Kitabı oku: «Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune», sayfa 33

This comforting reflection closed my waking memories, and I slept soundly till morning.

CHAPTER XLII. THE ‘COUNT DE MAUREPAS,’ ALIAS —

There is a wide gulf between him who opens his waking eyes in a splendid chamber, and with half-drowsy thoughts speculates on the pleasures of the coming day, and him, who, rising from the dew-moistened earth, stretches his aching limbs for a second or so, and then hurries away to make his toilet at the nearest fountain.

I have known both conditions, and yet, without being thought paradoxical, I would wish to say that there are some sensations attendant on the latter and the humbler lot which I would not exchange for all the voluptuous ease of the former. Let there be but youth, and there is something of heroism, something adventurous in the notion of thus alone and unaided breasting the wide ocean of life, and, like a hardy swimmer, daring to stem the roughest breakers without one to succour him, that is worth all the security that even wealth can impart, all the conscious ease that luxury and affluence can supply. In a world and an age like ours, thought I, there must surely be some course for one young, active and daring as I am. Even if France reject me, there are countries beyond the seas where energy and determination will open a path. ‘Courage, Maurice,’ said I, as I dashed the sparkling water over my head, ‘the past has not been all inglorious, and the future may prove even better.’

A roll and a glass of iced water furnished my breakfast, after which I set forth in good earnest on my search. There was a sort of self-flattery in the thought that one so destitute as I was could devote his thoughts and energies to the service of another, that pleased me greatly. It was so ‘unselfish’ – at least I thought so. Alas and alas! how egotistical are we when we fancy ourselves least so. That day I visited St. Roch and Notre Dame at early mass, and by noon reached the Louvre, the gallery of which occupied me till the hour of meeting the curé drew nigh.

Punctual to his appointment, I found him waiting for me at the corner of the quay, and although disappointed at the failure of all his efforts, he talked away with all the energy of one who would not suffer himself to be cast down by adverse fortune. ‘I feel,’ said he, ‘a kind of instinctive conviction that we shall find her yet. There is something tells me that all our pains shall not go unrewarded. Have you never experienced a sensation of this kind, – a species of inward prompting to pursue a road, to penetrate into a pass, or to explore a way, without exactly knowing why or wherefore?’

This question, vague enough as it seemed, led me to talk about myself and my own position; a theme which, however much I might have shrunk from introducing, when once opened, I spoke of in all the freedom of old friendship.

Nothing could be more delicate than the priest’s manner during all this time; nor even when his curiosity was highest did he permit himself to ask a question or an explanation of any difficulty that occurred; and while he followed my recital with a degree of interest that was most flattering, he never ventured on a word or dropped a remark that might seem to urge me to greater frankness. ‘Do you know,’ said he, at last, ‘why your story has taken such an uncommon hold upon my attention? It is not from its adventurous character, nor from the stirring and strange scenes you have passed through; it is because your old pastor and guide, the Père Delamoy, was my own dearest friend, my school companion and playfellow from infancy. We were both students at Louvain together; both called to the priesthood on the same day. Think, then, of my intense delight at hearing his dear name once more – ay, and permit me to say it, hearing from the lips of another the very precepts and maxims that I can recognise as his own. Ah, yes! mon cher Maurice,’ cried he, grasping my hand in a burst of enthusiasm, ‘disguise it how you may, cover it up under the uniform of a “Bleu,” bury it beneath the shako of the soldier of the Republic, but the head and the heart will turn to the ancient altars of the Church and the Monarchy. It is not alone that your good blood suggests this, but all your experience of life goes to prove it. Think of poor Michel, self-devoted, generous, and noble-hearted; think of that dear cottage at Kuffstein, where, even in poverty, the dignity of birth and blood threw a grace and an elegance over daily life; think of Ettenheim and the glorious prince – the last Condé – and who now sleeps in his narrow bed in the fosse of Vincennes!’

‘How do you mean?’ said I eagerly; for up to this time I knew nothing of his fate.

‘Come along with me, and you shall know it all,’ said he; and, rising, he took my arm, and we sauntered along out of the crowded street, till we reached the Boulevards. He then narrated to me every incident of the midnight trial, the sentence, and the execution. From the death-warrant that came down ready filled from Paris, to the grave dug while the victim was yet sleeping – he forgot nothing; and I own that my very blood ran cold at the terrible atrocity of that dark murder. It was already growing dusk when he had finished, and we parted hurriedly, as he was obliged to be at a distant quarter of Paris by eight o’clock, again agreeing to meet, as before, on the Quai Voltaire.

From that moment till we met the following day, the Duc d’Enghien was never out of my thoughts, and I was impatient for the priest’s presence that I might tell him every little incident of our daily life at Ettenheim, the topics we used to discuss, and the opinions he expressed on various subjects. The eagerness of the curé to listen stimulated me to talk on, and I not only narrated all that I was myself a witness of, but various other circumstances which were told to me by the prince himself; in particular, an incident he mentioned to me one day of being visited by a stranger who came, introduced by a letter from a very valued friend; his business being to propose to the duke a scheme for the assassination of Bonaparte. At first the prince suspected the whole as a plot against himself, but on further questioning he discovered that the man’s intentions were really such as he professed them, and offered his services in the conviction that no price could be deemed too high to reward him. It is needless to say that the offer was rejected with indignation, and the prince dismissed the fellow with the threat of delivering him up to the Government of the First Consul. The pastor heard this anecdote with deep attention, and, for the first time, diverging from his line of cautious reserve, he asked me various questions as to when the occurrence had taken place, and where – if the prince had communicated the circumstance to any other than myself, and whether he had made it the subject of any correspondence. I knew little more than I had already told him: that the offer was made while residing at Ettenheim, and during the preceding year, were facts, however, that I could remember.

‘You are surprised, perhaps,’ said he, ‘at the interest I feel in all this; but, strangely enough, there is here in Paris at this moment one of the great ‘Seigneurs’ of the Ardèche; he has come up to the capital for medical advice, and he was a great, perhaps the greatest friend of the poor duke. What if you were to come and pay him a visit with me, there is not probably one favour the whole world could bestow he would value so highly. You must often have heard his name from the prince; has he not frequently spoken of the Count de Maurepas?’ I could not remember having ever heard the name. ‘It is historical, however,’ said the curé, ‘and even in our own days has not derogated from its ancient chivalry. Have you not heard how a noble of the Court rode postillion to the king’s carriage on the celebrated escape from Varennes? Well, even for curiosity’s sake, he is worth a visit, for this is the very Count Henri de Maurepas, now on the verge of the grave!’

If the good curé had known me all my life, he could not more successfully have baited a trap for my curiosity. To see and know remarkable people, men who had done something out of the ordinary route of everyday life, had been a passion with me from boyhood. Hero-worship was, indeed, a great feature in my character, and has more or less influenced all my career, nor was I insensible to the pleasure of doing a kind action. It was rare, indeed, that one so humbly placed could ever confer a favour, and I grasped with eagerness the occasion to do so. We agreed, then, on the next afternoon, towards nightfall, to meet at the quay, and proceed together to the count’s residence. I have often reflected, since that day, that Lisette’s name was scarcely ever mentioned by either of us during this interview; and yet, at the time, so preoccupied were my thoughts, I never noticed the omission. The Château of Ettenheim, and its tragic story, filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.

I pass over the long and dreary hours that intervened, and come at once to the time, a little after sunset, when we met at our accustomed rendezvous.

The curé had provided a fiacre for the occasion, as the count’s residence was about two leagues from the city, on the way to Belleville. As we trotted along, he gave me a most interesting account of the old noble, whose life had been one continued act of devotion to the monarchy.

‘It will be difficult,’ said he, ‘for you to connect the poor, worn-out, shattered wreck before you, with all that was daring in deed and chivalrous in sentiment; but the “Maurepas” were well upheld in all their glorious renown, by him who is now to be the last of the race! You will see him reduced by suffering and sickness, scarcely able to speak, but be assured that you will have his gratitude for this act of true benevolence. Thus chatting we rattled along over the paved highway, and at length entered upon a deep clay road which conducted us to a spacious park, with a long straight avenue of trees, at the end of which stood what, even in the uncertain light, appeared a spacious château. The door lay open, and as we descended, a servant in plain clothes received us, and, after a whispered word or two from the curé, ushered us along through a suite of rooms into a large chamber furnished like a study. There were hook-shelves well filled, and a writing-table covered with papers and letters, and the whole floor was littered with newspapers and journals.

A lamp, shaded by a deep gauze cover, threw a half-light over everything, nor was it until we had been nearly a couple of minutes in the room that we became aware of the presence of the count, who lay upon a sofa, covered up in a fur pelisse, although the season was far advanced in spring.

His gentle ‘Good-evening, messieurs,’ was the first warning we had of his presence, and the curé, advancing respectfully, presented me as his young friend, Monsieur de Tiernay.

‘It is not for the first time that I hear that name,’ said the sick man, with a voice of singular sweetness. ‘It is chronicled in the annals of our monarchy. Ay, sir, I knew that faithful servant of his king, who followed his master to the scaffold.’

‘My father?’ cried I eagerly.

‘I knew him well,’ continued he; ‘I may say, without vaunting, that I had it in my power to befriend him, too. He made an imprudent marriage; he was unfortunate in the society his second wife’s family threw him amongst. They were not his equals in birth, and far beneath him in sentiment and principle. Well, well,’ sighed he, ‘this is not a theme for me to speak of, nor for you to hear; tell me of yourself. The curé says that you have had more than your share of worldly vicissitudes. There, sit down, and let me hear your story from your own lips.’

He pointed to a seat at his side, and I obeyed him at once; for, somehow, there was an air of command even in the gentlest tones of his voice, and I felt that his age and his sufferings were not the only claims he possessed to influence those around him.

With all the brevity in my power, my story lasted till above an hour, during which time the count only interrupted me once or twice by asking to which Colonel Mahon I referred, as there were two of the name; and again by inquiring to what circumstances the émigré family were living as to means, and whether they appeared to derive any of their resources from France. These were points I could give no information upon, and I plainly perceived that the count had no patience for a conjecture, and that, where positive knowledge failed, he instantly passed on to something else. When I came to speak of Ettenheim his attention became fixed, not suffering the minutest circumstance to escape him, and even asking for the exact description of the locality, and its distance from the towns in the neighbourhood.

The daily journeys of the prince, too, interested him much, and once or twice he made me repeat what the peasant had said of the horse being able to travel from Strasbourg without a halt. I vow it puzzled me why he should dwell on these points in preference to others of far more interest, but I set them down to the caprices of illness, and thought no more of them. His daily life, his conversation, the opinions he expressed about France, the questions he used to ask, were all matters he inquired into, till, finally, we came to the anecdote of the meditated assassination of Bonaparte. This he made me tell him twice over, each time asking me eagerly whether, by an effort of memory, I could not recall the name of the man who had offered his services for the deed. This I could not; indeed I knew not if I had ever heard it.

‘But the prince rejected the proposal?’ said he, peering at me beneath the dark shadow of his heavy brow; ‘he would not hear of it?’

‘Of course not,’ cried I; ‘he even threatened to denounce the man to the Government.’

‘And do you think that he would have gone thus far, sir?’ asked he slowly.

‘I am certain of it. The horror and disgust he expressed when reciting the story were a guarantee for what he would have done.’

‘But yet Bonaparte has been a dreadful enemy to his race.’ said the count.

‘It is not a Condé can right himself by a murder,’ said I, as calmly.

‘How I like that burst of generous Royalism, young man!’ said he, grasping my hand and shaking it warmly. ‘That steadfast faith in the honour of a Bourbon is the very heart and soul of loyalty!’

Now, although I was not, so far as I knew of, anything of a Royalist – the cause had neither my sympathy nor my wishes – I did not choose to disturb the equanimity of a poor sick man by a needless disclaimer, nor induce a discussion which must be both unprofitable and painful.

‘How did the fellow propose the act? had he any accomplices? or was he alone?’

‘I believe quite alone.’

‘Of course suborned by England? Of that there can be no doubt.’

‘The prince never said so.’

‘Well, but it is clear enough, the man must have had means; he travelled by a very circuitous route; he had come from Hamburg probably?’

‘I never heard.’

‘He must have done so. The ports of Holland, as those of France, would have been too dangerous for him. Italy is out of the question.’

I owned that I had not speculated so deeply in the matter.

‘It was strange,’ said he, after a pause, ‘that the duke never mentioned who had introduced the man to him.’

‘He merely called him a valued friend.’

‘In other words, the Count d’Artois,’ said the count; ‘did it not strike you so?’

I had to confess it had not occurred to me to think so.

‘But reflect a little,’ said he. ‘Is there any other living who could have dared to make such a proposal but the count? Who, but the head of his house, could have presumed on such a step? No inferior could have had the audacity! It must have come from one so highly placed that crime paled itself down to a mere measure of expediency under the loftiness of the sanction. What think you?’

‘I cannot, I will not think so,’ was my answer. ‘The very indignation of the prince’s rejection refutes the supposition.’

‘What a glorious gift is unsuspectfulness!’ said he feelingly. ‘I am a rich man, and you I believe are not so; and yet, I’d give all the wealth, ay, ten times told, not for your vigour of health, not for the lightness of your heart, nor the elasticity of your spirits, but for that one small quality, defect though it be, that makes you trustful and credulous.’

I believe I would just as soon that the old gentleman had thought fit to compliment me upon any other quality. Of all my acquisitions there was not one I was so vain of as my knowledge of life and character. I had seen, as I thought, so much of life I I had peeped at all ranks and conditions of men, and it was rather hard to find an old country gentleman, a Seigneur de Village, calling me credulous and unsuspecting!

I was much more pleased when he told the cure that a supper was ready for us in the adjoining room, at which he begged we would excuse his absence; and truly a most admirable little meal it was, and served with great elegance.

‘The count expects you to stop here; there is a chamber prepared for you,’ said the curé as we took our seats at table. ‘He has evidently taken a fancy to you. I thought, indeed I was quite certain, he would. Who can tell what good fortune this chance meeting may lead to, Monsieur Maurice! À votre santé, mon cher!’ cried he, as he clinked his champagne glass against mine; and I at last began to think that destiny was about to smile on me.

‘You should see his château in the Ardèche; this is nothing to it! There is a forest, too, of native oak, and a chasse such as royalty never owned!’

Mine were delightful dreams that night; but I was sorely disappointed on waking to find that Laura was not riding at my side through a forest-alley, while a crowd of piqueurs and huntsmen galloped to and fro, making the air vibrate with their joyous bugles. Still, I opened my eyes in a richly furnished chamber, while a lackey handed me my coffee on a silver stand, and in a cup of costliest Sèvres.

CHAPTER XLIII. A FOREST RIDE

While I was dressing, a note was handed to me from the curé, apologising for his departure without seeing me, and begging, as a great favour, that I would not leave the château till his return. He said that the count’s spirits had benefited greatly by our agreeable converse, and that he requested me to be his guest for some time to come. The postscript added a suggestion that I should write down some of the particulars of my visit to Ettenheim, but particularly of that conversation alluding to the meditated assassination of Bonaparte.

There were many points in the arrangement which I did not like. To begin, I had no fancy whatever for the condition of a dependant, and such my poverty would at once stamp me. Secondly, I was averse to this frequent intercourse with men of the Royalist party, whose restless character and unceasing schemes were opposed to all the principles of those I had served under; and finally, I was growing impatient under the listless vacuity of a life that gave no occupation, nor opened any view for the future. I sat down to breakfast in a mood very little in unison with the material enjoyments around me. The meal was all that could tempt appetite; and the view from the open window displayed a beautiful flower-garden, imperceptibly fading away into a maze of ornamental planting, which was backed again by a deep forest, the well-known wood of Belleville. Still I ate on sullenly, scarce noticing any of the objects around me. I will see the count, and take leave of him, thought I suddenly; I cannot be his guest without sacrificing feeling in a dozen ways.

‘At what hour does monsieur rise?’ asked I of the obsequious valet who waited behind my chair.

‘Usually at three or four in the afternoon, sir; but to-day he has desired me to make his excuses to you. There will be a consultation of doctors here; and the likelihood is, that he may not leave his chamber.’

‘Will you convey my respectful compliments, then, to him, and my regrets that I had not seen him before leaving the château?’

‘The count charged me, sir, to entreat your remaining here till he had seen you. He said you had done him infinite service already; and indeed it is long since he has passed a night in such tranquillity.’

There are few slight circumstances which impress a stranger more favourably than any semblance of devotion on the part of a servant to his master. The friendship of those above one in life is easier to acquire than the attachment of those beneath. Love is a plant whose tendrils strive ever upwards. I could not help feeling struck at the man’s manner as he spoke these few words; and insensibly my mind reverted to the master who had inspired such sentiments.

‘My master gave orders, sir,’ continued he, ‘that we should do everything possible to contribute to your wishes; that the carriage, or, if you prefer them, saddle-horses, should be ready at any hour you ordered. The wood has a variety of beautiful excursions; there is a lake, too, about two leagues away; and the ruins of Monterraye are also worth seeing.’

‘If I had not engagements in Paris,’ muttered I, while I affected to mumble over the conclusion of the sentence to myself.

‘Monsieur has seldom done a greater kindness than this will be,’ added he respectfully; ‘but if monsieur’s business could be deferred for a day or two, without inconvenience – ’

‘Perhaps that might be managed,’ said I, starting up, and walking to the window, when, for the first time, the glorious prospect revealed itself before me. How delicious, after all, would be a few hours of such a retreat! – a morning loitered away in that beautiful garden, and then a long ramble through the dark wood till sunset. Oh, if Laura were but here! if she could be my companion along those leafy alleys! If not with, I can at least think of her, thought I – seek out spots she would love to linger in, and points of view she would enjoy with all a painter’s zest. And this poor count, with all his riches, could not derive in a whole lifetime the enjoyment that a few brief hours would yield to us! So is it almost ever in this world: to one man the appliances, to another the faculties for enjoyment.

‘I am so glad monsieur has consented,’ said the valet joyously.

‘Did I say so? I don’t know that I said anything.’

‘The count will be so gratified,’ added he, and hurried away to convey the tidings.

Well, be it so. Heaven knows my business in Paris will scarcely suffer by my absence, my chief occupation there being to cheat away the hours till meal-time. It is an occupation I can easily resume a few days hence. I took a book, and strolled out into the garden; but I could not read. There is a gush of pleasure felt at times from the most familiar objects, which the most complicated machinery of enjoyment often fails to equal; and now the odour of moss-roses and geraniums, the rich perfume of orange-flowers, the plash of fountains and the hum of the summer insects, steeped my mind in delight; and I lay there in a dream of bliss that was like enchantment. I suppose I must have fallen asleep, for my thoughts took every form of wildness and incoherency. Ireland; the campaign; the Bay of Genoa; the rugged height of Kuff-stein, all passed before my mind, peopled with images foreign to all their incidents. It was late in the afternoon that I aroused myself, and remembered where I was. The shadows of the dark forest were stretching over the plain, and I determined on a ride beneath their mellow shade. As if in anticipation of my wishes, the horses were already saddled, and a groom stood awaiting my orders. Oh, what a glorious thing it is to be rich! thought I, as I mounted; from what an eminence does the wealthy man view life! No petty cares nor calculations mar the conceptions of his fancy. His will, like his imagination, wanders free and unfettered. And so thinking, I dashed spurs into my horse, and plunged into the dense wood. Perhaps I was better mounted than the groom, or perhaps the man was scarcely accustomed to such impetuosity. Whatever the reason, I was soon out of sight of him. The trackless grass of the alley, and its noiseless turf, made pursuit difficult in a spot where the paths crossed and recrossed in a hundred different directions; and so I rode on for miles and miles without seeing more of my follower.

Forest riding is particularly seductive; you are insensibly led on to see where this alley will open, or how that path will terminate. Some of the spirit of discovery seems to seal its attractions to the wild and devious track, untrodden as it looks; and you feel all the charm of adventure as you advance. The silence, too, is most striking; the noiseless footfall of the horse, and the unbroken stillness, add indescribable charm to the scene, and the least imaginative cannot fail to weave fancies and fictions as he goes.

Near as it was to a great city, not a single rider crossed my path; not even a peasant did I meet. A stray bundle of faggots, bound and ready to be carried away, showed that the axe of the woodman had been heard within the solitude; but not another trace told that human footstep had ever pressed the sward.

Although still a couple of hours from sunset, the shade of the wood was dense enough to make the path appear uncertain, and I was obliged to ride more cautiously than before. I had thought that by steadily pursuing one straight track, I should at last gain the open country, and easily find some road that would reconduct me to the château; but now I saw no signs of this. ‘The alley’ was, to all appearance, exactly as I found it – miles before. A long aisle of beech-trees stretched away in front and behind me; a short, grassy turf was beneath my feet, and not an object to tell me how far I had come, or whither I was tending. If now and then another road crossed the path, it was in all respects like this one. This was puzzling; and to add to my difficulty, I suddenly remembered that I had never thought of learning the name of the château, and well knew that to ask for it as the residence of the Count de Maurepas would be a perfect absurdity. There was something so ludicrous in the situation, that I could not refrain from laughing at first; but a moment’s reconsideration made me regard the incident more gravely. In what a position should I stand, if unable to discover the château! The curé might have left Paris before I could reach it; all clue to the count might thus be lost; and although these were but improbable circumstances, they came now very forcibly before me, and gave me serious uneasiness.

‘I have been so often in false positions in life, so frequently implicated where no real blame could attach to me, that I shall not be in the least surprised if I be arrested as a horse-stealer!’ The night now began to fall rapidly, so that I was obliged to proceed at a slow pace; and at length, as the wood seemed to thicken, I was forced to get off, and walk beside my horse. I have often found myself in situations of real peril, with far less anxiety than I now felt. My position seemed at the time inexplicable and absurd. I suppose, thought I, that no man was ever lost in the wood of Belleville; he must find his way out of it sooner or later; and then there can be no great difficulty in returning to Paris. This was about the extent of the comfort I could afford myself; for, once back in the capital, I could not speculate on a single step further.

I was at last so weary with the slow and cautious progression I was condemned to, that I half determined to picket my horse to a tree, and lie down to sleep till daylight. While I sought out a convenient spot for my bivouac, a bright twinkling light, like a small star, caught my eye. Twice it appeared, and vanished again, so that I was well assured of its being real, and no phantom of my now over-excited brain. It appeared to proceed from the very densest part of the wood, and whither, so far as I could see, no path conducted. As I listened to catch any sounds, I again caught sight of the faint star, which now seemed at a short distance from the road where I stood. Fastening my horse to a branch, I advanced directly through the brushwood for about a hundred yards, when I came to a small open space, in which stood one of those modest cottages, of rough timber, wherein, at certain seasons, the gamekeepers take refuge. A low, square, log-hut, with a single door and an unglazed window, comprised the whole edifice, being one of the humblest, even of its humble kind, I had ever seen. Stealing cautiously to the window, I peeped in. On a stone, in the middle of the earthern floor, a small iron lamp stood, which threw a faint and fickle light around. There was no furniture of any kind – nothing that bespoke the place as inhabited; and it was only as I continued to gaze that I detected the figure of a man, who seemed to be sleeping on a heap of dried leaves in one corner of the hovel. I own that, with all my anxiety to find a guide, I began to feel some scruples about obtruding on the sleeper’s privacy. He was evidently no garde-chasse, who are a well-to-do sort of folk, being usually retired sous-officiers of the army. He might be a poacher, a robber, or perhaps a dash of both together – a trade I had often heard of as being resorted to by the most reckless and abandoned of the population of Paris, when their crimes and their haunts became too well known in the capital.

I peered eagerly through the chamber to see if he were armed; but not a weapon of any kind was to be seen. I next sought to discover if he were quite alone; and although one side of the hovel was hidden from my view, I was well assured that he had no comrade. Come, said I to myself, man to man, if it should come to a struggle, is fair enough; and the chances are I shall be able to defend myself.

His sleep was sound and heavy, like that after fatigue; so that I thought it would be easy for me to enter the hovel, and secure his arms, if he had such, before he should awake. I may seem to my reader, all this time, to have been inspired with an undue amount of caution and prudence, considering how evenly we were matched; but I would remind him that it was a period when the most dreadful crimes were of daily occurrence. Not a night went over without some terrible assassination; and a number of escaped galley-slaves were known to be at large in the suburbs and outskirts of the capital. These men, under the slightest provocation, never hesitated at murder; for their lives were already forfeited, and they scrupled at nothing which offered a chance of escape. To add to the terror their atrocities excited, there was a rumour current at the time that the Government itself made use of these wretches for its own secret acts of vengeance; and many implicitly believed that the dark assassinations of the Temple had no other agency. I do not mean to say that these fears were well founded, or that I myself partook of them; but such were the reports commonly circulated, and the impunity of crime certainly favoured the impression. I know not if this will serve as an apology for the circumspection of my proceeding, as, cautiously pushing the door, inch by inch, I at length threw it wide open. Not the slightest sound escaped as I did so; and yet certainly before my hand quitted the latch, the sleeper had sprung to his knees, and with his dark eyes glaring wildly at me, crouched like a beast about to rush upon an enemy.