I shall a tale unfold      Will harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
     Make thy two eyes like stars, start from their spheres;
     Thy knotted and combined locks to part.
     And each particular hair to stand on end,
     Like quills¹ upon the fretful porcupine².
 
     Shakespeare.
The old man seemed to be summoning up his recollections for a time, and then began:
 
“They were affianced to each other. I know not what mortal hatred³ it was that arose between the families and separated them. The Count de Morlaix, broken hearted, could not remain in France. He sailed for Saint Domingo, where his father possessed⁴ a large estate; I accompanied him, for the Count de Morlaix reposed⁵ much confidence in me. I was the son of her who had nursed him; I had received the same education as himself; he used to call me his brother, and I alone remembered the distance which nature had placed between us. The Marquis de Morlaix confided⁶ to me the charge of watching over his son, for I loved him with all the love of a father. We remained two years under a tropical sun; during that two years, your father, lost amid the solitude⁷ of that magnificent island, a traveller without an object and without an aim, an ardent⁸ and indefatigable⁹ sportsman, endeavouring to cure the griefs of the mind, by the fatigues¹⁰ of the body; but so far from succeeding, one would have thought that his heart became still more inflamed¹² under that ardent sun. At length, after two years of trial and incessant¹³ struggles, his love conquered. He must either see her again or die. I yielded and we set sail for France. Never was a voyage more beautiful, or more prosperous. The sea and sky seemed to smile upon us; so favourable¹⁴ were they that it would have induced one to believe in lucky omens¹⁵. Six weeks after our departure from Port au Prince, we landed at Havre. Mademoiselle de Sablé was married. The Marquis d’Auray was at Versailles, fulfilling at the court of Louis XV. the duties of his charge, and his wife, who was too much indisposed to follow him, was at the old chateau¹⁶ d’Auray, the turrets¹⁷ of which you see from this place.”
 
“Yes, yes,” said Paul, “I know it; pray go on.”
 
“As to myself,” rejoined the old map, “during our voyage, one of my uncles, an old servant of the house of Auray, had died, and left me this small house, with a small quantity of land surrounding it. I took possession of it. Your father had left me at Vannes, telling me he was going to Paris, and for the whole of the first year that I inherited this house I did not see him.”
 
“One night,—it is exactly twenty-five years ago,—some one knocked at my door; I went to open it and found your father there, carrying in his arms a woman whose face was veiled. He brought her into this room, and laid her on that bed. And then returning to me in the adjoining room, where I was waiting mute and motionless with astonishment¹⁸, he placed his hand upon my shoulder, and looking at me in a supplicating¹⁹ manner, although he had the right to command me, said, ‘Louis, you can do more than save my life and honor—you can save the life and honor of her I love—get on horseback, gallop²⁰ to the next town, and return here in an hour with a doctor.’ He spoke²¹ to me in that short and hasty tone, which indicated that there was not a moment to be lost. I immediately obeyed. The day was beginning to break when we returned. The doctor was introduced by the Count de Morlaix into this room, the door of which was immediately closed: he remained there during the whole day; towards five in the afternoon, the doctor left the house, and at nightfall your father also left the house carrying in his arms the mysterious veiled lady whom he had brought the previous night. When they had gone, I came into this room and found you here—you had just been born.”
 
“And how did you learn that this woman was the Marchioness d’Auray?”
 
“Oh!” exclaimed the old man, in a way which was as terrible as it was unexpected; “I had offered the Count de Morlaix to keep you here, and he accepted my proposal: from time to time he would come to spend an hour with you.”
 
“Alone?” demanded Paul, with much anxiety.
 
“Yes, always; but as he had given me permission to walk with you in the park, it would sometimes happen that at the corner of one of the avenues I would meet the marchioness, whom chance appeared to have conducted in that direction. She would make you a sign to come to her, and she would kiss you as people kiss a strange child, because he is handsome. Four years passed on in this way, and then one night some one again knocked at this door, and it was again your father. He was more calm, but had, perhaps, a more gloomy look than on the first occasion. ‘Louis,’ said he, ‘to-morrow, at the break of day, I have to meet the Marquis d’Auray. It is a duel²² in which one of us must fall, and you are to be the only witness of it. The terms are agreed upon. You must, therefore, give me shelter for this night, and let me have materials for writing.’ He sat down at this table, on the very chair you are now seated.”
 
Paul sprang up, but supported himself on the back of the chair, without again sitting down upon it. “He sat up all night. At day-break he came into my room and found me up—I had not gone to bed. As to you poor child, unconscious of the passions and miseries²³ of this life, you were quietly sleeping.”
 
“And then,—pray go on.”
 
“Your father bent²⁴ slowly over you, supporting himself by the wall, and looking sorrowfully upon you: ‘Louis,’ said he to me, in a hollow voice, ‘should I be killed, and which may happen, wo to this child! You will deliver him with this letter to Field, my valet de chambre, whom I have charged to conduct him to Selkirk, in Scotland, there to leave him in sure hands. When he is twenty-five years old, he will bring you the other half of this gold coin, and will ask you to reveal to him the secret of his birth. You will communicate it; for then, perhaps, his mother will be alone and isolated²⁵. As to these papers which prove his birth, you will not deliver them to him, until after the death of the Marquis d’Auray. Now I have said all that is necessary, let us go, for it is the appointed hour. He then leaned over your bed, bent down toward you, and although he was a man of fortitude²⁷, as I have told you, I saw a tear fall upon your cheek.”
 
“Proceed,” said Paul, in a voice choked by emotion.
 
“The rendezvous²⁸ was in one of the avenues of the park, about a hundred paces from this house. When we reached the place, we found the marquis there, he had been waiting for us some minutes. Near him upon a bank were pistols ready loaded. The adversaries²⁹ bowed to each other without exchanging a word. The marquis pointed²⁶ to the weapons—they each took one, and then, according to the terms which had been agreed upon, as your father had told me, they placed themselves, mute and gloomily, at the distance of thirty paces, and then began to walk............