Alfred de Rosann by G.W.M. Reynolds — page 77: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

60 Alfred de Rosann. resource had failed—his relative had proved himself faithless friend, —and temporary concealment for the Marquis de Denneville was necessary, until he could find an opportunity of reaching Calais and passing over to England. All he had succeeded in doing was to realize a considerable portion of his former property, the whole of which had not been confiscated ; and the proceeds, in gold and bank-notes, were in the portmanteau that Gustave, his faithful ad- herent, brought to the house. ‘I have a child—an only child,’ said the Marquis; ‘and God knows what may become of me! Her mother is déad ; and, although she be with kind friends, still must I look to her interests. This money will be useful to her in after- life—when I shall be no more !’—and tears moistened the old no- bleman’s cheek, as he uttered these words.— About a month passed away, and Gustave died of a sudden attack of apoplexy. The grief of the Marquis at this unfortunate event cannot be conceived ; and his embarrassment was greater than his sorrow ; for the faithful domestic had intended to undertake a journey to one of the western frontier towns, in order to secure a safe passage for his master across the channel. It was now that an infernal idea entered my head ; the treasure of the Marquis haunted me perpetually, beset me during the day, and followed me in my dreams; my imagination was con- tinually forming brilliant plans for the future—I saw myself sur- rounded by domestics—I heard the noise of my carriage, as it rolled up to my door ; in fine, I thought of nothing but that trea- sure, and the means of possessing it. I could not work; my meals were nauseous to my taste ; I looked with disgust on every thin save the fatal portmanteau ; and at last, in a species of mental phrenzy, I resolved upon doing the accursed deed.” Here the old man invariably stopped for a moment, drew breath, wiped his eyes and his brow, and then proceeded with the tale of horror that had stamped untimely wrinkles on his forehead. ‘‘ No sooner was my mind made up to perpetrate a terrible ac- tion, than I felt easier; and one fatal night—the rain beat in piti- less torrents against the window—not a single star varied the gloom of the dark canopy above—the wind howled in the narrow street, in dismal chorus to the whisperings of my conscience—all nature seemed at war—lI left my lonely couch, armed myself with a deadly weapon, and proceeded to the chamber of the Marquis. The venerable noble slept ; there reposed one of France’s ancient peers —the aristocracy of the old regime—a pillar of the murdered Louis’s mighty throne! I paused to dwell a moment on his unruffled fea- tures—his mild countenance ; then, banishing all commiseration from my ruthless soul, I stabbed him to the heart. He uttered not a groan—a slight convulsion passed through his frame—and in an instant he was no more! ” It was the old man’s custom to pause again, when he arrived at this crisis ; he then concluded in the following terms :— ‘‘ But my villany was wellrewarded. I opened the portmanteau, and sought in vain for the gold—it had disappeared. A bundle of papers alone met my eyes. Aitiough I could not read—for my edu- cation had been more than neglected—I knew that they were neither bank-notes, nor bills of exchange to procure money upon : they were COnicbooolks (GO)