« ZurückWeiter »
man, and unless decay of fortune taints the blood along with it, was a gentleman at that time, lay supporting his head upon his hand, in his bed; a little table with a taper burning was set close beside it, and close by the table was placed a chair: -- the Notary sat him down in it; and, pulling out his ink-horn and a sheet or two of paper which he had in his pocket, he placed them before him, and, dipping his pen in his ink, and leaning his breast over the table, he disposed every thing to make the gentleman's last will and testament.
Alas! Monsieur le Notaire, said the gentleman, raising himself up a little, I have nothing to bequeath, which will pay the expense of bequeathing except the history of myself, and I could not die in peace unless I left it as a legacy to the world; the profits arising out of it I bequeath to you for the pains of taking it from me.
It is a story so uncommon, it must be read by all mankind; it will make the fortunes of your house. The Notary dipped his pen into his ink-horn
Almighty Director of every event in my life! said the old gentleman, looking up earnestly, and raising his hands towards Heaven,
Thou, whose hand has led me on through such a labyrinth of strange passages down into this scene of desolation, assist the decaying memory of an old, infirm, and broken-hearted man! tongue by the spirit of thy eternal truth, that this stranger may set down nought but what is written in that Book from whose records, said he, clasping his hands together, I am to be condemned or acquitted! - the Notary held up the point of his pen betwixt the taper and his eye.
It is a story, Monsieur le Notaire, said the gentleman, which will rouse up every affection in nature; it will kill the humane, and touch the heart of Cruelty herself with pity. —
The Notary was inflamed with a desire to begin, and put his pen a third time into his ink-horn! and the old gentleman, turning a little more towards the Notary, began to dictate his story in these words:
. . And where is the rest of it, La Fleur? said I, as he just then entered the room.
THE FRAGMENT, AND THE BOUQUET.*
WHEN La Fleur came close up to the table, and was made to comprehend what I wanted, he told me there were only two other sheets of it, which he had wrapped round the stalks of a bouquet to keep it together, which he had presented to the demoiselle upon the boulevards. Then prithee, La Fleur, said I, step back to her, to the Count de B****'s hotel, and. see if thou canst get it. There is no doubt of it, said La Fleur; and away he flew.
In a very little time the poor fellow came back, quite out of breath, with deeper marks of disappointment in his looks than could arise from the simple irreparability of the fragment. Juste Ciel! in less than two minutes that the poor fellow had taken his last tender farewell of her his faithless mistress had given his gage
d'amour to one of the Count's footmen footman to a young sempstress,
and the sempstress. to a fiddler, with my fragment at the end of it. - Our
misfortunes were involved together, I gave a sigh, and La Fleur echoed it back again to my ear.
How perfidious! cried La Fleur .... How unlucky! said I.
I should not have been mortified, Monsieur, quoth La Fleur, if she had lost it. Nor I, La Fleur, said I, bad I found it.
Whether I did or no, will be seen hereafter.
THE ACT OF CHARITY.
The man who either disdains or fears to walk up a dark entry may be an excellent good man, and fit for a hundred things; but he will not do to make a good Sentimental Traveller. I count little of the many things I see pass at broad noon-day, in large and open streets. Nature is shy, and hates to act before spectators; but in such an unobserved corner you sometimes see a single short scene of hers worth all the sentiments of a dozen French plays compounded together; and yet they are absolutely fine; - and whenever I have a more brilliant affair upon my hands than common, as they suit a preacher quite as well as a hero, I generally make my sermon out of 'em; and for the text, Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia," is as good as any one in the Bible.
There is a long dark passage issuing out from the Opera Comique into a narrow street; 'tis trod by a few who humbly wait for a fiacre,* or wish to get off quietly o'foot when the Opera is done. At the end of it, towards the theatre, 'tis lighted by a small candle, the light of which is almost lost before you get half way down; but near the door, 'tis more for ornament than use, you see it as a fix'd star of the least magnitude; it burus, but does little good to the world, that we know of.
In returning along this passage, I discerned, as I approached within five or six paces of the door, two ladies standing, arm in arm, with their backs against the wall, waiting, as I imagined, for a fiacre: - as they were next the door, I thought they had a prior right; so edged myself up within a yard or little more of them, and quietly took my stand. — I was in black, and scarce seen.
The lady next me was a tall lean figure of a woman, of about thirty-six the other, of the same size and make, of about forty: there was no mark of wife or widow in any one part of either of them; they seemed to be two upright vestal sisters, unsapped by caresses, unbroke in upon by tender salutations. I could have wished to have made them happy; their happiness was destined, that night, to come from another quarter.
A low voice, with a good turn of expression, and sweet cadence at the end of it, begged for a twelvesous piece betwixt them, for the love of heaven. I thought it singular that a beggar should fix the quota of an alms, and that the sum should be twelve times as much as what is usually given in the dark. They both seemed astonished at it as much as myself.
Twelve sous! said one A twelve-sous piece! said the other, and made no reply.
The poor man said he knew not how to ask less
of ladies of their rank; and bow'd down his head to the ground.
Poo! said they, .... we have no money. The beggar remained silent for a moment or two, and renewed his supplication.
.... Do not, my fair young ladies, said he, stop your good ears against me. Upon my word, honest man! said the younger, we have no change. ... Then God bless you! said the poor man, and multiply those joys which you can give to others without change! - I observed the eldest sister put her hand into her pocket. I'll see, said she, if I have a sous! .... A sous! give twelve, said the supplicant; Nature has been bountiful to you! be bountiful to a poor man.
I would, friend, with all my heart, said the younger, if I had it.
My fair charitable! said he addressing himself to the elder, — what is it but your goodness and humanity which makes your bright eyes so sweet that they outshine the morning, even in this dark passage? and what was it which made the Marquis de Santerre and his brother say so much of you both as they just passed by?
The two ladies seemed much affected; and impulsively, at the same time, they both put their hands into their pockets, and each took out a twelve-sous piece.
The contest between them and the poor supplicant was no more,
it was continued betwixt themselves which of the two should give the twelve-sous piece in charity; — and, to end the dispute, they both gave it together, and the man went away.