More than ten years have passed since I beheld¹ him,      The noble boy; now time annuls² my oath
     And cancels all his wrongs.
     I took a solemn oath to veil the secret,
     Conceal³ thy rights, while lived her lord,
     And thus allow’d thy youth to quit my roof.
     Bulwer.—The Sea Captain.
“Yes,” said the old man, gazing after the marchioness as she withdrew, “yes, I know you have a heart of adamant⁴, madam, insensible to every sort of fear, with the exception of that which God has placed within your breast to supply the place of remorse⁵. But that suffices; and it is dearly buying that reputation you have obtained for virtue⁶, to pay the price of such eternal terrors. It is true that the virtue of the Marchioness d’Auray is so firmly established, that if truth herself were to rise from the earth or to descend⁷ from heaven to arraign⁸ her, she would be treated as a calumniator⁹. But God orders all things according to His will, and what He does ordain¹⁰, His wisdom has long before matured.”
 
“Rightly reasoned,” cried a youthful and sonorous¹¹ voice, replying to the religious axiom which the resignation of the old man had led him to utter. “Upon my word, good father, you speak like Ecclesiastes.” Achard turned round and perceived Paul, who had arrived just as the marchioness left him, but who was so absorbed by the scene we have just described, that she had not observed the young captain. The latter, seeing the old man alone, approached him, and not hearing the last words he had uttered, had spoken with his usual good humor. Achard, who was surprised by his unexpected appearance, looked at him as if he wished him to repeat that which he had said.
 
“I say,” resumed Paul, “that there is more grandeur¹² in resignation that humbly¹³ bows itself, than in philosophy that doubts. That is a maxim¹⁴ of our quakers, which, for my eternal welfare, I wish I had less often on my tongue, and more frequently in my heart.”
 
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old man on seeing our adventurer, who was fixedly¹⁶ gazing at him, while standing¹⁷ with one foot on the threshold of his door. “May I know who you are?”
 
“For the moment,” replied Paul, giving, as usual, free course to his poetical¹⁸ and heedless gaiety, “I am a child of the republic of Plato, having all human kind for brothers, the world for a country, and possessing upon this earth only the station I have worked out for myself.”
 
“And what are you in search of?” continued the old man, smiling in spite of himself at the air of jovial¹⁹ good-nature which was spread over the features of the young man.
 
“I am seeking,” replied Paul, “at three leagues distance from Lorient, at five hundred paces from resembles this one, and in which I am to find an old man, whom it is very likely is yourself.”
 
“And what is the name of this old man?”
 
“Louis Achard.”
 
“That is my name.”
 
“Then may the blessing²⁰ of heaven descend on your white hairs,” said Paul, in a voice which at once changing its tone, assumed that of deep feeling and respect; “for here is a letter which I believe was written by my father, in which he says that you are an honest man.”
 
“Does not that letter enclose something?” cried d’Auray, and advancing a step nearer to the young captain.
 
“It does,” replied the latter, opening the letter and taking out of it one half of a Venetian sequin, which had been broken in two; “it seems to be part of a gold coin, of which I have one half, and you ought to be in possession of the other.”
 
Achard mechanically held out his hand, while gazing with intense interest at the young man.
 
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, and eyes gradually became more and more suffused²¹ with tears: “yes, this is the true token, and more than that, the extraordinary resemblance,” and opening his arms, he cried, “child!—oh! my God! my God!”
 
“What is it?” cried Paul, extending his arms to support the old man, who was quite overcome by his emotions.
 
“Oh! can you not comprehend?” replied the latter, “can you not comprehend that you are the living portrait of your father, and that I loved your father—loved him so much that I would have shed my blood, have given my life to serve him, as I would now for you, young man, were you to demand it.”
 
“Embrace me, then, my old friend,” said Paul, throwing his arms around the old man, “for the chain of feeling, believe me, is not broken, which extended from the tomb of the father to the cradle of the son. Whatever my father may have been, if in order to resemble him it be only necessary to have a conscience without reproach, undaunted courage, and a memory which never forgets a benefit conferred, although it may sometimes forget an injury; if this be so, then am I, as you have said, my father’s living portrait, and more so in soul than in form.”
 
“Yes, he possessed²² all these,” replied the old man, with solemnity, and clasping Paul to his breast, looking at him with affectionate though tearful tenderness—“Yes, he had the same commanding voice, the same flashing eyes, the same nobleness of heart. But why was it that I have not seen you sooner, young man? I have, during my life, passed many gloomy hours, which your presence would have brightened.”
 
“Why—because this letter told me to seek you out only when I should have attained²³ the age of twenty-five, and because it is not long since I attained that age, not more than an hour ago.”
 
The old man bowed down his head with a pensive²⁴ air, and remained silent for some time, seemingly absorbed by recollections of the past.
 
“Can it be so?” at length ne said, raising his head, “can it be twenty-five years ago. Good heaven! it appears to me only yesterday that you were born in this house, that you first saw the light in that very room:” and the old man raised his head, and pointed²⁵ to a door which led into another room.
 
Paul, in his turn, appeared to reflect, and then, looking around him, to strengthen by the aid of objects which presented themselves to his view, the recollections which crowded on his memory.
 
“In this cottage, in that room,” he repeated, “and I lived here till I was five years old, did I not?”
 
“Yes,” murmured the old man, as if fearful to disturb the feelings which were taking possession of the young man’s mind.
 
“Well,” continued Paul, leaning his head on both his hands, as if to concentrate his thoughts, “allow me for one moment to look back, in my turn, to the past, for I am recollecting²⁶ a room which I had thought I had seen in a dream—it may be that one. Listen to me! Oh! how strange it is—remembrances now rush upon me.”
 
“Speak, my child, speak!” said the old man.
 
“It it be that room, there ought to be on the right, as you go in, at the end of the room, a bed with green hangings.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“A crucifix at the head of the bed.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“A closet opposite, in which were boo............