■ "Li E> RA FLY OF THE U N I VERS ITY Of ILLINOIS 840.8 In8E Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/interestingtalesOOsemp INTERESTING TALES. I . tesf S -v:': Here I am . Paqe 24 . Kiblifh d DecT Lido 4, bv JJdarris ^orm er of S^Paat Church Tard* London . INTERESTING TALES CONSISTING OF ISIDORE, ARTHUR, THE CLEAR-SIGHTED BLIND MAN, ROBERT, AND THE HOGSHEAD. Translated from the French , BY A LADY. HontJon: Printed tor Vernorand Hood, in the Poultry; and J. Harris, Comer of St. Paul’s -Church.. Yard. — X805o Printed by J. & L. Ilodson, Cros" -Street, Hatton Garden, R Vv^y,49 Uji-ufcJA, TALES. Xu &E TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH. ISIDORE. T HERE lived in a small village, near the town of * * *, a man whose name was Bernard; he had once been clerk in a counting house, but now endeavoured to exist upon his very narrow income, in a neat, but small house, situated at the entrance of the village, where he spent his time agreeably enough, between the care of his little garden, and of his son Isidore. B r ' L . Bernard ISIDORE. 2 Bernard was a widower, and Isi- dore his only child. He was a very amiable, well disposed young man, possessed of a thousand good quali- ties, but simple as a baby; and at the age of eighteen, was as modest and reserved as any young woman in the neighbourhood. Obliged to regulate his expences with the strictest economy, Bernard had no connection with any of the inhabitants of the town; the little society he cultivated was with a few old husbandmen, as poor as him- self, and like him also, good and virtuous. He could not afford to give mas- ters to his son, but he taught him to read, to write, and to cast ac- counts; and if the young Isidore was ISIDORE. 3 •was not extremely learned, he was at least a good son, a good friend, and would have sacrificed his life to serve his father. One day Bernard received a let- ter, which appeared to interest him prodigiously; he shut himself up several days in his room, and at length acquainted Isidore with the necessity he was under of taking a journey, which would occasion him an absence of many months . — “ You are so little acquainted, my son,” added he, <{ with either mankind, or business, that uncertain as I am of what may be my lot, I cannot communicate to you the motive of my journey, besides I know it would disturb your peace, and for no pur- pose; for, if the object for which I b 2 am 4 ISIDORE. am going to absent myself, should not succeed, I should be the cause of useless regret and uneasiness to you. Remain then quietly at home, my dear Isidore, and take care of your little cottage ; I have saved a tew crowns, which you will find in that bureau; take them, live mode- rately, and wait my return without uneasiness. — I recommend to you particularly, very particularly, not to visit any person but our ordinary friends, Thomas and tall Simon, who are good and worthy people. Pray remember this, my son, fly from all society, it is the ruin of the morals and principles of the indi- gent. — Adieu my dear Isidore. Isidore wept, embraced his father, and followed him with his eyes as ISIDORE. as long as he could distinguish him. — When he found himself alone, though lie was tall, strong, and eigh- teen years of age, he thought him- self lost and forsaken; going into his house it appeared to him quite a desert; gloomy, and melancholy as a prison j and his garden had lost all its beauty, it was dry, and mean. • — In a word, nothing could please him, because he could not see his father. For some days poor Isidore gave himself up to sadness, but recollect- ing that he should either perish with ennui, or fall sick if he continued to stay alone in this manner, he resolved to cultivate the acquain- tance of Bernard’s friends: tall Simon was his favourite ; he was a worthy b 3 old c ISIDORE. old husbandman, who lived beside him, and, with his daughter Annette, who was all his consolation, was happy and contented, though in a situation little above indigence. Annette was sixteen years of age ; she was a brunette, pretty, lively, and well made; but she was simple and innocent, nearly to as great a degree as Isidore. The young man saw her every day with increasing pleasure; he passed his whole time with tall Si- mon and his Annette. — He assisted her father in his rustic employments, and helped Annette to milk her cows, to churn, and, in short, in all the little occupations which fell to her share. Extreme sensibility formed the basis of Isidore’s charac- ter. ISIDORE. 7 ter, and he could not spend so much of his time in the company of this amiable girl, without feeling in his heart, before it was long, a real and sincere love for her. Though simple and even silly, he perceived that he was in love; but being too timid to avow his passion, he be- came gloomy, and silent. Annette, who sighed in secret for Isidore, observed this change in his manner, and fearing he was ill, spoke to him of it one day, as they were playing together, like two children, in a little wood near the cottage. — “Monsieur Isidore,” said she to him, with great simplicity, “ are you unwell.” — “ Non, Mademoiselle Annette, why do you think so?” — • “ Because for some time past you are b 4 very ISIDORE. ' 8 very much altered, you are pale.,-, gloomy, and are no longer gay and cheerful as you used to be.” — Ah! Mademoiselle Annette, it is because — because — I think you are very handsome,” “ And does your think- ing me handsome make you ill?”— - “ Oh! Mademoiselle Annette it is only my heart which is ill.” — “ Your heart! and what does it wish for?” ■ — “ Oh ! nothing Mademoiselle An- nette.” — “ Nothing? Monsieur Isi- dore ! it seems to me, when my heart is sad, it is always for something.” — - “ Pshaw, does anything ever ail your heart?” — “ Just like yours.” — Just like mine! it is very singular: Listen Mademoiselle Annette 5 it seems to me, that if your heart and mine understood each other a little better,. ISIDORE. 9 be f er, th 'v w uld no longer be ill.” — “ To be sure ! they would recover immediately, but how is it to be done ?” — “Ah ! for example, if Made- moiselle Annette would only say she distinguished me from the other young men, I would answer, that I think her charming.” — “ Dear Mon- sieur Isidore, it would cost me very little say that .” — “ What, Made- moiselle Annette ?” — Why, that I think you are very agreeable.” Well, Mademoiselle Annette, I must tel! you then, that you are the prettiest young woman, and the most worthy of being beloved, that I ever saw in my life.” — “ I am very glad to hear it.” — “ Ah ! Mademoiselle Annette this is a beginning of con- valescence, I already breathe more b 5 freely.” 10 ISIDORE. freely.” — “ So do I.” — “ Let us com- pleat the cure. Mademoiselle An- nette ; I love you, do you love me also? — “ Oh! with all my heart.” — “ I am cured. Mademoiselle An- nette.” — “ I am much better, Mon- sieur Isidore.” — “ Well, I think we agree in the principal point.” — “ Oh 1 certainly .” — “ Now” — “ What now?” — “Why now — will it be agree- able to you that I should become your husband?” — “ Why yes, if it will be agreeable to you that I should be your wife.” — “ It would compleat my happiness.” — “ And as to myself it is my only wish.” — “ Very well, very well Mademoiselle Annette, see now what it is to speak out ! I am quite relieved; and now Made- moiselle Annette, we will only wait my ISIDORE. 11 my father’s return and then we will be married .” — (C Will he consent Monsieur Isidore? — my father is only a poorhusbandman.” — “ He is a good man* who desires nothing so much as my happiness, but he has nothing to give me at all, and the question is. Mademoiselle Annette, whether your father will accept of a son-in-law without fortune.” — “ That will never prevent my father from consenting, he is so good; and then you know he is your father’s most intimate friend 1 — But let us not mention it yet, let us wait Mon- sieur Bernard’s return .” — “ Enough, Mademoiselle Annette; but in the mean time we may talk together of our mutual affections.” “ Oh ! every day.” — “ Every day, morning and b 6 evening, 12 ISIDORE. evening, and in the course of the day?” — “ Yes, every moment.” — “ Oh! how happy I am! will you give me leave from this day to call you my little wife ?” — “ With all my heart. Monsieur Isidore, upon con- dition that I may call you my little husband.” — “ Oh ! certainly, and let us seal the bargain with a kiss.”-— “ Oh! no Monsieur Isidore, my little husband I mean, — not till your fathercomeshome. Adieu ! husband.” — “ Adieu my little wife.” Isidore returned to his house light and cheerful ; he felt as if he had been relieved of a burthen; and from the time he had so freely made the soft confession of his love, he saw his charming Annette every day, and entertained her continually with assurances of constancy. Three ISIDORE. 13 Three months however were passr eel away and Bernard did not appear ; he had not even written to his son in the whole time, and his silence began to make him extremely un- easy, who longed for his father's, return, both as a dutiful son and a tender lover. Isidore had a friend of his own age, who was the son of farmer Thomas. William was a greater simpleton even than Isidore, but no less virtuous ; he was not ignorant of the reciprocal affection which sub- sisted between Annette and Isidore, and the latter conversed with him continually on the subject, so that he passed his days in the most deli- cious manner, divided between love and friendship. Bernard however did not 14 ISIDORE. not write, and that circumstance alone interrupted Isidore’s felicity. At length he received a letter, it was 'on a Monday, and his father wrote him that he should be at home the Sunday following $ he had seven days to wait, and these seven days appeared as so many ages to poor Isidore. They slipped away, how- ever, and on the evening of the day preceding that which was to bring home Bernard, he had an af- fecting conversation with Annette and his friend William: they settled a ntimber of projects of happiness, and Isidore said, that as soon as he became the husband of Annette, he would work in the fields as tall Si- mon did. William proposed to unite his destiny with that ot his friends, and ISIDORE. 15 and that the profits of their labour should be in common amongst them. All their plans agreed on and ce- mented by a solemn oath, they re- turned each to his dwelling, and passed the night in peaceful and unbroken slumber. The next morning Isidore went out to meethis father; breath less with impatience, every person he saw coming towards him, he thought it must be him; he ran to meet the traveller, but was continually dis- appointed ; at length he perceived five or six persons, who appeared to be carrying something extremely heavy; and it was not long before he saw that it was a hurdle: he went up to it, but, oh ! heaven ! what were his feelings when he perceived his 15 ISIDORE. his father stretched upon it, bathed in his blood, and without the least movement. “We found this unfortunate man,” said one of those who helped to carry the hurdle, very near this place ; where he had fallen from his horse, # t and is, I greatly fear, mortally wounded; some papers we found in his pocket have made known to us the place of his abode, and we are carrying him home. “ It is my father,” said Isidore, in the most doleful accents, and throwing himself upon the bleeding body, “ Oh my dear father ! have I so anxiously wished or your return, to meet you in this dreadful state!” — The men endeavoured to console him, bathe was deaf to all they said, and ISIDORE. 17 and the melancholy train arriving soon after at the house of the dying Bernard, Thomas, William, tall Si- mon, all the neighbours, hastened to offer their assistance, and the ten- der hearted Annette was not the last to. sympathize with Isidore. A surgeon was immediately sent for, who said that poor Bernard had not two hours to live ; he soon after opened his eyes, and recovered his speech. On looking round him he perceived his son drowned in tears, and making a sign to him to come near him, “My son,” said he, “ I have formed great projects with regard to you^-but death — a vicious horse has thrown me with violence upon a heap of stones — I have but a very short time to live, I must make the most ISIDORE. is most of it j- — you will find a sealed letter in my pocket which I had written before my accident, it is addressed to Monsieur Ambrose, steward of the Castle of Courlange, which is twelve leagues from hence •, as soon as I am laid in my grave, dispose of the trifles we are pos- sessed of, and pay what is due for rent, to my landlord. — You will then go with this letter of recom- mendation in your hand, and pre- sent yourself to Monsieur Ambrose, who will give you a good place, — O! certainly I may say a good place — therefore follow exactly the last will of your father, my dear Isidore, and let nothing prevent the execution of it/* Bernard fell again into a kind of stupor, and expired about an hour afterwards. ISIDORE IS afterwards. What a terrible blow for poor Isidore. — He was carried to the house of Simon, who with Thomas, and some other of the neighbour- hood, attended the burial of their deceased friend. — Annette in the mean time endeavoured to console Isidore; — but poor Annette no longer flattered herselfwiththe hope of ever being his wife. She had heard the last words of Bernard. — Isidore is to quit the village, is to seek fora place; far, far, from Annette! — — What a separation ! What a cruel destiny. ’ — Isidore always dutiful and sub- missive, sold his father’s effects, paid the rent of his house; and with a- small bundle upon his shoulder, (it was all he had left) the letter for Ambrose 20 ISIDORE. Ambrose in his pocket ; his heart oppressed with grief, and his eyes swimming in tears, went to bid adieu to Wiiiiam and Annette. — -“ Made- moiselle,” said he, “whatever the place may be which my father has> procured for me, I shall see you again ; I shall ask you of your father, who will certainly not refuse you to my wishes; and we shall yet be happy.” — “Never, Monsieur Isi- dore ! ” — “ What is the meaning of that melancholy presage ? — allow me, Mademoiselle Annette, to fulfil the wish of my father, and rest satis- fied of my love and my constancy.” — “ Ah ! Monsieur Isidore, ifyou should grow rich!” — “Rich! me!, rich !• What an idea ! but, if it should be so,, I swear to you, Mademoiselle Anneite,.. ISIDORE. Annette, I never will have any other wife but you, or any friend, but William ; depend upon the assurance I give you both, and do not, by your doubts and sorrow, add to the pain I feel at leaving you; 1 am faint- hearted enough already, pray do not make me more so.” The three friends wept bitterly, blit were at length obliged to part, and Isidore took the road which led towards the castle of Courlange. It was the Paris road, and passing through a wood he perceived a large heap of stones covered with blood ; several persons stood round it, and he heard them say it was the place where the unfortunate traveller was thrown from his horse about a fort- night before. Isidore ISIDORE. <22 Isidore learned in this manner that he was on the spot where his poor father had met with the dreadful accident which terminated his days. He threw himself on his knees upon the stones, prayed to the Supreme Being for protection, and addressed his sighs and regrets to the shade of Bernard. Thus he passed the whole day in tears, and bitter reflections; and night began to draw her sable curtain round the world before he thought of continuing his journey. At the end of the wood he observed a very pretty house, at no great distance; there were lights in some of the windows, and he heard a woman’s voice, as he drew nearer to it: she was singing a ballad, and he heard very distinctly the burthen at the ISIDORE. 23 the end of each verse, which was as follows, — My Isidore whom I adore. Return, return my Isidore! Isidore was so extremely ignorant and simple as to imagine that the lady must know him, and was calling him. Though he loved Annette, and determined to be always faithful to her, he could not help answering im- mediately, “ Here I am ! ” — and knocked at the door. A servant open- ing it, asked him what he wanted. — - “ Your lady” — “ My lady receives nobody at this late hour.” — “ She has just called to me from the window .” — “ O ! that is a different case, come in.” The servant conducted Isidore into the lady’s apartment, who was not a little m ISIDORE, a little surprised at being visited by a young man at such an hour. “Who do you want ?” said she. — “ Here I am,” answered the simpleton. “ He is certainly mad,” exclaimed the lady. “ Picard, shew the young man out directly, and pray never open the door after night ; the house is very lonely, and there are so many idle fellows rambling about the country.” — “ Madam I am not an idle fellow; I only thought ” — “ Very well, go-go, friend.” Picard turned out Isidore, and the good young man continued his way, saying to himself, “ Bless me, what wicked people there are in the world! they call others mad-men when they are crack-brained them- selves. — It was worth while, to be sure. ISIDORE. *5 sure, to call me, and dismiss me directly like a thief. It would have been a difficult matter to have persuaded Isidore that the lady had not called him; however he walked on till day-break, when, seated under a large tree, he breakfasted very heartily, and then proceeded on his journey, reflecting on his dear Annette, and the friends he had left behind him. Towards evening he perceived a very magnificent modern built house, surrounded by a park of immense extent. He enquired of the first person he met with, who it belonged to. “ It is the Castle of Courlange,” answered the man to whom he had addressed himself. — f< Oh ! it is, is it ? so much the better,” said he, “ I am then at the end of my journey.” C He 26 ISIDORE. He examined the outside of the castle with great attention, saying to himself; “ What sort of a figure am I going to make within these walls? recommended to a steward ! — What place can he procure for me but that of a footman, — a footman! my father, indigent as he was, should not have reduced me to so servile a situation ! — I should have preferred a thousand times to have followed the plough with tall Simon, and then I should not have been separated from Annette ! However, since it was my father’s choice I must con- form myself to it, so footman let me be, and I will do the best I can to please my master.” The night was shut in when he ar- rived at the great gate, and when he knocked, he could nothelp reflecting on ISIDORE. tr cm his last night’s adventure, and said, “ I hope they will not play me the same trick here.” “ Who knocks so late,” enquired a person from the inside, in a very rough voice*- — “ Open the gate, if you please, and I will tell you.” — “Who do you want?” — “ Monsieur Ambrose.” — “ Monsieur Ambrose ? I am he ; but Monsieur Ambrose does not open the door after night, to a pack of vagabonds; we have enough come here in the day time.” “ See now,” said Isidore to him- self, “ they shut the door in my face !” He did not lose his courage, however, but began to hollow to Monsieur Ambrose, intreating him to open the gate “ Open it,” said he, “ I bring you a letter from Monsieur Ber- c 2 nard.” ISIDORE, 48 nard.” — “ Ah! that is another mat- ter: Why did not you say so before ?” Ambrose opened the gate: he was a well-looking, lusty man, but had an air of severity, and even harshness, which did not much please poor Isidore. He invited him, however, into his apartment, put on his spec- tacles, and taking the letter, sat down near the light, and read it with the utmost attention. It was a very long one, and Monsieur Ambrose was a slow reader ; when he had finished it, with his spectacles still upon his nose, he examined our young man from head to foot, but with so much attention and so very seriously, that poor Isidore could not help tremb- ling; his knees bent under him, and he was near fainting. Ambrose, who perceived his uneasiness, put his hand ISIDORE, 29 hand before his mouth, and appeared to stifle with difficulty the inclination he had to burst into a violent fit of laughter. This compleatly discon- certed Isidore, and he knew not which way to loo-k, or what to do with himself.. Ambrose at length recovered his natural seriousness, and said to Isi- dore, with anairofgreatrespect, — “T have been expecting you, Sir, with the utmost impatience, and I beg your pardon a thousand times, for having left you so long at the gate, — but in the country — after night — in short, i t was for your sake, Sir, what I did. Will you condescend. Sir, to sup in this room, just this one evening?— to-morrow you will be served in a more becoming manner.” Isidore concluded himself the laughing stock of Monsieur Am- c 3 brose; 30 ISIDORE, brose } and red and pale, by tarns/ scarcely able to support himself, he answered in the most awkward manner, f the unfortunate, and relieve those who have deserved a better fate, whilst he punished the vicious.” — xi This boy is not one of the latter sort, I am sure he is not. You have heard of him. Monsieur, I sup- pose.” — “ Me ! not at all.” “ What have you not heard any one speak of young Arthur, whose history is an enigma to the whole town ! he has been here about three months, and one would think he had dropped from the clouds, for no one knows where he came from, nor to whom he belongs. Poor, ragged, and dirty as he is, his handsome person, and fine open countenance interest all who see him; and his extraordinary under- standing and talents prove the edu- cation which has been bestowed D upon ARTHUR. ,.50 upon him. — He talks and writes like an angel; indeed. Monsieur, he is quite a prodigy.” “ But if this is the case; why docs he ask alms?” — ■“ It is that which surprises every one. Monsieur; seve- ral of 'the inhabitants of our town would have taken him, and have placed him in a shop, as a sort of clerk, but he never would consent to it, and contents himself with what he can get by running on er- rands, or with the bit of bread he begs.” “ This proves very clearly, that he is a lazy fellow, who chuses to be idle.” “Very far from it> - Monsieur; every body praises him, he is so active, so honest, so gentle towards those who employ him, and as to work, nothing is too much for him; but when he is pressed to ac- cept ARTHUR. 51 'cept a better situation, he says he has his reasons for acting as he does, and for remaining unknown.” “ It is very extraordinary !” “ Very much so. Monsieur; I dare say he has some mystery locked up in his breast, which pains and oppresses him, for he weeps continually, and has often been found in the country leaning against a tree, shedding torrents of tears. This very morning I over- heard him, down there by the great poplar. “ Oh! my dear mother, cried he piteously, you are at rest, why is your unhappy child left to bewail vour loss.” — “ Poor child!” — “ The poor child is the name he is known by, they never call him by any other, and every body is interested in his welfare.” — “ I have wounded his poor little heart, Fran- d 2 $ois. 52 ARTHUR. 901s, I must go back and seek for him, and endeavour to discover his secret; what pleasure it would give me, if I could make him happy.” “ Now, Monsieur, you speak like yourself; these are the sentiment I have always observed in you. Let us go back a little way ; he is not far off, I dare say, for your harsh- ness, (I beg your pardon. Monsieur, for making use of such an expression) will have hurt him, and we shall find him weeping and lamenting.” They returned the way they came, and Fran9ois delighted at his master’s determination, in a few minutes exclaimed, “ There he is. Monsieur; did I not tell you so? there he sits weeping upon that stone.” Monsieur ARTHUR. S3 Monsieur Belard went towards him; the young man saw him and was going to run away. — * f Stay, my good boy/’ said he, “ do not let me frighten you ; I have behaved ill to you; I am sensible of it, and am come to offer you all the reparation in my power.” “ Why Sir,” answered he, turn- ing to Monsieur Belard, “ Why do you add irony to your inhumanity?” — “ Irony! you judge very ill of me. I never in my life sought to insult an unhappy person. You said just now, as you left me. Is that the language of a magistrate ? — That ex- clamation has shewn me my duty, and penetrated me even to tears. — But tell me, my young friend, do you know me?” — “ Yes, Sir, I know you are Monsieur de Belard, mayor d 3 of ARTHUR. b 4 of this town.’’ — “You know it, and yet unfortunate as you appear to be, you have never come to ask my protection, my assistance.” “ Oh ! Sir, who can protect me ? in whom can I even place any con- fidence, when every one in power is leagued with iny enemy against me?’— “ Your enemy! so young, and have an enemy ! What can you have done to him ?” — “ It is not my wrongs. Sir, — but why should I tell vou, have I not sworn to hide the dreadful secret in my breast for ever ?” “ You may confide it to me.” — “ Ne- ver to a’ living creature. Sir. Since you can feel for my distress, conde- scend to bestow your chai’ity upon me, and permit me to leave you.” « — “ Charity ! rather say that I shall fulfil fulfil a duty in endeavouring to sof- ten your grief. Here is a louis dor for you; but stop, I would rather give it to you at my own house. Come home with me, I must make you think better of me; and will convince you I have a tender and sympathising heart. Who knows! I may be able to protect you from the injustice of your enemies; for I am very certain you are not in your proper place, begging your bread, and covered with dirty rags. You have lost your father, your mother .” — “ My mother! oh hea- vens 1 .” — • The young man hid his face with both his hands, and wept bitterly. Monsieur Belard endeavoured to comfort him, and took him by the hand to lead him to his house; he p 4 absolutely ARTHUR. 88 absolutely refused to go, but Fran - 90 is joined his master in intreating him not to refuse, and both shewed so much feeling, so much interest in what concerned him, that at length he threw himself at Monsieur Beiard’s feet, which he watered with his tears. “ Well, Sir,” said he y I will follow you; I abandon my- self to your guidance, though I shall perhaps once more be the dupe of my confidence. — But no, I shall not, for I beg, I conjure you, never to expect from me a recital of my mis- fortunes ; it is only on that condition I can accept the asylum you have the goodness to offer me. — Let me work, occupy my time in the most servile employments if I can render you service ; but leave me my secret and my obscurity. In determining me ARTHUR. 57 me to follow you, you have gained what I have refused to the richest and most worthy merchants of the town.” “ Very well, I will respect your secret, and wait till time, and the knowledge you will acquire of my character, may give you a better opinion of me, and make you think me worthy of your confidence. — Come home with me, and look upon me from this moment in the light of a father.” The poor boy was so weak, that Monsieur Belard, and his servant, found it necessary to assist him in walking as far as the house; where they were no sooner arrived than that gentleman conducted him into his study. There being no lamps in the streets of the little town he lived 5 8 ARTHUR. in, hehadnotbeen able to distinguish the features of young Arthur, and was now surprised, and struck with admiration at sight of the hand- somest face he had ever beheld, half shaded by a quantity of beauti- ful brown hair ; and though he did not appear to be more than fifteen years of age, he was so tail, and his person so fine, that even the mise- rable rags which covered him could not prevent his being struck with it. It was not difficult to perceive by a certain manner which accom- panied all his actions, that the un- fortunate boy had not been always in so deplorable a situation; and he expressed himself with so much politeness and elegance, that Mon- sieur Relard had not the smallest doubt of his having been educated with the utmost care. After ARTHUR. 59 After a good supper, and having passed the night in a comfortable bed, Arthur was presented in the morning by his friend Francis with a genteel, but plain suit of cloaths; and Francois remarked, as soon as he had dressed him, that he looked like the son of a nobleman. Monsieur Belard observed him very narrowly, and perceived no- thing to contradict the opinion he had formed of him; his writing was perfect, and he surprised him a •couple of days after he had been with him, finishing a little drawing which he had executed with great elegance and correctness; and the next morning he overheard him from the adjoining apartment playing on the piano forte with the utmost taste and expression. D 6 It 60 ARTHUR. It was impossible to be more well bred, or more ready to oblige ; in short his manners were those of a young man of fashion, and he did not shew the least surprise at the handsome and costly furniture in Monsieur Belard’s apartment; proof sufficient that he had been accus- tomed to the same kind of elegance, however he might at that moment be in distress and wretchedness Faithful to the promise Monsieur Belard had made to him, he never spoke to Arthur on the subject of his misfortunes, though he grew every day more and more attached to him, and could not, however he watched him narrowly, discover a single fault in his disposition; frugal, active, and laborious, he employed himself in writing for his friend, and assisting ARTHUR. 6 ! assisting him as far as he could; and whatever he wrote was so clear and well done, that it was easy to see he made it a point to endeavour to please him, and to merit the kindness he shewed him. In the mean time, it was soon known to the whole town, that Monsieur Belard had adopted the poor boy, and many persons were jealous of the preference he had given him, so much were they in- terested in his concerns, and several of the first merchants in the place, came to call upon, and ask him a thousand questions, which he evad- ed, however, with so much polite- ness and good humour, that they left him extremely pleased with his manner and his good sense. Monsieur 6* ARTHUR. Monsieur Belard, though he had the strongest desire to be made ac- quainted with Arthur’s secret, was too delicate to press him on the subject, and would probably have remained very long in the dark, but for a circumstance which at length opened his eyes. He one day re- ceived a letter, which appeared to be a circular one, addressed to the different magistrates of ail the towns in France, and was to the following purpose. “ A boy, of the age of fifteen years eight months, about five feet high, brown hair, small mouth, black eyes, nose well formed, an oval face, and fresh coloured, escaped from his relations about three months a^o. He was dressed in a brown great-coat, cotton pantaloons and wooden ARTHUR. 63 wooden shoes. His name is Arthur. — You are desired to have him searched for in your district, and let him be sent to the minister of the police at Paris.” This letter being written on stamp* ed paper, and sealed with the offi- cial seal. Monsieur Belard could not doubt but that the poor boy, then under his roof, was the person alluded to; his duty obliged him to follow the orders which were sent to him ; wishing however before he took any step, to come at the truth, he determined to shew the letter to Arthur, and endeavour to prevail upon him to confess the exact cir- cumstances of his flight, and to befriend him as much as possible; but if he refused, to abandon him to his fate, as a little vagabond. He had 64 ARTHUR. had however no doubt but that he would open his heart to him; and the good man, miserable at the idea of being obliged to act with severity towards poor Arthur, for whom he felt so much affection, would not lose an instant in having his doubts cleared up. He was certain it must be him, but when he reflected that the boy was described as having quitted his family in mean attire, he thought he had deceived himself when he supposed he- belonged to people of fashion ; he could not by any means account for his- polished manners, and genteel education. Monsieur Belard, was alone when he received the letter. — lie rung his bell, and ordered Arthur to be called . “My dear boy,” said he to him as he came into the room, “ Do not be alarmed ARTHUR. 85 alarmed at what I am going to com- municate to you, and above all things rest assured of my regard, — my protection, — if you are worthy of it.” — “ Sir! — what is the matter?” “ We must part, Arthur, — we must.” — “ I must quit you, my benefactor ! — Oh ! no, I would rather perish .” — “ Arthur you have hither- to made a secret of your adven- tures; — if I was made acquainted with your misfortunes, I might per- haps doubt whether this letter con- cerned you.” “ A letter concerning me !oh Sir!” — “ Here itis,readit.” Monsieur Belard gave him the letter, watching anxiously the effect it would have upon him. — He read it, changed countenance, and faint- ed. — The usual means were taken to recall him to life, and he had no sooner 68 ARTHUR. Sooner opened bis eyes, than he threw himself into the arms of Mon- sieur Belard, and bursting into tears, — " I perceive. Sir, how it is,” exclaimed he . — “ I ought to have expected it when I accepted your kind attention ; it is the duty of a magistrate to be watchful, and I was wrong to seek refuge in the house of the Mayor of—-—.” “ My child, you would think you had acted very properly, if you knew how to appreciate the humanity, the hospitality, the indulgence I even wish to shew you. — The indulgence, Arthur, mark me well. — You per- ceive that search is made after you.- — Have you brought this mor- tification upon yourself ; or have you not? Place your confidence in me, my dear Arthur! If you have done 67 ARTHUR. done wrong, — why — we will see. I have some credit, and may be able, — -I promise you- every thing 1 can do: — but, if you are innocent, oh ! nothing, nothing shall stop me, — fortune, power,— I will brave all, and every thing to obtain jus- tice; and you shall have it, or I will sacrifice my life.” — “ Yes, yes, this is the language I have already heard from wicked and designing men, who after promising me their protection, were the first to betray me.” “ My young friend, yourhead must really be disturbed, or you would not insult me in so unjust a manner; if you have been deceived and betrayed, it must be either that you have fallen into the hands of wicked persons, or that you are not exempt from faults.” te I am, ARTHUR. 68 “ I am. Monsieur Belard, and I can prove it. — I call heaven to witness the truth of what I say.” He pronounced these words with a firmness that delighted his bene- factor, who took him affectionately by the hand, and continuing to question him said, “ Well, then, tell me why you left your relations ; you see how uneasy you have made them, and the strict inquiry they are making after you. We are anxious only on account of those we love.’* — “ Or those we hate ; and that is ex r actly my case. I see. Sir, that I am once more going to be sacrificed. That letter, — the duties of your place, every thing obliges you to give me up; — but at least, let me hope you will take pity on an un- fortunate boy. — I will reveal every ARTHUR. circumstance of my wretchedness to you, and then leave you to judge.— O! I flatter myself I shall be thought not unworthy of your esteem, and your goodness; and before I begin, I swear solemnly, before that God who punisheth the liar, — that what I tell you shall be the exact truth.” Monsieur Belard encouraged him as much as possible to repeat to him immediately the melancholy events of his life, which he did without hesitation, but as he learned several circumstances relative to his family some timeaferwards, I have blended them in the following little narrative of poor Arthur’s sufferings. Monsieur de Rennecourt was one of the first merchants in Paris, and had not thought of forming any matri- • 70 ARTHUR. matrimonial engagement, when the disputations and avaricious disposi- tion of his brother Dermont, obliged him to break the partnership they had formed together, and to live entirely separated. Monsieur de Rennecourt soon after became extremely fond of a young woman of a good family, but without fortune, bv whom he was also beloved, and the consequence of their connection was the birth of Arthur. Dermont, who was some years younger than his brother, and hoped at length to inherit his fortune, was not in the least sorry at this engagement, hoping it would pre- vent his thinking of a more serious one; nor did the birth of Arthur give him much uneasiness, for the laws, at that time, were not at all favour- ARTHUR. 71 favourable to illegitimate children; but Monsieur de Rennecourt, always fond of his mistress, and doating upon his son, determined suddenly to marry her, and legitimate her child. It was now that Dermont became furious ; he swore never to see his brother again, and he kept his word. Arthur was educated in his father’s house with all possible care and attention ; as soon as he had attained a proper age, the best masters that could be found were procured for him ; and the child, born with a taste for all elegant accomplishments, made the most extraordinary progress in every art. Monsieur de Rennecourt had a country house at Montronge, near Paris. There this worthy man and his ARTHUR. 72 his wife were adored by the whole neighbourhood ; and Arthur caressed and fondled by all those who knew him; but misfortunes of every kind were soon to fall upon that respecta- ble family, and the most cruel and violent strokes were reserved for the innocent boy, scarcely entered into life. Monsieur de Rennecourt was snatched from his wife and child'in a less than four and twenty hours; and the symptoms of his disorder were so extraordinary, that it was for some time strongly suspected he had been poisoned, — but by whom? no one knew of any enemy he had, and the suspicion was dropped and forgotten; he was buried in his gar- den, according to his desire ; and his widow and son were almost incon- solable. Arthur ARTHUR. 73 Arthur was nearly fifteen years of age when he had the misfortune of losing his father, and his last words made a strong impression upon him . — s. — But I will, with your per- mission, Sir, begin my melancholy tale. “ I was a very young apprentice, when Calixte, the man who has just left the window, son of an inn-keeper as well as myself, already discovered so many vicious propensities that he was detested by all who knew him. He fought with every one, killed his father’s domestic animals, even those which were his greatest favourites; he was particularly fond of burying poultry, leaving only their heads above ground, that he might have ROBERT. 15S have the cruel pleasure of cutting them off with an old blunt knife. — He stole his father’s wine, and sold it for half its value, when he wanted money, if not he drank it till he lost his reason.” “ His father, a weak man, and entirely without education, for a long time tolerated and laughed at those pretty little tricks, but as he grew older, perceived, when too late, the evil tendency of such in- dulgence, and in great anger told him one day, that if he continued to conduct himself as he then did, he would turn him out of doors. “ Calixte made no alteration in his manner of living, except becom- ing more cunning: he accused his brothers and sisters of all his thefts, and stole their little savings out of h 5 their 154 ROBERT. their pockets whenever he could get at them; even their clothes he took out of the house and sold, that he might have money to spend in drink with the most abandoned wretches in the town. “ At the age of twenty one, being at full liberty to please himself, he married, without consulting any one, a woman equally destitute of fortune and character. His father was much displeased at this mar- riage, and declared he would not suffer such a creature under his roof: Calixte, to spare him the sight of her, robbed him one morn- ing of the little money he pos- sessed, as well as every valuable he could carry away, and disappeared with the accomplice of his wicked- ness. — At the end of the year she was ROBERT. 155 was brought to bed of a boy, whom they named Robert. “ As Calixte and his wife were reduced to the lowest degree of want and misery, having no means of living but by what they could pilfer, his father, who was a man of sensibility, took a journey to Paris, on purpose to engage these wretches to let him take charge of their son: and as their hearts were deaf to the cries of nature, they were delighted at having an opportunity of being quit of a burthen which they thought would be a great inconvenience to them ; and gave Robert into his grandfather’s arms without hesita- tion ; who, happy beyond expression, carried him immediately to his home, where he was educated at a great distance from the contagious exam- ple of h IS parents. h 6 f ‘ As 156 ROBERT. “ As the child grew up, he in- creased in understanding and virtue, and this tie had occasioned an inter- view sometimes between the old man and Calixte ; who never failed once a year to pay a visit to him, in order, as he said, to embrace his son ; but in reality to endeavour to get something from his father, who knowing his extreme necessity, was always weak enough to put himself to inconvenience in order to assist and oblige him. “ This recourse, however, shortly failed them : the good old man died suddenly, and as his affairs were in a most ruinous state, his creditors seized upon his house, and Calixte found he had not a sixpence to receive. — Enraged at this disappoint- ment, he vented his diabolical temper ROBERT. 157 temper upon Robert, loaded him with abuse, and even struck him, telling him, that having no bread to give him, he might go and seek it where he would. “ Robert was at that time seventeen years of age, he was very tall, strong, and well made, and not knowing what to do with himself, he was obliged to determine on enlisting. — Placed in a regiment under orders for going abroad, Robert bade adieu for a long time to his native land. — I belonged to the same corps, and it was at that time I first became acquainted with him. We were soon attached to each other ; in short it was a friendship which lasted till the fatal moment which deprived me of him for ever; — but I will not anticipate, — you will hear bat too soon 158 ROBERT. soon the shocking accident which happened to my friend. — I will for a moment leave him fighting by my side in the American war, and return to Cajixte. “ That unnatural father, and his wicked wife, no sooner found them- selves clear of a young man whose presence importuned them, and of whose virtue they could not help standing in awe, than they felt their spirits revived. “ Obliged to play a thousand in- famous tricks in order to procure a bit of bread, they were at length pursued by justice, and to save them- selves, changed their name, and sought refuge in other towns, and in that manner ran through all the large cities in France, where some- times gamblers, sharpers, sometimes marquises ROBERT. 1.59 marquises or counts, they duped every person they met with. “At Lyons, however, their infa- mous practices were discovered, and Calixte was taken up; his wife had just time to escape, and she had art enough to put so many engines at work that she at length obtained her husband’s liberty, after two years detention. “ It being no longer possible to remain in a town where they were so well known, they left it immedi- ately, and travelled on foot many days and many tedious leagues, till they arrived at the entrance of a considerable forest, where, finding themselves without money, without clothes, without any kind of re- course, they determined to fix their abode.. In 160 ROBERT. “ In this place Calixte constructed a kind of hermitage, with branches and leaves. — His wife went every day to beg alms upon the high road, and when she met with a traveller alone, whose appearance was such, that she judged him incapable of resisting the strength of two, she artfully drew him towards their pre- tended hermitage, where under the pretext of hospitality, they contrived to stupify his senses by means of a narcotic, to strip him, and then carry him to some solitary part of the forest, where he might awake when he could. “This horrible business continued several years, but was at length dis- covered ; for the wrath of heaven sooner or later will overtake the guilty. " Of ROBERT. 161 “ Of the travellers whom they had treated in this manner, some never recovered, some sought in vain to find either the road or the hermitage, and others having lost all memory of what had happened, fancied they had imprudently fallen asleep, and had been stripped by robbers ; in short, whether by good fortune, or want of proper attention in the police, they followed quietly their detestable trade, till they had saved a considerable fortune. " One day a young gentleman and lady whom they enticed into their retreat, told them that they had met several brigades of the Marechaussee, who conducted by some travellers, were coming into the forest to discover the retreat of the famous robbers. The, 162 ROBERT. The imprudent couple little thought to whom they were giving this information; they took Calixte for a venerable hermit, and his wife for an unfortunate being with W’hom he divided the alms of well disposed travellers. “ But this news struck them both, for a time, dumb with terror. — The wife went out to listen, and hearing the noise of horses at a distance, had no doubt but their hermitage was surrounded, and she returned pale and trembling to her husband; who had in the mean time taken care to lay the young couple asleep ; and terrified at what he heard, could imagine no means by which they might have a chance of saving them- selves, but by undressing the young man, and putting him on his long brown ROBERT. 163 ? brown robe and his fur cap, and having cut off his beard, which he had Jet grow to a considerable length, to dress himself irf the young gentleman’s clothes. This was done in a minute, and his wife having made the same exchange with the lady, they left the hermitage, after having loaded themselves with their money and jewels, as well as those of their two guests, whom they left asleep, and exposed to be mistaken by the Marechaussee for those they were in search of. “ Calixte and his wife had not walked two hundred steps from their ancient habitation, when they met a party of soldiers, who fixed their eyes upon them with an attention that made them tremble. ‘ Are you not in search,’ said Calixte, re- covering 164 ROBERT. covering himself, * Of a famous rob- ber and his wife, who have for a long time past, stript and pillaged all the travellers who pass this way!’ — c We are,’ answered the officer who commanded them. — * We know that the man is a kind of hermit, and his wife goes out upon the high road to beg.’ — ‘ Exactly so/answered Calixte, ‘ We have just seen them; fortunately for us they were asleep, and forewarned by the public report, we avoided the snare; follow the path to the left, into the thickest part of the wood, and you will find at about two hundred steps from this place the den of these unfeeling monsters.' “ The officer thanked the two wretches, and followed without he- sitation the path they had directed him ROBERT. 165 Inns to take. — A little further Calixte perceived another brigade accom- panied by a traveller whom they had robbed the night before, and as this was a more alarming circum- stance than the other, they turned back and struck into the forest, and had the satisfaction of finding them- selves very soon out of sight of the soldiers, who had taken a differ- ent road. In this manner, amidst a thou- sand terrors, though heaven had permitted their crimes to be disco- vered, they escaped without acci- dent to the next town, where they hired a carriage, and left that part of the country which had been the scene of their crimes, and was so nearly being that of their punish- ment. “ I never 166 ROBERT. “ I never heard what became of the. two young people left in their hermitage; no doubt if the Mare- chaussee found them and mistook them for the wretches who had just left it, they found no difficulty in proving their innocence. This ob- ject which would give us pleasure to be certain of, gave no kind of uneasiness either to Calixte or his wife, who finished their journey very quietly as far as Morlay, which was the name of the village where his father had lived, and where they were decided to fix their residence. “ Complete villain as Calixte was, his last adventure had frightened him so much, and made him and his wife reflect so deeply on the pos- sibility of what might happen to them, that they came to the pious resolution H0BE11T. 167 resolution of living as much like people of probity and honour as it was in their natures to do, and he saw with pleasure the place where he had been brought up. He took his proper name, as son of the inn- keeper Dupres, who died about ten years before. “ He soon perceived that his neighbours shunned him, that thpy had not forgot his old tricks, and that he was universally despised, but he troubled himself very little about it; he thought he was rich enough to live without wronging anybody. — His father’s house, which he was in the intention of purchas- ing, was a quarter of a league from the village, in a lonely place, where they could live as they liked with- out seeing any company ; and act in every 168 ROBERT. every respect as they thought pro- per. “ He pretended to have made a little fortune during his voyages, and having purchased the house, he settled himself in it with his un- worthy companion, but as they ex- pected, no one came near them, not a single inhabitant of the village took any notice of them ; but they easily consoled themselves, for they sat no kind of value on the good opinion of their neighbours, and though they heard that reports but too well founded v^ere circulated respecting the manner in which they had acquired their fortune, they despised them, persuading them- selves that they should have a right to quiet them, if ever they became too serious. In ROBERT. 169 ei In this manner these wretches passed two years, in which time they had squandered a great deal of the money they had amassed by their villainy ; they were even on the point of selling their house when the adventure happened to them which I am going to recount to you. <( I must now leave Calixte for a moment, but you will soon see whether I merited the reproaches you made for treating him with so much harshness. “ Robert was my companion and friend in America. Robert, hand- some, well made, endowed with every pleasing talent, was beloved by his commanders for his bravery, his exactitude in doing his duty, and for his virtues. He was arrived at the rank of quarter-master, and in I several 170 ROBERT. several actions wherein he distin- guished himself and gave particular satisfaction, he had opportunities given him of making a large fortune, if he had been more interested; as it was, he was in possession of a considerable sum of money at the end of the war, and the regiment being disbanded, Robert was not sorry to have a little rest: he had received two dangerous wounds, one of which had disfigured half of his face, the other put his arm out. He was pretty well recovered of both of his wounds, though he still wore his arm in a sling, and did not expect to be able to use it for a long time, it was therefore natural he should wish for repose ; but he had another motive which made him wish to revisit his native country. # He ROBERT. m He had for twelve years preserved the tenderest affection for a young girl, the daughter of a farmer who lived near his grandfather, and his long absence had not in the least effaced the impression which the charms of the amiable Mary had made upon his heart; he had con- stantly written to her during his mili- tary career, and had received four letters from her; in the last of which she wrote him, that she was not married, but reserved her hand and her heart to give him whenever he returned. “ Robert, delighted at her con- stancy, longed passionately to return to Morlay to offer his heart and his little fortune to his mistress, and as I was in his confidence, I advised him to hasten his departure, and not i 2 to 172 ROBERT. to lose a day, that he might receive the reward of his love. There was bat one point on which I thought proper to be secret; I knew that Calixte was the most worthless of human beings, but Robert was en- tirely ignorant of his father’s con- duct; his grandfather had wished not to expose the father to the child ; he would not by an imprudence diminish the respect which the latter owed to the author of his life, and I thought it adviseable to follow his example; so that Robert never sus- pected that he owed his existence to two infamous wretches who merited condign punishment. “ The worthy young man found no fault with Calixte, except on ac- count of the brutal manner in which he had abandoned and drove him from ROBERT. 173 from his door after has grandfather’s death, but ever ready to forgive, and find excuses for the faults of others, Robert attributed this con- duct to his father’s unfortunate situ- ation, and though he had seen but very little of him in. the course of his life, he proposed if ever he found him, to offer him the half of his little fortune, which would be more than sufficient to set them above want. He had written to them, but had never received any answer, so that he was entirely ignorant of their fate and whetherhe should ever see them, but determined to take every step to discover the place of their abode. “ Having, as well as Robert, got my discharge, I travelled with my worthy friend till within about three leagues of Morlay, where I left him to take a cross road, which i 3 brought 174 ROBERT, brought' me to my mother’s house,, ■where I was impatiently expected. “ I shall never forget the moment of our fatal separation ; we were standing together on. a sort of bank from which we could perceive the steeple of the church of Morlay. — ‘ There/ said I, f Robert, in that spot lives your dear Wary! go and throw yourself into her arms, whilst I fly to my mother, who is perhaps at this moment watching my arrival in that other village which we see on the left; we must separate my friend; to-morrow is a holiday; all the inhabitants of those villages will meet at Jonathan’s mill, to dance and make merry, we shall both be there. Adieu ! Robert, to-morrow we meet again. — Adieu 1 may you be as happy as I am going to be, and, let us never ROBERT. 175 never forget the years we have spent together, in intimacy and ' friend- ship.’ “ The weather was extremely cloudy, the air heavy; every thing was melancholy; we were both so, without being able to account for it; it was time for us to separate, we shed tears, and pressed each other’s hand, unwilling to part; but this painful situation was soon over, and Robert following the great road, I struck into a path across the coun- try, which must, I recollected, bring me to my mother, — all that Pro- vidence had left me. “ We often turned to look and wave our hands, but at length lost sight of each other, and Robert continued h:s way. The first house he saw made his heart beat with i 4 pleasure. J76 ROBERT, pleasure. It was that in which Ire had passed his youth, where his grandfather had died ; but he little imagined that it was now occupied by Calixte. — He sighed and passed on. “ His heart now began to beat more violently ; he was at the door of Bernard, his dear Mary’s father ; he was on the point of seeing again the object of his first and tenderest affection 5 her whom in his child- hood he had called his sister, and whom he in all appearance would soon call his wife; poor Robert was so agitated that he could scarcely stand, however he knocked at the door; it was opened by Genevieve, the old servant belonging to the farm, who was frightened at seeing a military man whom she was not acquainted ROBERT. 177 acquainted with. — ‘ What do you want Sir/ asked she, ‘ To lodge here perhaps? my master is exempt from lodging any of you.’ — ' What Genevieve ! do you not recollect me ?’ — c No — stop — no, not at all.’ — ‘Not at all! you have then forgot the little wicked boy, who used to torment, and play you so many tricks ? little Robert who lived with his grandfather Dupres?’ — * Oh dear! master! Monsieur Bernard! Made- moiselle Maria! Come here every one, here is little Robert, grown so tall, pray make haste/ “ The good creature called till she brought the whole family about her, and in an instant Robert was pressed to the hearts of the two objects he loved with the sincerest affection. “ I will not tire your patience by describing the tender scene which i a followed ; 178 ROBERT. followed ; the best refreshments the house afforded were set before my friend, and after conversing a long time on different subjects * Apropos,’ asked Bernard, ‘ have you seen your father?’ — ‘ My father, alas! I know not where to find him.’ — 5 He lives here. — He has bought your grand- father’s house.’ — ‘ Is it possible?’ — f It is very true, my dear boy,’ — but — ' but what ? is he poor?’ — ‘ Oh yes ; he is poor, but it is by his own fault.’ — f No matter, my father is poor and unhappy, I will fly to re- lieve him; but my mother?’ — * She is alive and with him, but no one here sees them.’ — ‘ I understand you, they are poor, and consequently neglected.’ — ‘ Would you injure me by such a suspicion Robert?’ — ‘ My father and mother alive, and in want, oh Bernard! now indeed I feel ROBERT. 179 feel the value of my riches/ — * Your riches?’ — ‘Yes, Bernard, I am rich, very rich for a person of my rank; I have there in my haver- sack five hundred louis d’or, and to that amount in valuables.’ — ‘ Four and twenty thousand livres! is it possible ! And how have you been able to lay up such a sum?’ * I will tell you, but at this time I can think of nothing but my father and mo- ther. — Listen Bernard ; you pro- mised me in your last letter, that you would give me Mary.’ — ‘ Yes, my friend, and I do not ask four and twenty thousand livres for that, the half will be enough to settle you comfortably; give the rest to your father if you wish it; you shall be the husband of Mary, but I have a condition to make with you.-— When I 6 you 180 ROBERT,. you have given the sum of money to your father, you must see him no more.’ — ‘Gracious God! what do you mean? Why such a condition?’ — ‘ My friend — I have my reasons.’ — ‘ What I suppose calumny, my dear Bernard; I will make you for- get your prejudice — but my father, I long to see him, and I will go immediately.’ — ‘ WhatT now?’ — ‘ This moment; I have a mind to enjoy his surprise. It is twelve years since we met. I am very much, changed since that time, and even a little disfigured just now; he will not know me, and I will not make myself known to him till to-morrow. To-night I will shew them my mo- ney, and to-morrow I will say it is yours.’ — * What a project ! stay with us to night Robert, it will be time ROBERT. 18! enough to-morrow.’ — ‘ No, no, I leave you, I must see the respect- able authors of my existence.’ — * Respectable !’ — ‘ Hold Bernard ! do not speak ill of them before me, I intreat you ; adieu, adieu ! my dear Mary; I take all my little fortune with me, because I do not know what my parents may want ; and if it should be necessary to sacrifice to him part of what I destine for Mary, I will do it Bernard ; I will do it. Nature has stronger claims upon me than Love.’ — £ Robert do not go to night, it is late; I know not why, but I am full of apprehension ; a cruel presentiment which I cannot define.’ — c How childish ! can a son have any thing to fear in throwing himself into the arms of his father?’ — ‘ Ro- bert ! 182 ROBERT. bert! you will go then? Well then to-morrow we will sign the contract, and Mary shall be yours.’ — ‘ Oh happy day 1 ’ said Robert, who escap- ing from his arms, ran like a mad man, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, to the solitary house of his father, where he flattered him- self he should surpi’ise agreeably two beings very dear to him, and who certainly little expected to see him. “ He knocked; the door was im- mediately opened. f What do you want?’ enquired his mother. c I am a poor soldier who begs your hos- pitality.’ — c What to a soldier at this time of the night ?’ — e 1 beg you not to refuse me, perhaps you will be glad to have received me.’ — c Have you got a billet?’ — ■* I have one, not upon ROBERT. 183 upon a bit of insignificant paper, but written upon my heart and upon your own/ — f And you are without a sous ?' — * Pardon me, I am rich enough to command the best inns in the neighbourhood, but there is but one house where I can be comfortable/ “ Calixte, who came to the door at that moment heard the last words ; he had just lost an enormous sum of money at play in the neighbour- ing town, where he often went to meet a set of villains like himself, and hoping to make something out of the soldier he introduced him into his parlour with the utmost civility, and appearance of huma- nity and openness. “ Robert, delighted at the kind reception he received, and extremely amused. 184 ROBERT. amused at their not knowing him, gave them an account whilst they were at supper of his campaigns and different adventures, and finish- ed by spreading out his fortune before these miserable wretches. * There are,’ said he, ‘ four and twenty thousand Iivres, part of which I intend to give to-morrow morning to a person extremely dear to me, but who little expects it.’ — c To whom do you mean to give it?’ — asked Calixte with a smile, ‘ To your mistress?’ — ‘ Oh no Sir! to my father. I think I see him, as well as my mother, that they press me to their bosoms, surprised at seeing me and at receiving from my hands this little present.’ — ‘ I believe so,’ said Calixte, without the least sus- picion that he was speaking to his son, ROBERT. 185 son, and who already longed to seize on the whole sum which was destined by Robert to filial piety and love. Robert, who was more and more amused at perceiving that his parents did not suspect him to be their son, and delighted at the idea of surprising them in the morning, desired he might retire, being ex- tremely fatigued. “ Calixte and his wife, having in the same moment, (without any opportunity of communicat- ing their dreadful project to each other) conceived the crime which they but too easily found the means of executing, conducted him to a retired and melancholy room, of which they gave him the key, be- cause they had another by which they could enter whenever they pleased. 186 ROBERT. pleased. After receiving from them the utmost marks of attention and civility, Robert wished them a good night, and went to bed, pleased at the kind reception he had met with, and attributed to them all those vir- tues which glowed in his own bo- som. “ You foresee no doubt, gentle- men, the horrible scene which I have to relate. — I wish I could soften it a little, but it is impossible. To- wards midnight Robert was awak- ened by a noise in his room ; startled and without a light, he asked who was there and what they wanted. ‘ Your money,’ replied Calixte, ‘ or you are a dead man.’ Robert who knew his father’s voice, was thun- derstruck; seized with horror he had not the power to utter a single word ; and ROBERT. 187 and he immediately received several stabs, which left him bathed in blood. “ Whilst Calixte was committing this shocking deed, his wife was taking possession of his money and effects, and only stopped when he told her in a low voice that he was dead, to ask him what they should do with the body. — ‘ In the well- down there — you understand me.* s Oh yes, I will help you.* “ They had begun to drag poor Robert out of the bed, when open- ing his eyes almost in death, ‘ Bar- barians!’ cried he in a faint voice, ‘ you have murdered your son ; weep, weep for ever, I am Robert.’ “ The wretches were in their turn struck dumb with horror, their savage hearts overcome by nature, they ROBERT. I8S they threw themselves upon their bleeding child, accusing heaven, accusing themselves, and for the first time loading each other with reciprocal reproaches and curses. “In themeantimethey placed poor Robert in his bed, endeavoured to stop his blood and dress his wounds, for they were afraid to send for a surgeon; in short they knew not what they did, they were almost distracted, and day light surprised them in this frightful situation. They now consulted together on what they should do; and agreed to spread a report that the young man had attempted to destroy himself, that is, if they could obtain his leave for it when he recovered his speech : in ^Jnsequence of this deter- mination the wife went out in search of ROBERT. 189