We had no seconds; nor was there any person in sight. It was a bright moonlight, and we walked to the water’s edge, where the reflux of the tide had left the sand firm to the tread. Here we stood back to back. The usual distance was fourteen paces. Talbot refused to measure his, but stood perfectly still. I walked ten paces, and turned round. “Ready,” said I, in a low voice.

  We both raised our arms; but Talbot, instantly dropping the muzzle of his pistol, said, “I cannot fire at the brother of Clara!”

  “I can at her insulter,” answered I; and, taking deliberate aim, fired, and my ball entered his side. He bounded, gave a half-turn round in the air, and fell on his face to the ground.

  How sudden are the transitions of the human mind! how close does remorse follow the gratification of revenge! The veil dropped from my eyes; I saw in an instant the false medium, the deceitful vision, which had thus allured me into what the world calls “an affair of honour.” “Honour,” good Heaven! had made me a murderer, and the voice of my brother’s blood cried out for vengeance.

  The manly and athletic form, which one minute before excited my most malignant hatred, when now prostrate and speechless became an object of frantic affection. I ran to Talbot, and when it was too late perceived the mischief I had done. Murder, cruelty, injustice, and, above all, the most detestable ingratitude, flushed at once into my over-crowded imagination. I turned the body round, and tried to discover if there were any signs of life. A small stream of blood ran from his side, and, about two feet from him, was lost in the absorbing sand; while from the violence of his fall the sand had filled his mouth and nostrils. I cleaned them out; and stanching the wound with my handkerchief, for the blood flowed copiously at every respiration, I sat on the sea-shore by his side, supporting him in my arms. I only exclaimed, “Would to God the shark, the poison, the sword of the enemy, or the precipice of Trinidad, had destroyed me before this fatal hour!”

  Talbot opened his languid eyes, and fixed them on me with a glassy stare; but he did not speak. Suddenly recollection seemed for a moment to return — he recognised me, and, O God! his look of kindness pierced my heart. He made several efforts to speak, and at last said, in broken accents, and at long and painful intervals.

  “Look at letter — writing-desk — read all — explain — God bless—” His head fell back, and he was dead!

  Oh, how I envied him! had he been ten thousand times more guilty than I had ever supposed him, it would have given no comfort to my mind. I had murdered him, and too late, I acknowledged his innocence. I know not why, and can scarcely tell how I did it, but I took off my neckcloth, and bound it tightly round his waist, over the wound. The blood ceased to flow. I left the body, and returned to our lodging, in a state of mental prostration and misery proportioned to the heat and excitement with which I had quitted it.

  My first object was to read the letters which my poor friend had referred to. On my arrival, both our servants were up. My hands and clothes were dyed with blood, and they looked at me with astonishment. I ran hastily upstairs to avoid them, and took the writing-desk, the key of which I knew hung to his watch-chain. Seizing the poker, I split it open, and took out the packet he mentioned. At this moment his servant entered the room.

  “Et mon maître, monsieur, où est-il?”

  “I have murdered him,” said I, “and you will find him on the sands, near the signal-post; and,” continued I, “I am now robbing him!”

  My appearance and actions seemed to prove the truth of my assertion. The man flew out of the room; but I was regardless of everything, and even wonder why I should have given my attention to the letters at all, especially as I had now convinced myself of Talbot’s innocence. The packet, however, I did read; and it consisted of a series of letters between Talbot and his father, who had engaged him to a young lady of rank and fortune, without consulting him — un mariage de convenance — which Talbot had resisted in consequence of his attachment to Clara.

  I have already stated that Talbot of high aristocratic family; and this marriage being wished for by the parents of both parties, they had given it out as being finally settled to take place on the return of Talbot to England. In the last letter, the father had yielded to his entreaties in favour of Clara; only requesting him not to be precipitate in offering himself, as he wished to find some excuse for breaking off the match; and, above all, he fatally enjoined profound secrecy till the affair was arranged. Here, then, was everything explained. Indeed, before I had read these letters, my mind did not need this damning proof of his innocence and my guilt.

  Just as I had finished reading, the gendarmes entered my room, and, with the officers of justice, led me away to prison. I walked mechanically. I was conducted to a small building in the centre of a square. This was a cachot with an iron-grated window on each of its four sides, but without glass. There was no bench, or table, or anything but the bare walls and the pavement. The wind blew sharply through. I had not even a great-coat; but I felt no cold or personal inconvenience, for my mind was too much occupied by superior misery. The door closed on me, and I heard the bolts turn. There was not an observation made on either part, and I was left to myself.

  “Well,” said I, “fate has now done its worst, and fortune will be weary at last of tormenting a wretch that she can sink no lower! Death has no terrors for me; and, after death — !” But, even in my misery, I scarcely gave a thought to what might happen in futurity. It might occasionally have obtruded itself on my mind, but was quickly dismissed: I had adopted the atheistical creed of the French Revolution.

  “Death is eternal sleep, and the sooner I go to sleep the better!” thought I. The only point that pressed itself on my mind was, the dread of a public execution. This my pride revolted at; for pride had again returned, and resumed its empire, even in my cachot.

  As the day dawned, the noise of the carts and country people coming into the square with their produce, roused me from my reverie, for I had not slept. The prison was surrounded by all ages and all classes, to get a sight of the English murderer; and the light and the air were stopped out of each window by human faces pressed against the bars. I was gazed at as a wild beast; and the children, as they sat on their mother’s shoulders to look at me, received a moral lesson and a warning at my expense.

  As a tiger in his cage wearies the eye by incessantly walking and turning, so I paced my den; and if I could have reached one of the impertinent gazers, through the slanting aperture and three-foot wall, I should have throttled him. “All these people,” said I, “and thousands more, will witness my last moments on the scaffold!”

  Stung with this dreadful thought, with rage I searched in my pockets for my penknife, to relieve me at once from my torments and apprehensions; and had I found it, I should certainly have committed suicide. Fortunately I had left it at home, or it would have been buried, in that moment of frenzy, in the carotid artery; for, as well as others, I knew exactly where to find it.

  The crowd at length began to disperse; the windows were left, except now and then an urchin of a boy showed his ragged head at the grille. Worn out with bodily fatigue and mental suffering, I was going to throw myself along upon the cold stones, when I saw the face of my own servant, who advanced in haste to the window of the prison, exclaiming with joy: —

  “Courage, mon cher maître; Monsieur Talbot n’est pas mort!”

  “Not dead!” exclaimed I, falling unconsciously on my knees, and lifting up my clasped hands and haggard eyes to heaven; “not dead! God be praised. At least there is a hope that I may escape the crime of murder.”

  Before I could say more, the mayor entered my cachot with the officers of the police, and informed me that a procès-verbal had been held; that my friend had been able to give the clearest answers to all their questions; and that it appeared from the evidence of Monsieur Talbot himself, that it was an affaire d’honneur, fairly decided; that the brace of pistols found in the water had confirmed his assertions: “and therefore, monsieur,” continued the mayor, “whether your friend lives or dies tout a été fait en règle, et vous êtes libre.”

  So saying, he bowed very politely, and pointed to the door; nor was I so ceremonious as to beg him to show me the way; out I ran, and flew to the apartment of Talbot, who had sent my servant to say how much he wished to see me. I found him in bed. As I entered, he held out his hand to me, which I covered with kisses and bathed with my tears.

  “O Talbot!” said I, “can you forgive me?”

  He squeezed my hand, and from exhaustion let it fall. The surgeon led me out of the room, saying, “All depends on his being kept quiet.” I then learned that he owed his life to two circumstances — the first was, my having bound my neckcloth round the wound; the other was, that the duel took place below high-water mark. The tide was rising when I left him; and the cold waves as they rippled against his body, had restored him to animation. In this state he was found by his servant, not many minutes before the flood would have covered him, for he had not strength to move out of its way. I ascertained also that the ball had entered his liver, and had passed out without doing further injury.

  I now dressed myself, and devoutly thanking God for His miraculous preservation, took my seat by the bedside of the patient, which I never quitted until his perfect recovery. When this was happily completed, I wrote to my father and to Clara, giving both an exact account of the whole transaction. Clara, undeceived, made no scruple of acknowledging her attachment. Talbot was requested by his father to return home. I accompanied him as far as Calais, where we parted; and in a few weeks after, I had the pleasure of hearing that my sister had become his wife.

  Left to myself, returned slowly, and much depressed in spirits, to Quillacq’s; where, ordering post-horses, I threw myself into my travelling-carriage into which my valet had by my orders previously placed my luggage.

  “Where are you going to, monsieur?” said the valet.

  “Au diable!” said I.

  “Mais les passeports?” said the man.

  I felt that I had sufficient passports for the journey I had proposed; but correcting myself, said, “to Switzerland.” It was the first name that came into my head; and I had heard that it was the resort of all my countrymen whose heads, hearts, lungs, or finances were disordered. But during my journey, I neither saw nor heard anything, consequently took no notes, which my readers will rejoice at, because they will be spared that inexhaustible supply to the trunk-makers, “A tour through France and Switzerland.” I travelled night and day; for I could not sleep. The allegory of Io and the gad-fly in the heathen mythology, must surely have been intended to represent the being who, like myself, was tormented by a bad conscience. Like Io I flew; and like her, I was pursued by the eternal gad-fly, wherever I went; and in vain did I try to escape it.

  I passed the Great St. Bernard on foot. This interested me as I approached it. The mountains below, and the Alps above, were one mass of snow and ice, and I looked down with contempt on the world below me. I took up my abode in the convent for some time; my ample contributions to the box in the chapel made me a welcome sojourner beyond the limited period allowed to travellers, and I felt less and less inclined to quit the scene. My amusement was climbing the most frightful precipices, followed by the large and faithful dogs, and viewing Nature in her wildest and most sublime attire. At other times, when bodily fatigue required rest, I sat down, with morbid melancholy, in the receptacle for the bodies of those unfortunate persons who had perished in the show. There would I remain for hours, musing on their fate: the purity of the air admitted neither putrefaction nor even decay, for a very considerable time; and they lay, to all appearance, as if the breath had even then only quitted them, although, on touching those who had been there for years, they would often crumble into dust.

  Roman Catholics, we know, are ever anxious to make converts. The prior asked me whether I was not a Protestant? I replied, that I was of no religion; which answer was, I believe, much nearer to the truth than any other I could have given. The reply was far more favourable to the hopes of the monks than if I had said I was a heretic or a Moslem. They thought me much more likely to become a convert to their religion, since I had none of my own to oppose it. The monks immediately arranged themselves in theological order, with the whole armour of faith, and laid constant siege to me on all sides; but I was not inclined to any religion, much less to the one I despised. I would sooner have turned Turk.

  I received a letter from poor unhappy Eugenia — it was the last she ever wrote. It was to acquaint me with the death of her lovely boy, who, having wandered from the house, had fallen into a trout-stream, where he was found drowned some hours after. In her distracted state of mind she could add no more than her blessing, and a firm conviction that we should never meet again in this world. Her letter concluded incoherently; and although I should have said, in the morning, that my mind had not room for another sorrow, yet the loss of this sweet boy, and the state of his wretched mother, found a place in my bosom for a time, to the total exclusion of all other cares. She requested me to hasten to her without delay, if I wished to see her before she died.

  I took leave of the monks, and travelled with all speed to Paris, and thence to Calais. Reaching Quillacq’s hotel, I received a shock which, although I apprehended danger, I was not prepared for. It was a letter from Eugenia’s agent, announcing her death. She had been seized with a brain fever, and had died at a small town in Norfolk, where she had removed soon after our last unhappy interview. The agent concluded his letter by saying that Eugenia had bequeathed me all her property, which was very considerable, and that her last rational words to him were that I was her first and her only love.

  I was now callous to suffering. My feelings had been racked to insensibility. Like a ship in a hurricane, the last tremendous sea had swept everything from the decks — the vessel was a wreck, driving as the storm might chance to direct. In the midst of this devastation, I looked around me, and the only object which presented itself to my mind, as worthy of contemplation, was the tomb which contained the remains of Eugenia and her child. To that I resolved to repair.

  Chapter Twenty Nine.

  With sorrow and repentance true,

  Father, I trembling come to you.

  Song.

  I arrived at the town where poor Eugenia had breathed her last, and near to which was the cemetery in which her remains were deposited. I went to the inn, whence, after having dismissed my post-boy and ordered my luggage to be taken up to my room, I proceeded on foot towards the spot. I was informed that the path lay between the church and the bishop’s palace. I soon reached it: and inquiring for the sexton, who lived in a cottage hard by, requested he would lead me to a certain grave, which I indicated by tokens too easily known.

  “Oh, you mean the sweet young lady as died of grief for the loss of her little boy. There it is,” continued he, pointing with his finger; “the white peacock is now sitting on the head-stone of the grave, and the little boy is buried beside it.”

  I approached, while the humble sexton kindly withdrew, that I might, without witnesses, indulge that grief which he saw was the burthen of my aching heart. The bird remained, but without dressing its plumage, without the usual air of surprise and vigilance evinced by domestic fowls when disturbed in their haunts: this poor creature was moulting; its feathers were rumpled and disordered; its tail ragged. There was no beauty in the bird, which was probably only kept as a variety of the species; and it appeared to me as if it had been placed there as a lesson to myself, vain its modest attire, in its melancholy and pensive attitude, it seemed, with its gaudy plumage, to have dismissed the world and its vanities, while in mournful silence it surveyed the crowded mementos of eternity.

  “This is my office, not thine,” said I, apostrophising the bird, which, alarmed at my near approach, quitted its position, and disappeared among the surrounding tombs, I sat down, and fixing my eyes on the name which the tablet bore, ran over, in a hurried manner, all that part of my career which had been more immediately connected with the history of Eugenia. I remembered her many virtues; her self-devotion for my honour and happiness; her concealing herself from me, that I might not blast my prospects in life by continuing an intimacy which she saw would end in my ruin; her firmness of character, her disinterested generosity, and the refinement of attachment which made her prefer misery and solitude to her own gratification in the society of the man she loved. She had, alas! but one fault, and that fault was, loving me. I could not drive from my thoughts, that it was through my unfortunate and illicit connection with her that I had lost all that made life dear to me.

  At this moment (and not once since the morning I awoke from it) my singular dream recurred to my mind. The thoughts which never had once, during my eventful voyage from the Bahamas to the Cape, and thence to England, presented themselves in my waking hours, must certainly have possessed my brain during sleep. Why else should it never have occurred to my rational mind that the connection with Eugenia would certainly endanger that intended with Emily? It was Eugenia that placed Emily in mourning, out of my reach, and, as it were, on the top of the Nine-pin Rock.

  Here, then, my dream was explained; and I now felt all the horrors of that reality which I thought at the time was no more than the effect of a disordered imagination. Yet I could not blame Eugenia; the poor girl had fallen a victim to that deplorable and sensual education which I had received in the cockpit of a man-of-war. I — I alone was the culprit. She was friendless, and without a parent to guide her youthful step; she fell a victim to my ungoverned passions. Maddened with anguish of head and heart, I threw myself violently on the grave; I beat my miserable head against the tombstones; I called with frantic exclamation on the name of Eugenia; and at length sank on the turf, between the two graves, in a state of stupor and exhaustion, from which a copious flood of tears in some measure relieved me.