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For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE LHl’Ell OF AOSTE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF X. DE MAISTRE.
BY MRS. MARY BABER.
[CONCLUDED FROM OUR LAST.]
“ You interest me deeply. I confess 1 could
never have formed an idea of such a situation
as yours. I think however, that you must
have been less sad whilst your sister lived.”
“ Gol alone knows what I have lost in the
death of my sister. But do you not fear to
be so near me ? Place yourself behind the f
foliage, and we will converse without seeing
each other.”
“ Why then ! No, you shall not leave me;
place yourself near me.” Saying these words,
the tiuveiler involuntarily attempted to seize
the hand of the leper who quickly withdrew
it, exclaiming:
“ Imprudent man ! would you touch my
hand ?”
“ I would have pressed it with sincerity.”
“ It would have been the first time that this
happiness had been granted me. Never has
ny hand been pressed by any one.”
“What then! except this sister of whom
you have spoken, you have never had any
connexions, you have never been cherished by
any of your fellow’ creatures'?”
“ Happily tor humanity, there are none like
me upon the earth.”
“ You make me tremble!” •
“Pardon me, compassionate stranger! You
know’ the miserable love 10 speak of their
misfortunes.”
“Speak on, speak on, interresting man!
You have tol 1 me that a sister lived formerly
with you and helped you to support your suf
ferings.”
“ It w’as the only bond by which I w'as still
united to the rest of mankind. It pleased
God to break it, and to leave me isolated and
alone m the midst of the world. Her soul
was worthy of the heaven w here she now is,
and her example sustained me against the dis
couragement which often overwhelms me since
aer death. We did not live however in the
delightful intimacy of which I can form an
idea, and which ought to unite unhappy
friends. The nature of our sufferings depri
ved us of this consolation. Even when we
drew near to pray to Go 1 together, w’e mutu
aJly avoided looking at each other for fear
that the sight of our miseries should disturb
our meditations, an l our looks dared only u
aite themselves in heaven, After our prayers,
my sister commonly returned to her cell or
under the nut trees which terminate the gar
den, and we lived almost always separate.”
“But why impose upon yourself this hard
aonstraint ? One might say that Heaven took
pleasure in poisoning the sad enjoyment that
it left you.”
“But at least, I w T as not alone then; the
presence of my sister rendered this retreat liv
ing. I heard the noise of her steps in my
solitude. When I returned at the break of
day to pray to God under these trees, the door
of the tower opened softly, and the voice of
my sister mingled insensibly with mine. In
the evening when I watered my garden, she
walked sometimes here, in the same place
where I speak to you, and I saw’ her shadow
pass and repass over my flow’ers, and though
l did not see her, I found traces of her pres
ence. Now, it happens no more that 1 meet
in my w T ay a flower stripped of its leaves, or
*ome branches of a shrub that .she has let fall
in passing; 1 am alone: there is no more ei
ther life or movement around me, and the path
which conducts to her favourite thicket, is al
ready disappearing under the grass. With
out appearing to occupy herself about me, she
watched without ceasing all that could give
me pleasure. When I returned to my cham
ber I was sometimes surprised to find there,
vases of fresh flowers, or some fruit that she
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had herself taken care of. I dared not render
her the same services, and I hail even entreat
ed her never to enter my chamber, hut who
can put bounds to the affection of a sister ? a
single example may give you an idea of her
tenderness for me. I walked restlessly one
night in my cell, tormented with frightful
pains; in the middle of the night, having
seated myself an instant to rest, I heard a
light noise at the entrance of my chamber, i
I drew near and listened; judge of my aston
ishment ! it was my sister who prayed to God
outside the threshold of my door. She had
heard my complaints. Her tenderness had
made her fear to trouble me; but she had
come to he within reach to succour me at
need. I heard her reciting, in a low voice,
the miserere. I knelt down near the door;
and without interrupting her, followed men
tally her words. My eyes were full of tears;
w ho would not have been touched with such
affection ? When 1 thought that her prayer
was finished, “adieu, my sister,” said I to her
in a low voice, “adieu; retire now, I feel a
little better; may God bless you, and recom
pense your piety!” She retired in silence,
and without doubt, her prayer was heard, for
1 slept at last some hours of tranquil sleep.”
“ How sad must have appeared to you the
first days which followed the death of this
cherished sister.”
“ 1 was a long time in a situation which
took away from me the faculty of feeling the
whole extent of my misfortune: when at last
1 w’as restored and in a state to judge of my
situation, my reason was ready to abandon
me. This period will be always doubly sad
to me; it recalls the greatest of my woes, and
the crime that had nearly been the consequence
of it.”
“ A crime ! I cannot think you capable of
one,” cried the soldier.
“ It is but too true,” replied the leper, “ and
in recounting to you this period of my life, I
feel that 1 shall sink much in your esteem;
—hut I will not paint myself better than I am,
and you will perhaps pity while condeming
me. Already, while labouring underincreas
ed melancholy, the idea of voluntarily quit
ting life had presented itself to me—neverthe
less, the fear of God had always made me re
press it, when a circumstance the most sim
ple and apparently the least intended to trou
ble, was near ruining me for eternity. I was
to feel anew grief—For many years a little
dog had taken up its abode with us; my sis
ter had loved it, and I declare to you that
since she was no more, this poor animal was
truly a consolation to me. We were indebt
ed withoutkdoubt, to its ugliness, for the choice
it had made of our dwelling for its refuge.
It had been cast off’ by all the world, hut it
was still a treasure for the house of the leper.
In gratitude for the favour that God had
granted in giving us this friend, my sister had
called it a mi ride, and its name, w’hich contrast
ed with its ugliness, as well as its continual
gaiety, had often diverted pur grief. In spite
of the care I took of it, it sometimes escaped,
and I had never thought that it could hurt
any one —some of the inhabitants of the city
were however alarmed, and believed that he
might carry among them the seeds of my mal
ady. They determined to make complaints
to the Governor, who ordered that my dog
should he immediately killed. Soldiers, ac
companied by some of the inhabitants, came
soon to execute this cruel order—They put a
cord around his neck in my presence and drag
ed him away. When he was at the door of
the garden, I could not prevent myself from
looking at him once more: I saw him turn
his eyes towards me to ask for the succour
that I could not give. They wished to drown
him in the Doire, but the populace who wait
ed for him outside, stoned him with stones.
I heard his cries and returned to my tower
more dead than alive; my trembling knees
could not sustain me : I threw myself on my
bed in a state impossible to describe. My
g rief did not permit me to 6ee in this just or
der. aught but severity, and a barbarism as
atrocious as useless; and although I am a
shamed to day of the sentimfent that then an
imated me, 1 cannot even now think of it
with coolness, I passed all the day in the
greatest agitation. It was the last living be
ing they had just torn from me, and this new
blow had reopened all the wounds of my heart. (
Such was my situation, when the same day,
towards sunset, I had just seated myself here,
upon this store where you are now seated.
There I reflected for some time upon my sad
lot, when down below towards those two
birch trees which terminate the hedge, I saw
appear two young people who hal been uni
ted in marriage a short time since. They ad
vanced along the path, across the meadow,
and passed near me. The delicious tranquil
ity that certain happiness inspires, was im
printed upon the countenance; they walked
slowly, their arms entwined. Suddenly 1
saw them stop: the young wife leaned her
head against the breast of her husband who
folded her in his arms with transport. I felt
my heart contract itself. Shall I confess it
to you ? envy glided for the first time into my
breast; never had the image of happiness
been so forcibly presented to my sight. I
followed them with my eyes to iheend of the
meadow, and had just lost sight of them a
mong the trees, when shouts of rejoicing
struck my ears ; it was their united families
who came to meet them, Old men and wo
men and children surrounded them; I heard
the confused murmur of their joy ; I saw a
mong the trees the brilliant colors of their
garments, and the whole group seemed sur
rounded by a cloud of happiness. I could not
support this spectacle; the torments of hell
had entered into my heart; I turned away my
looks and precipitated myself into my cell.
Oh God! how desolate it appeared to me,
dark, frightful! It is here then, said I, that
my dwelling is forever fixed ; it is here then
where, dragging out a miserable existence, I
shall wait the tardy end of my dqys ! The
Lord has poured out happiness, he has pour
ed it out in torrents upon all that breathe, and
l alone, ain without help, without friends,
without companion ! What a frightful desti
ny!
“ Full of these sad thoughts, I forgot that
there is one who consoles; I forgot myself.
Why, said I, was the light granted me? Why
is nature a barbarous step-mother but for me !
Like the disinherited child, 1 have under my
eyes the rich patrimony of the human family,
and avaricious heaven refuses me my portion.
No, no! at last I exclaimed with increased
rage, there is no happiness for me upon the
earth ; die, miserable wretch, die! long e
nough hast thou polluted the earth by thy
presence; may it swallow thee up living and
leave no trace of thy odious existence. My
senseless fury increased by degrees, the de
sire of destroying myself seized me, and fired
all my thoughts. I conceived at last the res
olution of burning my retreat, and of consum
ing myself there, with all which might leave
any memory of me. Agitated, furious, I went
out into the woods. I wandered some time
in the shade around my dwelling; involunta
ry howls escaped from my oppresed bosom,
and frightened me myself in the silence of
the night. I re-entered, full of rage, my hab
itation, crying, “ woe to thee, leper ! woe to
thee !” and as if all was to contribute to iuy
ruin, I heard the echo which, from the ruins
of the Castle of Bramafan, repeated distinctly,
“ woe to thee !” I stopped seized with horror,
upon the threshold of the tower, ajnl the fee
ble echo of the mountains repeated a long
time after: “ woe to thee !”
“ I took a lamp, and resolved to put fire to
my dwelling, I descended to the lowest cham
ber carrying with me some vine branches and
dried twigs. It was the chamber that my
sister had inhabited, and 1 had not entered I
since her death Her arm chair was still pla
ced as when had lifted her from it for th e
last time. I felt a shudder of fear on seeing
her veil and some parts of her dress scattered
about the chamber. The last words she had
pronounce] before leaving it, renewed them
selves in mv thoughts . “In dying I will not
abandon thee my brother, remember that I
shall.be present in thine agony.” In placing
the lam]) upon the table, I perceived the cord
of the cross that she wore upon her neck, and
that she had, herself, placed between th*
leaves of her Bible. At this sight, I recoiled
full of a holy fear. The depth of the abyss
into which I sought to precipitate myself waw
suddenly presented to my opened eyes; 1
tremblingly approached the sacred hook : “be
hold, behold,” exclaimed I, “the help that she
has promised me!” and as I drew out the
cross from the book, I there found a sealed
writing that my good sister had left for
me. My tears, restrained till then by grief,
escaped in torrents : all my fatal projects van
ished in an instant. I pressed, for sometime
this precious letter to my heart before being
able to real it; and, throwing myself on my
knees, to implore the divine mercy, I opened
it and read amid sobs these words, which
shall be eternally engraven on my heart:
“ my brother, I am going soon to leave thee;
“but I will never abandon thee: from Hea
“ven, where I hope to go I will watch ovtr
“thee : I will pray to God that he may give
“ thee courage to support life with resigna
“ tion, until it shall please him to re-unite us
“in another world; then I shall he able to
“show thee all my affection: nothing shall
“prevent me more from approaching thee:
“and nothing shall separate us. I leave thee
“ the little cross that I have worn all my life;
“it has often consoled me in iny sufferings;
“and my tears had never any other witness.
“ Remember, when thou shalt see it, that my
“last wish was that thou shouldst he able to
“live and die like a good Christian.” Cher
ished letter! it shall never leave me; I will
carry it with me to the tomb ; it is that which
shall open to me the gates of heaven that my
crime ought forever to have shut to me. A*
I finished reading, I felt myself grow feeble,
exhausted by all that I had just felt. I saw
a cloud before my eyes and during some time,
I lost at the same time, the remembrance of
my sufferings and the knowledge of my exis
tence. When I returned to myself, the night
was advanced—as my recollection returned,
I experienced a feeling of undefinable peace.
All that had passed during the evening ap
peared to be a dream. My first movement
was to raise my eyes to heaven, to give
thanks for having been preserved from the
greatest of miseries. The firmament had nev
er appeared to me so beautiful and serene.
A star shone before my window; I contem
plated it a long time with inexpressible plea
sure, thanking God that he had granted me
still the pleasure of seeing it; and I felt a
secret consolation in thinking that one of its
rays was yet destined for the sad cell of the
Leper.
“ I returned to my room more tranquil. I
employed the rest of the night in reading the
book of Job, and the holy enthusiasm with
which it inspired my soul entirely dissipated
the black ideas that had beset me. I had
never felt these frightful moments while my
sister lived; it was sufficient to know’ her
near me to he more calm—and the thought
alone o the affection she felt for me sufficed
>o console me and give fne courage.”
“ Compassionate stranger! God preserve you
from ever being obliged to live alone! Mv
sister, my companion is no more, but lleaveu
“’ill grant me strength courageously to sup
port life : it will grant it to me, I hope, for 1
pray for it in the sincerity of my heart ”
“How old,” enquired the soldier, “wa*
your sister when you lost her?”
“ She was scarcely twenty-five years old,
but her sufferings made her appear older. I*
spite of the malady which carried her off, sh*
would still have been beautiful hut fora fright,
ful paleness which disfigured her: it
; the image of a living death, and I could © 1