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I reassured him, and he went on: —

“The ingots were forged as if coming from the gold mines of Louisiana. D’Argenson knew the trick, and the Regent too. They it was who wrecked him, – they and Tencivi.”

His eyes grew heavy, and his voice subsided to a mere murmur after this, and he seemed to fall off in a drowsy stupor. The whole of that day and the next he lingered on thus, breathing heavily, and at intervals seeming to endeavor to rally himself from the oppression of sleep; but in vain! Exhaustion was complete, and he passed away calmly, and so quietly that we did not mark the moment when he ceased to breathe.

My mother led me away weeping from the room, and Raper remained to look after his papers and make the few arrangements for his humble burial.

The same day that we laid him in the earth came a letter from the Count de Gabriac to say that he would be with us on the morrow. It was the only letter he had written for several months past, and my mother’s joy was boundless at the prospect of seeing him. Thus did sunshine mingle with shadow in our life, and tears of happiness mingle with those of sorrow!

CHAPTER XXV. THE COUNT DE GABRIAC

I had often heard that the day which should see the Count restored to us would be one of festivity and enjoyment. Again and again had we talked over all our plans of pleasure for that occasion; but the reality was destined to bring back disappointment! We were returning in sadness from the toll-house, when a messenger came running to tell of the Count’s arrival; and my mother, leaving me with Raper, to whom she whispered a few hurried words, hastened homewards.

I thought it strange that she had not taken me along with her; but I walked along silently at Raper’s side, lost in my own thoughts, and not sorry to have for my companion one little likely to disturb them. We sauntered onward through some meadows that skirted the river; and at last, coming down to the stream, seated ourselves by the brink, each still sunk in his own reflections.

It was a bright day of midsummer: the air had all that exhilaration peculiar to the season in these Alpine districts. The stream ran clear as crystal at our feet; and the verdure of grass and foliage was in its full perfection. But one single object recalled a thought of sorrow, and that was the curtained window of the little chamber wherein Herr Robert lay dead.

To this spot my eyes would return, do what I could; and thither, too, sped all my thoughts, in spite of me. The influence which for some time back he had possessed over me was perfectly distinct from that which originates in affectionate attachment. Indeed, all his appeals to me were the very reverse of such. His constant argument was, that a man fettered by affection, and restricted by ties of family, was worthless for all purposes of high ambition, and that for the real successes of life, one must sacrifice everything like individual enjoyment. So far had he impressed me with these notions that I already felt a kind of pleasure in little acts of self-denial, and rose in my own esteem by slight traits of self-restraint. The comparative isolation in which I lived, and my estrangement from those of my own age, favored this impression, and I grew by degrees to look upon the sports and pleasures of boyhood with all the disdainful compassion of an old ascetic.

I remember well how, as I lay in the deep grass and watched the rippling circles of the fast-flowing river, that a sudden thought shot through me. What if all this theory should prove but a well-disguised avarice, – that this passion for distinction be only the thirst for wealth, – these high purposes of philanthropy but another scheme for self-advancement! Is it possible that for such a price as this I would surrender all the enjoyments of youth, and all the budding affections of coming manhood?

“Mr. Joseph,” said I, suddenly, “what is the best life?”

“How do you mean, Jasper? Is it, how shall a man do most good to others?” said he.

“Not alone that; but how shall he best employ his faculties for his own sake?”

“That may mean for his personal advancement, Jasper, for objects purely selfish, and be the reverse of what your first question implied.”

“When I said the best, I meant the wisest,” replied I.

“The wisest choice is that of a career, every duty of which can be fulfilled without the sacrifice of kindly affections or the relinquishment of family ties. He who can adopt such is both wise and happy.”

“Are you happy, Mr. Joseph?” asked I; “for I know you are wise.”

“Far more happy than wise, Jasper,” said he, smiling. “For one like me, life has borne many blessings.”

“Like you!” exclaimed I, in surprise, for to my thinking he was a most enviable mortal; I knew of no one so learned, nor of such varied acquirements. “Like you, Mr. Joseph!”

“Just so, Jasper; I, who have had neither home nor family, have yet found both; I, whom no ties of affection encircled, have lived to feel what it is to be cared for; and I, that almost despaired of being aught to any one, have found that I can be of use to those whom it is my chief happiness to love.”

“Tell me your history, Mr. Joseph, or at least tell me something about yourself.”

“My story, my dear Jasper, is but the history of my own day. The least eventful of lives would be adventurous if placed alongside of mine. I began the world such as you see me, poor, humble-minded, and lowly. I continue my journey in the same spirit that I set out. The tastes and pursuits that then gave me pleasure are still the same real sources of enjoyment to me. What were duties are now delights. Your dear mother was once my pupil, as you are now; and it is my pride to see that she has neither forgotten our old lessons, nor lived to think them valueless. Even here have I seen her fall back upon the pursuits which occupied her childhood – ay, and they have served to lighten some gloomy hours too.”

Raper quickly perceived, from the anxiety with which I had listened, that he had already spoken too much; and he abruptly changed the topic by saying, —

“How we shall miss the poor Herr Robert! He had grown to seem one of ourselves.”

“And is my mother unhappy, Mr. Joseph?” said I, recurring to the former remarks.

“Which of us can claim an exemption from sorrow, Jasper? Do you not think that the little village yonder, in that cleft of the mountain – secluded as it looks – has not its share of this world’s griefs? Are there not the jealousies, and the rivalries, and the heartburnings of large communities within that narrow spot?”

While he was yet speaking, a messenger came to summon me home. The Countess, he said, was waiting dinner for me, and yet no invitation came for Raper. He seemed, however, not to notice the omission, but, taking my hand, led me along homeward. I saw that some strong feeling was working within, for twice or thrice he pressed my hand fervently, and seemed as if about to say something; and then, subduing the impulse, he walked on in silence.

“Make my respectful compliments to the Count, Jasper,” said he, as we came to the door, “and say that I will wait upon him when it is his pleasure to see me.”

“That would be now, I ‘m sure,” said I, eagerly.

“Perhaps not so soon; he will have so much to say to your mother. Another time;” and, hurriedly shaking my hand, he retired.

As I slowly, step by step, mounted the stair, I could not help asking myself, was this the festive occasion I had so often pictured to myself? – was this the happy meeting I had looked forward to so longingly? As I drew near the door, I thought I heard a sound like a. heavy sob; my hand trembled when I turned the handle of the lock and entered the room.

“This is Jasper,” said my mother, coming towards me, and trying to smile through what I could see were recent tears.

The Count was seated on an easy-chair, still dressed in the pelisse he had worn on the journey, and with his travelling-cap in his hand. He struck me as a handsome and distinguished-looking man, ‘but with a countenance that alike betrayed passion and intemperance. The look he turned on me as I came forward was assuredly not one of kindness or affection, nor did he extend his hand to me in sign of salutation.

“And this is Jasper!” repeated he slowly after my mother. “He is n’t tall of his age, I think.”

“We have always thought him so,” said my mother, gently, “and assuredly he is strong and well grown.”

“The better able will he be to brave fatigue and hardship,” said he, sternly. “Come forward, sir, and tell me something about yourself. What have they taught you at school? – has Raper made you a bookworm, dreamy and good-for-nothing as himself?”

“Would that he had made me resemble him in anything!” cried I, passionately.

“It were a pity such a moderate ambition should go unrewarded,” replied he, with a sneer. “But to the purpose: what do you know?”

“Little, sir; very little.”

“And what can you do?”

“Even less.”

“Hopeful, at all events,” rejoined he, with a shrug of the shoulders. “They haven’t made you a scholar: they surely might have trained you to something.”

My mother, who seemed to suffer most acutely during this short dialogue, here whispered something in his ear, to which he as hastily replied, —

“Not a bit of it. I know him better than that; better than you do. Come, sir,” added he, turning to me, “the Countess tells me that you are naturally sensitive, quick to feel censure, and prone to brood over it. Is this the case?”

“I scarcely know if it be,” said I. “I have but a slight experience of it.”

“Ay, that’s more like the truth,” said he, gayly. “The language of blame is not familiar to him. So, then, from Raper you have learned little. Now, what has the great financier and arch-swindler Law taught you?”

“Emile, Emile,” broke in my mother, “this is not a way to speak to the boy, nor is it by such lessons he will be trained to gratitude and affection.”

“Even there, then, will my teaching serve him,” said he, laughingly. “From all that I have seen of life, these are but unprofitable emotions.”

I did not venture to look at my mother; but I could hear how her breathing came fast and thick, and could mark the agitation she was under.

“Now, Jasper,” said he, “sit down here beside me, and let us talk to each other in all confidence and sincerity. You know enough of your history to be aware that you are an orphan, that both your parents died leaving you penniless, and that to this lady, whom till now you have called your mother, you owe your home.”

My heart was full to bursting, and I could only clasp my mother’s hand and kiss it passionately, without being able to utter a word.

“I neither wish to excite your feelings nor to weary you,” said he, calmly; “but it is necessary that I should tell you we are not rich. The fact, indeed, may have occurred to you already,” said he, with a disdainful gesture of his hand, while his eye ranged over the poverty-stricken chamber where we sat. “Well,” resumed he, “not being rich, but poor, – so poor that I have known what it is to feel hunger and thirst and cold, for actual want! Worse again,” cried he, with a wild and savage energy, “have felt the indignity of being scoffed at for my poverty, and seen the liveried scullions of a great house make jests upon my threadbare coat and worn hat! It has been my own choosing, however, all of it!” and as he spoke, he arose, and paced the room with strides that made the frail chamber tremble beneath the tread.

“Dearest Emile,” cried my mother, “let us have no more of this. Remember that it is so long since we met. Pray keep these sad reflections for another time, and let us enjoy the happiness of being once more together.”

“I have no time for fooling, madame,” said he, sternly. “I have come a long and weary journey about this boy. It is unlikely that I can afford to occupy myself with his affairs again. Let him have the benefit – if benefit there be – of my coming. I would relieve you of the burden of his support, and himself of the misery of dependence.”

I started with surprise. It was the first time I had ever heard the word with reference to myself, and a sense of shame, almost to sickness, came over me as I stood there.

“Jasper is my child; he is all that a son could be to his mother,” cried Polly, clasping me in her arms, and kissing my forehead; and I felt as if my very heart was bursting. “Between us there is no question of burden or independence.”

“We live in an age of fine sentiments and harsh actions,” said the Count. “I have seen M. de Robespierre shed tears over a dead canary, and I believe that he could control his feelings admirably on the Place de Grève. Jasper, I see that we must finish this conversation when we are alone together. And now to dinner.”

He assumed a half air of gayety as he said this; but it was unavailing as a means of rallying my poor mother, whose tearful eyes and trembling lips told how sadly dispirited she felt at heart.

I had heard much from my mother about the charms of the Count’s conversation, his brilliant tone, and his powers of fascination. It had been a favorite theme with her to dilate upon his wondrous agreeability, and the vast range of his acquaintance with popular events and topics. She had always spoken of him, too, as one of buoyant spirits, and even boyish light-heartedness. She had even told me that he would be my companion, like one of my own age. With what disappointment, then, did I find him the very reverse of all this! All his views of life savored of bitterness and scorn; all his opinions were tinged with scepticism and distrust; he sneered at the great world and its vanities, but even these he seemed to hold in greater estimation than the humble tranquillity of our remote village. I have him before me this instant as he leaned out of the window and looked down the valley towards the Splugen Alps. The sun was setting, and only the tops of the very highest glaciers were now touched with its glory; their peaks shone like burnished gold in the sea of sky, azure and cloudless. The rest of the landscape was softened down into various degrees of shade, but all sufficiently distinct to display the wild and fanciful outlines of cliff and crag, and the zigzag course by which the young Rhine forced its passage through the rocky gorge. Never had the scene looked in greater beauty, – never had every effect of light and shadow been more happily distributed; and I watched him with eagerness as he gazed out upon a picture which nothing in all Europe can surpass. His countenance for a while remained calm, cold, and unmoved; but at last he broke silence and said:

“This it was, then, that gave that dark coloring to all your letters to me, Polly; and I half forgive you as I look at it. Gloom and barbarism were never more closely united.”

“Oh, Emile, you surely see something else in this grand picture?” cried she, in a deprecating voice.

“Yes,” said he, slowly, “I see poverty and misery; half-fed and half-clad shepherds; figures of bandit rugged-ness and savagery. I see these, and I feel that to live amongst them, even for a brief space, would be to endure a horrid nightmare.”

He moved away as he spoke, and sauntered slowly out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street.

“Follow him, Jasper,” cried Polly, eagerly; “he is dispirited and depressed, – the journey has fatigued him, and he looks unwell. Go with him; but do not speak till he addresses you.”

I did not much fancy the duty, but I obeyed without a word. He seemed to have quickened his pace as he descended; for when I reached the street, I could detect his figure at some distance off in the twilight. He walked rapidly on, and when he arrived at the bridge, he stopped, and, leaning against the balustrade, looked up the valley.

“Are you weary of this, boy?” asked he, while he pointed up the glen.

I shook my head in dissent.

“Not tired of it,” he exclaimed, “not heartsick of a life of dreary monotony, without ambition, without an object! When I was scarcely older than you I was a garde du corps; at eighteen I was in the household, and mixing in all the splendor and gayety of Paris; before I was twenty I fought the Duc de Valmy and wounded him. At the Longchamps of that same year I drove in the carriage with La Marquese de Rochvilliers; and all the world knows what success that was! Well, all these things have passed away, and now we have a republic and the coarse pleasures and coarser tastes of the ‘canaille.’ Men like me are not the ‘mode,’ and I am too old to conform to the new school. But you are not so; you must leave this, boy, – you must enter the world, and at once, too. You shall come back with me to Paris.”

“And leave my mother?”

“She is not your mother, – you have no claim on her as such; I am more your relative than she is, for your mother was my cousin. But we live in times when these ties are not binding. The guillotine loosens stronger bonds, and the whisper of the spy is more efficacious than the law of divorce. You must see the capital, and know what life really is. Here you will learn nothing but the antiquated prejudices of Raper, or the weak follies of – others.”

He only spoke the last word after a pause of some seconds, and then moodily sank into silence.

I did not venture to utter a word, and waited patiently till he resumed, which he did by saying, —

“The Countess has told you nothing of your history, – nothing of your circumstances? Well, you shall hear all from me. Indeed, there are facts known to me with which she is unacquainted. For the present, Jasper, I will tell you frankly that the humble pittance on which she lives is insufficient for the additional cost of your support. I can contribute nothing; I can be but a burden myself. From herself you would never hear this; she would go on still, as she has done hitherto, struggling and pinching, battling with privations, and living that fevered life of combat that is worse than a thousand deaths. Raper, too, in his own fashion, would make sacrifices for you; but would you endure the thought of this? Does not the very notion revolt against all your feelings of honor and manly independence? Yes, boy, that honest grasp of the hand assures me that you think so! You must not, however, let it appear that I have confided this fact to you. It is a secret that she would never forgive my having divulged. The very discussion of it has cost us the widest estrangements we have ever suffered, and it would peril the continuance of our affection to speak of it.”

“I will be secret,” said I, firmly.

“Do so, boy; and remember that when I speak of your accompanying me to Paris, you express your wish to see the capital and its brilliant pleasures. Show, if not weary of this dreary existence here, that you at least are not dead to all higher and nobler ambitions. Question me about the life of the great world, and in your words and questions exhibit the interest the theme suggests. I have my own plan for your advancement, of which you shall hear later.”

He seemed to expect that I would show some curiosity regarding the future, but my thoughts were all too busy with the present. They were all turned to that home I was about to leave, to the fond mother I was to part from, to honest Joseph himself, – my guide, my friend, and my companion; and for what? An unknown sea, upon which I was to adventure without enterprise or enthusiasm.

The Count continued to talk of Paris and his various friends there, with whom he assured me I should be a favorite. He pictured the life of the great city in all its brightest colors. He mentioned the names of many who had entered it as unknown and friendless as myself, and yet, in a few years, had won their way up to high distinction. There was a vagueness in all this which did not satisfy me; but I was too deeply occupied with other thoughts to question or cavil at what he said.

When we went back to supper, Raper was there to pay his respects to the Count. De Gabriac received his respectful compliments coldly and haughtily; he even interrupted the little address poor Joseph had so carefully studied and committed to memory, by asking if he still continued to bewilder his faculties with Greek particles and obsolete dialects; and then, without waiting for his reply, he seated himself at the table, and arranged his napkin.

“Master Joseph,” said he, half sarcastically, “the world has been pleased to outlive these follies; they have come to the wise resolve that, when languages are dead, they ought to be buried; and they have little sympathy with those who wish to resuscitate and disinter them.”

“It is but an abuse of terms to call them dead, Count,” replied Joseph. “Truth, in whatever tongue it be syllabled, does not die. Fidelity to nature in our age will be acknowledged as correct in centuries after.”

“Our own time gives us as good models, and with less trouble to look for them,” said the Count, flippantly. “Your dreamy bookworm is too prone to delve in the earth, and not to coin the ore that he has discovered. Take Jasper there: you have taught him diligently and patiently; I ‘ll be sworn you have neglected him in nothing, so far as your own knowledge went; and yet, before he shall have been three months in Paris, he will look upon you, his master, as an infant. The interval between you will be wide as the broad Atlantic; and the obstacles and crosses, to overcome which will be with him the work of a second, would be to you difficulties insurmountable.”

“To Paris! Jasper go to Paris!” exclaimed my mother, as she grew deadly pale.

“Jasper leave us!” cried Raper, in a tone of terror.

“And why not?” replied the Count. “Is it here you would have him waste the best years of youth? Is it in the wild barbarism of this dreary valley that he will catch glimpses of the prizes for which men struggle and contend? The boy himself has higher and nobler instincts; he feels that this is but the sluggish existence of a mere peasant, and that yonder is the tournament where knights are jousting.”

“And you wish to leave us, Jasper?” cried my mother, with a quivering lip, and a terrible expression of anxiety in her features.

“To forsake your home!” muttered Raper.

“Ask himself; let him be as frank with you as he was half-an-hour ago with me, and you will know the truth.”

“Oh, Jasper, speak! – leave me not in this dreadful suspense!” cried my mother; “for in all my troubles I never pictured to my mind this calamity.”

“No, no!” said Raper; “the boy ‘s nature has no duplicity, – he never thought of this!”

“Ask him, I say,” cried the Count; “ask him if he wish not to accompany me to Paris.”

I could bear no longer the power of the gaze that I felt was fixed upon me, but, falling at her feet, I hid my face in her lap, and cried bitterly. My heart was actually bursting with the fulness of sorrow, and I sobbed myself to sleep, still weeping through my dreams, and shedding hot tears as I slumbered.

My dream is more graven on my memory than the events which followed my awaking. I could recount the strange and incoherent fancies which chased each other through my brain on that night, and yet not tell the actual occurrences of the following day.

I do remember something of sitting beside my mother, with my hand locked in hers, and feeling the wet cheek that from time to time was pressed against my own; of the soft hand as it parted the hair upon my forehead, and the burning kiss that seemed to sear it. Passages of intense emotion – how caused I know not – are graven in my mind; memories of a grief that seemed to wrench the heart with present suffering, and cast shadows of darkest meaning on the future. Oh, no, no! – the sorrows – if they be indeed sorrows – of childhood are not short-lived; they mould the affections, and dispose them in a fashion that endures for many a year to come.

While I recall to mind these afflictions, of the actual events of my last hours at Reichenau I can relate but the very slightest traits. I do remember poor Raper storing my little portmanteau with some of the last few volumes that remained to him of his little store of books; of my mother showing me a secret pocket of the trunk, not to be opened save when some emergency or difficulty had presented itself; of my astonishment at the number of things provided for my use, and the appliances of comfort and convenience which were placed at my disposal; and then, more forcibly than all else, of the contemptuous scorn with which the Count surveyed the preparation, and asked “if my ward robe contained nothing better than these rags?”

Of the last sad moment of parting, – the agony of my mother’s grief as she clasped me in her arms, till I was torn away by force, and with my swimming faculties I thought to have seen her fall fainting to the ground, – of these I will not speak, for I dare not, even now!