered not what was the result of the trial, as your father was sure to be pardoned, even if he were condemned. This observation was reported to the king, who said, with some warmth, that nothing should induce him to interfere with the sentence of the court, whatever it might be. At the trial, overpowering evidence, as it seemed to me, was brought forward to show the state of the fortress, and the utter impossibility of defending it longer than had been done; but on the other hand, to the surprise of every one, two letters were produced, purporting to be part of the correspondence between your father and the English general. Your father loudly declared that they were forgeries; but then came forward the Marquis de Carcassonne, who had had some correspondence with your father when in India, and swore distinctly that the letter purporting to be the prisoner’s, was verily in his handwriting. Many doubted—few believed, this assertion. Various differences were pointed out between your father’s hand and that in which the letter was written, and your father might probably have escaped. But two circumstances combined to destroy him. Public clamor was, at that time, raised to the highest pitch, in regard to the loss of our possessions in India; it was necessary that there should be some victim to atone for the faults of a feeble and inefficient ministry, and at the same time, a man was brought forward to account for the discovery of these letters, by swearing that he had found them in your father’s own cabinet. He was a mean apothecary of Paris, who was accustomed to go a good deal to the house, in attendance upon the servants. But he acknowledged the base act of having privately read and possessed himself of these documents. The man had been born upon the estates of the Marquis de Carcassonne, and brought up by his father. This rendered his evidence suspicious, at least to me; but it weighed with the judges, and the result was that your father was condemned. I need not dwell upon all the horrible events that followed. Suffice it to say, that a man as brave and honorable, I believe, as ever lived, was executed unjustly, that a stain was cast upon a high and distinguished name, and that the whole of the fine estates of the family were confiscated.”

I need hardly say with what emotion I listened to this detail, and I remained for several moments in silence, with my head bent down, and full of indignation and grief which I could not venture to express. The king saw how greatly I was affected, and very kindly strove to soothe me. “If it will be any comfort to you, Monsieur De Lacy,” he said, “I give you the most solemn assurance, that I never for a moment believed your father guilty, and that should fortune ever restore us to our own country, I shall take the necessary steps for having your father’s sentence reversed, and his memory justified. I am not singular in my opinions upon this subject; for when the people recovered their senses, after your father’s death, the indignation excited against his accusers was so great, that the apothecary who had produced the letters was forced to quit France.”

“Was his name Giraud, sire?” I asked.

The king bowed his head, and went on, “Perhaps if he is still living,” he said, “the man might be induced to tell the truth. Monsieur de Carcassonne is still living, I know, but he also found it convenient to travel, and never obtained the post for which he played so deep a game. I am inclined to think the forgery was his; for I know that he forged the letters of a woman, and we therefore may well suppose he would not scruple to forge the letters of a man.”

In the midst of all the many thoughts to which this account gave rise, one idea presented itself prominently to my mind. The king had mentioned that my mother was an English-woman. Might he not tell me who she was? But just as I was about to put the question, three other French gentlemen were introduced, and I was obliged to refrain for the time, although I determined to seek another opportunity of making the inquiry. I retired then with an expression of my gratitude, and rejoined Westover in our little sitting-room.

He inquired eagerly into the particulars of my interview with the king, and I related to him the whole.

“Is that all,” he said. “Did he tell you nothing more?”

“Nothing, Westover,” I answered, “but we were interrupted before my audience was fairly at an end. He told me,” I added, somewhat emphatically, “who my father was, and what was his unhappy fate. He did not tell me who my mother was, but that I will soon know, Westover.”

My friend mused in silence for some minutes, and then said, “Let us first see what can be made of this Marquis de Carcassonne. I have great hopes in the skill and policy of your good old Jeanette, and the priest. If we could but get the old reprobate to die a little faster, the whole thing might be settled very soon.”

“He looked very much like a dying man when I left him,” I replied.

“Nay, that would be too quick,” said Westover. “We must leave them time to work upon him. Don’t you go near him again, De Lacy, for fear you should blow the candle out when you most need the light. And now, let us go and take a sail upon the sea, and then away to London by the early coach to-morrow.”

I followed his guidance, with the full and strong conviction that he wished me well, and at an early hour on the following day, we were once more rolling on our way toward the capital. We arrived after dark, and Westover went to dine with me at my hotel. The people of the house, with the usual care and promptitude of hotel keepers, suffered the dinner to be placed upon the table, and half-eaten, before they informed me that that the old French lady whom I had seen on the day of my arrival, had been three times there to inquire for me.

“News, news, certainly,” cried Westover. “Bring me a sheet of paper, waiter. We will soon have Jeanette with us;” and writing a hurried note to the good old dame, he sent it off by a porter to his grandfather’s house. An hour, however, elapsed without any intelligence, and then the same waiter appeared, saying, with a half-suppressed grin, “She is here again, sir, asking if you have returned.”

“Show her in,” I said impatiently; “show her in directly.”

The man retired with some surprise, I believe, at my anxiety to see an ugly old woman, and certainly he did not hurry himself, for full five minutes passed before Jeanette was in the room, and the eagerness of her face showed when she entered that the delay had not been on her part.

THE CONFESSION.

“Get your hat, get your hat, Louis,” exclaimed Jeanette, rubbing her little hands, “and come away directly, or it will be too late. He will tell all, he will tell all; but he has been in a dying state since this morning. His speech seems failing, so make haste, make haste—he will tell all as soon as he sees you, he says, if you will but forgive him.”

I darted to the sideboard and took my hat. Westover started up at the same moment, exclaiming in French, “May I go with you?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Jeanette. “Come with him, come with him; the more the better; every one is a witness, and that is something.”

We darted down the stairs and away. How we got through the streets, I do not know, but we all hurried separately through the crowds, running against half a dozen people, and getting hearty benedictions for our pains. I arrived first at the apothecary’s shop, and saw at a glance as I entered, the villain himself deliberately packing up something at the counter. He looked at me with a cold, sneering expression, but said nothing, and without asking any questions I ran up the stairs at once, to the miserable room of the Marquis de Carcassonne. I opened the door unceremoniously, and went in. The sight was one full of awful solemnity—at least to me, who had never seen any one die, except by a sudden and violent death, or by a gentle, yet quick transition from the life of this world to the life of another.

On the wretched pallet bed, without a rag of curtain round it, lay the ghastly figure of the dying man. All living color had passed from his face; the swollen, bloated appearance, too, was gone. The features were sharpened and pinched; the eyes sunk; the temples collapsed; the white hair, wild and ragged. One ashy hand was stretched over the bed-clothes, holding a crucifix which lay upon his breast, and his eyes, which seemed glassy and almost immovable, were directed to the symbol of salvation.

On the table stood a large wax-taper, and between the table and the bed stood the old priest, Father Noailles, who had come in at the end of my last interview with the Marquis. His head was slightly bent, as if watching the face of the dying man, while a younger man, with a white robe on, stood at the other side of the bed, holding a small, chased silver vessel in his hands.

There was a dead silence in the room when I entered; but at the sound of my steps the priest turned round, and exclaimed, as soon as he saw me, “He is here, he is here! Henri de Carcassonne, he has come to you at length!”

The eyes of the dying man turned faint and feebly toward me, and the priest advanced a step, and grasped my hand with a tight and eager pressure.

“Forgive him,” he said; “tell him you forgive him!—if you be a man, if you be a Christian—tell him you forgive him!”

I paused with my eyes fixed upon the face of the Marquis, and some feeling of compassion entered into my heart. But I could not speak the words he wanted to draw from me—I could not pronounce forgiveness to the murderer of my father. I remained silent, while the priest repeated, more than once, “Forgive him, oh forgive him, and let him part in peace!” I heard the steps of Westover and Jeanette approaching, and I said, at length, “Has he done justice to my father’s memory? Will he—can he now do justice to it?”

The priest drew back from me and let go my hand. “Young man,” he said, in a solemn and reproving tone, “make no bargain with God! Trifle not with the command of your Saviour. It is Christ who bids you to forgive, if you would be forgiven, to love your enemies, to pray for those who hate you. Forgive him! On your soul’s salvation, I call upon you to pronounce your forgiveness of that wretched, dying old man while the words can still reach his ear, and console him at this last, dark, terrible moment—forgive him, I say!”

“Speak, De Lacy, speak,” said the voice of Westover, “for God’s sake tell him you forgive him!”

At the same moment, the hand of the dying man made a feeble movement on the cross as if he would have raised it, and an expression of imploring anxiety came into his fading eyes that touched me. I took a step forward to the side of the bed, and said, “Marquis de Carcassonne, I do forgive you, and I pray that God Almighty, for his Son’s sake, may forgive you also!”

The light of joy and relief came for an instant into the old man’s eyes, but faded away instantly; and I thought that he was a corpse.

“Stand back!” said Father Noailles, with inconceivable energy, and placing himself right before the dying man, and clasping his hands together, he swung them up and down as if he had a censer in them—whether it was to rouse his attention or not, I cannot tell—and then he exclaimed aloud, “If any fiend prevents your utterance, I command him hence in the name of the Blessed Trinity—of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

“Henri de Carcassonne, I adjure you, as you hope for pardon and life eternal, answer me before these present—Is all you have told me concerning the death of the Count de Lacy true?—and do you fully and freely consent to my making it public, without any reservation on the plea of confession? If so, say yes, or die in your sins!”

There was something inexpressibly grand and awful in his look, his tone, his manner; but something more awful was to come.

As we may suppose one would rise from the dead, the Marquis de Carcassonne suddenly raised himself in the bed, and in a clear, distinct tone replied—“It is true, so help me God—I do consent.”

The last word rattled in his throat. The effort was over. It was the flash of the expiring lamp, and the words were hardly uttered, when he fell over on his side with a ghastly swimming of his eyes.

“It is done!” said Father Noailles, solemnly, and raising the poor wretch’s head he put it on the pillow. There was now a fixed stare, a meaningless, vacant look in those glassy orbs, the moment before turned upon the confessor, which showed that “it was done” indeed. The next instant the jaw dropped, and we stood in silence round a corpse.

I thanked God at that moment, that I had pronounced the words of forgiveness; and I stood by with Westover and Jeanette, while Father Noailles, and the young man who was with him, sprinkled some holy water on the dead man’s face, and performed one or two little offices according to the customs of France and the Roman Catholic church. I would not have interrupted by a word for the world; but when the priest had done, and turned toward us with a deep sigh, I advanced and took his hand, saying, “I thank you, sir, most sincerely, for having led me to cast away the evil passion in my heart, and show some charity at last—I rejoice that I have done it, whatever be the confession that this man has made.”

“We must forgive, Monsieur de Lacy,” replied Father Noailles, mildly, “or how can we expect Christ to mediate for us. I have now to tell you, that this poor man acknowledged to me this morning, that your father had been accused unjustly, that the letters which had been brought forward at his trial were indeed forged, as many suspected, and that the count died an innocent and injured man. I took his words down, and he signed them as best he could, giving me full permission to place the statement in your hands. There was no one present but ourselves, however, and a confessor must be very cautious. It was therefore absolutely necessary that I should obtain his consent to the publication of the statement in the presence of witnesses. Here it is. It is brief, but sufficient for all purposes. He was not in a state to give full details, but there is no point unnoticed which can tend to clear the memory of your father.”

“Join me at my lodgings in half an hour,” said Westover, quietly speaking over my shoulder. “I have business which calls me away just now.”

I simply nodded assent; for my whole thoughts were occupied for a time with the subject before me, and turning to the priest I said, “I presume, Monsieur de Noailles, that this precious document will be made over to me?”

“Beyond all doubt, Monsieur de Lacy,” he said, “to you it properly belongs, but I must request you to allow me to take an attested copy of it, and must beg all here present to join in a certificate that this unhappy man authorized me fully to make the statement public.”

“That we will all willingly do,” I replied. “Perhaps you had better draw up the paper you require, yourself.”

That he declined to do, however, and with a pen and ink and paper, which had remained upon the table since the morning, I quickly wrote an attestation of the fact that Henri, Marquis de Carcassonne, had, in the presence of the subscribers, fully authorized the Reverend Pere Noailles to make known and publish all the facts which he had stated on his deathbed, in regard to the trial and execution of the late Count Louis de Lacy, as matters communicated to him, freely, and for the relief of his conscience, and not in the form of penitential confession, or under the seal of secrecy.

“I undertake,” I said, when I had signed the paper myself, and Jeanette and the young assistant had signed it also, “that Captain Westover, who has been obliged to leave us on business, shall put his name to it likewise. Now, Monsieur de Noailles, will you permit me to look at that paper? We will make a copy of it immediately; but, of course, my anxiety to see the contents is great.”

The old man placed the paper in my hands, and seated at the table beside him, I read as follows:

“I, Henri Marquis de Carcassonne, do hereby acknowledge and certify, that by various false and iniquitous charges, set on foot for objects and motives of my own, I did, many years ago, to wit in the year of our Lord 178-, cause and procure Louis, Count de Lacy, to be brought to trial for treason and dereliction of duty in the government of the possessions of the French crown in the East Indies: that I have every reason to believe the said Count de Lacy to have been totally and entirely innocent of the crimes thus laid to his charge, and, moreover, that two letters produced in court at the trial of the said count, and purporting to be parts of a correspondence between himself and Sir E. C—— were, to my certain knowledge, and with my cognizance, forged; not by myself, but a certain Giraud, apothecary to the household of the said count, for the purpose of procuring his condemnation; and that I prompted and encouraged the said Giraud to counterfeit the count’s hand, and forge the above mentioned documents, inasmuch as I found that the charges could not be sustained without them, and I feared the vengeance of the said Count de Lacy, if acquitted, on account of certain previous passages between us. I bitterly regret and repent of the crime I thus committed in procuring the death of an innocent man; and now finding that it pleases God to take me from this world, and that I have not many hours to live, I make this acknowledgment and confession solely to do justice to the memory of the said Count de Lacy, and to make atonement, as far as is in my power, for the evil and misery I have brought upon him and his family, trusting that God will accept my tardy repentance, through the merits of my Saviour Christ, I have hereunto, in my perfect senses, and with full knowledge and recollection of all the facts, set my hand, in witness of the truth of all the particulars contained herein, the above having been previously read over by me, in presence of the Reverend Pere de Noailles, having been taken down by him from my own lips.”

It seemed as if a mountain had been removed from my breast. I thought not of any advantages which might result to myself. I carried not my thoughts at all into the future. My father’s memory was cleared. His honor, his fair name was reëstablished. No crime now blackened the annals of my race, and when I turned and looked at the corpse of his murderer, I said with a free heart, and a sincere spirit, “May God forgive you, unhappy man.”

Poor Jeanette, who was by my side, and had been weeping a good deal during all these transactions, took me by the hand, saying, joyfully—

“All will go well now, Louis—all will go well. More depends upon that paper than you know. Keep it safe, keep it safe, and all will go well.”

It was necessary, however, in the first instance, to give a copy to Monsieur de Noailles, and when that was done, some further conversation ensued between us, in regard to the funeral of the Marquis de Carcassonne. I found that he had few, if any, friends in London; for long previous to his illness, he had been suspected by the principal emigrants in England of being a spy in the pay of the existing French government.

“I shall be willing to bear the expense,” I said; “if I can get any one to superintend the management.”

“From what I know,” replied Monsieur de Noailles, “I think that both the expense and trouble should fall upon the man below stairs. I have reason to believe that, for the last year, during which the Marquis has been in feeble health, Giraud has both ill-treated and plundered him, to a very great extent. The man is a hardened sinner, a scoffer, and an atheist; but the facts revealed in that document may, perhaps, frighten him into doing what is right, and I see no reason why you should be called upon, Monsieur de Lacy, to pay for that which he himself, I’m sure, is bound to do.”

I agreed perfectly in this view of the case; but we found ourselves deceived.

On descending to the shop, there was nobody in it but the boy whom I had seen there once before. He told us that Monsieur Giraud had called an hackney-coach, and had gone away in it, with three trunks. He never returned, and I conclude that, alarmed at the revelations likely to be made by the Marquis de Carcassonne in his dying moments, he fled from England, and died somewhere in obscurity. The boy told us that, before he went, he had cursed the old fool up stairs, and had said, that as he seemed determined to die with a cow’s tail in his hand, he should absent himself for a day or two, as he did not like such mummeries.

This afforded sufficient indication of his intention to induce me to request Monsieur de Noailles to make all the arrangements of the funeral in my name, and after having obtained his promise to that effect, and given him my address at Blackheath, I took my departure.

Jeanette went upon her way to Berkeley square, while I hurried on toward the lodgings of Westover, the hour of meeting which he had named having long passed.

I found a chariot, with flaming lamps, at his door, and was admitted immediately by a servant in livery, who seemed to be waiting in the hall; but before I could mount the stair-case, I was met by Westover himself, coming down with his hat on.

“Come with me, Louis,” he said; “come with me. Thank God for this night’s work.”

“Where are you going to take me?” I asked.

“Never mind at present,” he answered, “to a house where you have never been.”

My heart beat with very strange sensations; but I followed him to the carriage, and got in with him. When the door was closed, the servant touched his hat, inquiringly, and Westover said, “home.”

It was the only word he spoke during the drive, which was short enough.

At length, the carriage drew up at the door of a large house, a thundering knock resounded through the square, and we both got out and entered a hall, in which several powdered servants were standing. Westover passed them all, without a word, and I followed. We went up a magnificent stair-case, lined with old portraits, till my companion paused suddenly, laying his hand upon the lock of a door upon the first floor.

“Go in, Louis,” he said, in a low voice, “go in.”

“Will you not come in to introduce me?” I said.

“Not for the world,” he answered, “go in, Louis,” and he opened the door for me to pass.

The next moment, I found myself in a large drawing-room but faintly lighted; but there was a smaller one beyond, with a better light, and seated on a sofa there, I beheld a lady, with her handkerchief lying on the table beside her, and her eyes buried in her hands. The opening door made her look up, and I saw the beautiful but faded face of Lady Catharine covered with tears. The moment she beheld me, she sprang up from the sofa, ran forward, cast her arms round my neck, and I heard the words—“My son, my son!”

THE COLOPHON.

I must not pause to describe emotions, nor can I indeed narrate regularly, or distinctly, all that occurred during the next half hour. I had found a parent—a mother. O, how dear, how charming that name. Those who have gone on from childhood to manhood under a loved mother’s eye, and have only parted with her at the threshold of that gate which we must all pass, can form no idea of the sensations experienced by one who has never known a mother’s care, when he hears the very word mentioned—the longing, the yearning, the never-to-be satisfied desire to see the face, to hear the voice, to press the lips of her who gave us birth.

I had found a mother, and I sat beside her, with her hand clasped in mine, her head leaning on my shoulder, her eyes turned toward my face, speaking short words of love, often silent, but with a silence full of affection. For that half-hour there were no explanations, no connected conversation. All was wild and strong emotion, the first overflowings of love between parent and child, after a separation of twenty years.

We might have gone on much longer in the same way, but then there came a light knock at the door. It opened, and Westover’s voice said—

“May I come in?”

“O, yes, come in, come in, Charles,” said my mother. “Come in, my second son; my noble, my generous boy. I should not be half-happy if you did not share in the joy you have aided to bring about.”

Westover entered, and sat down by us, saying—with a smile, while he shook me warmly by the hand—

“Now, Louis, you know all.”

“No, no, he does not,” said my mother, “he knows nothing, Charles, but that his father’s name is clear, and that he has found his mother. I must tell him, as best I can, but I am afraid I shall be very confused.”

“I will help you, dear aunt,” said Westover. “It is right that he should know how it is he has been so long deprived of a mother’s care, and I am sure that in explaining, you will explain all, gently.”

“Fear not, Charles, fear not,” said Lady Catharine. “Though I have undergone much that was hard to bear, yet all is forgiven now in the joy of recovering my son—let me see how I can best tell my story—I must begin far back.”

“Some seven or eight and twenty years ago, I was a gay, wild girl, Louis, in the fashionable world of London. I had a fond and affectionate mother, who spoiled me, perhaps. A sister, next in age to myself, and a dear brother—Charles Westover’s father. There was a younger sister, too. All these were gay, light hearted, and easy in disposition, like myself; but my father was made of somewhat sterner materials. You have seen him—you know him—and I need say little more; except, that then he was moving a good deal in political life, and he had found it perhaps necessary to adopt a rigidity of principle, and a stern inflexibility of resolution, which has always kept his name high and pure in the world, but has not made one unfortunate child very happy.

“About that time, my mother died, and I was left much to my own guidance, as the eldest of the family, and I met in society a young French nobleman, the Count de Lacy, who was then Secretary of Legation here. He was wealthy, had served in the army with distinction, and my father was fond of him, often invited him to this house, and I have sat with him here, where now we sit, a hundred times, receiving feelings which I little knew were creeping into my breast. At length, he told me he loved me, and he very soon found out that I loved him. He expressed fears, however, that our affection would meet with opposition on my father’s part, and assured me that he would not have ventured to breathe his love, till he had made more progress in the earl’s regard, if he had not been suddenly recalled to France, as well as the ambassador. It was necessary, however, that my father should be immediately informed of our wishes, and De Lacy went to him for that purpose. He received a peremptory, and immediate refusal. My father said that he esteemed and liked the Count de Lacy, but that his daughter should never marry a foreigner, and a Roman Catholic.

“We both knew that my father’s resolutions were unchangeable, and those resolutions were expressed very harshly to me, who had never been accustomed to hear an unkind word from any one. They engendered feelings which they ought not to have produced—feelings almost of anger—something more than disappointment—a spirit of resistance. I felt that I could never love any one but De Lacy—that I should be miserable when he was gone—that I could only be happy as his wife. We found means to see each other. Our first object was only to say farewell, but in a moment of rash passion, he asked me to fly with him, and I fled. In every thing, he behaved with the utmost tenderness, delicacy, and honor. We reached Paris—unpursued, as I afterward found—and were immediately married by good Father Bonneville, who had been the chaplain to the embassy, and then by a Protestant clergyman.

“I wrote to my father immediately, begging forgiveness; but my letter was returned unopened, and I found that my father had given strict orders in his family, that my name should be never mentioned to him—that if ever I was inquired for by others, the reply should be simply, that I was abroad, and that no notice whatsoever should be taken in public, or in private, of my being the wife of the Count de Lacy. One is soon forgotten in a great world like this, Louis. There was some little rumor and gossiping when I first went away, but my father’s perfect calmness and reserve, his appearance of utter indifference and easy bearing, soon quelled all idle talk, and, except by my brother and my sisters, I was soon lost to remembrance. I had three children, of whom you were the second, Louis. My other lost darlings were girls. One died in the East, where De Lacy was appointed to a high command. The other died a day before her father—

She put her hand over her eyes, and paused for several moments; but then resuming her discourse, she said—

“I cannot dwell upon that terrible time. My senses left me for several weeks, and when I awoke to a consciousness of my situation, I found myself a widow, nearly penniless, stripped of all the fine estates which my husband had possessed, with one dear boy, between four and five years old, fatherless, and marked out by the terrible curse of a black stain upon his father’s name.

“Rank, station, fortune, love, hope, were all gone. The world seemed a blank void to me, and the waking from that frenzied sleep, like the recovery of a half-drowned man, was far more terrible than the death-like state which had preceded. I found, however, that besides good Father Bonneville, who had flown to me immediately, there was an English gentleman in the house, and as soon as I could bear it, I was told that he had been sent to me with a message from my father. When I could see him, I found that he was a stiff, dry, old man, but not altogether unkind, and he did not venture to give me the message he was charged to deliver for two or three days. He then, however, told me that he had a proposal to make to me, which had been reduced to writing, in my father’s own hand. It was this—”

She paused again, unable to proceed, and Westover interposed, saying—

“Let me tell him, my dear aunt?”

“The case was this, Louis, my grandfather had watched anxiously the proceedings against your father, and when he found him condemned and executed, his whole estates confiscated, and his very name attainted, he sent over to offer my Aunt Catharine a refuge in her former home—but it was only for herself,” he added, in a slow and sorrowful tone. “He exacted that you should be left behind in France—that she should resume her maiden name—that you should be brought up in utter ignorance of your connection with his family, and, as far as possible, in ignorance also of your father’s history.”

“It was a hard measure,” I said, somewhat bitterly, but Westover went on.

“On these conditions, he promised to provide for you amply—to pay for your support and education, during youth, and to settle a sufficient property upon you at his death. The reason he assigned for these harsh measures—as you will call them—was, that his name had come down unstained for many generations, and that he would never admit or acknowledge any connection with a family, which had the taint of treason upon it.”

“At first,” said my mother, taking up the tale again, “I rejected the proposal with horror, and declared that nothing would induce me to part with my child; but the good gentleman who had been sent to me, urged strongly, that by my presence and persuasions, I might induce my father to mitigate somewhat of his severity. He did not know his inflexible nature; and before I yielded, I attempted by letter to move my father. I represented humbly that, although condemned by a corrupt court, my poor husband was certainly innocent—that I knew every thing that had passed between him and the British officers—that the letters produced were forgeries—and that the time would come, when De Lacy’s name would stand out pure and clear. All I could obtain was contained in the following words of his reply: ‘If the time should ever come which you anticipate, and when your late husband’s character shall be fully justified, I will acknowledge you as his wife with pride, and receive your son as one of my own race. But till that time, I will never see him. You must never meet him voluntarily; and I beg it to be remembered, that if by a want of good faith, or even an indiscretion upon your part, he is made acquainted with his connection with myself, or is brought to England, under any false expectations from me, I will immediately stop the allowance that I propose to make him, and strike his name out of my will.’

“At first this seemed to me but little gained, but both the English gentleman, who had remained with me, and Father Bonneville, thought that it was much. They represented to me that opinion was already changing in France with regard to my husband’s case, that multitudes asserted his innocence and deplored his fate; and that the time must soon come, when he would be fully justified. My own hopes and convictions seconded their arguments, and I resolved, at length, to submit. Beggary and starvation were before me, Louis, not only for myself, but for you. I was bribed, in short, by the hope of your happiness, to sacrifice all a mother’s affections and enjoyments. Father Bonneville undertook the task of educating you; my maid Jeanette agreed to go with him to his little cure, and watch over you as a mother; and with a bitterness worse than that of death, I parted from you, and returned to England. Father Bonneville and Jeanette both solemnly bound themselves to the secrecy required—and well did they keep their word. God’s will brought you to England, no act of mine; and by a blessed chance you became acquainted with your dear Cousin Charles, who has been to me in my long widowhood and privation, the greatest comfort and consolation.”

“But how did you know Charles,” I inquired, “so much of my fate and history, if the subject was forbidden in your grandfather’s house.”