 13 The beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives goes to Versailles. While the unfortunate Huron was more enlightened than consoled, whilst his genius, so long stifled, unfolded itself with so much rapidity and strength, else nature, which was attaining a degree of perfection in him, avenged herself of the outrages of fortune, what became of the prior, his good sister, and the beautiful recluse Mademoiselle St. Ives. The first month they were uneasy, and the third they were immersed in sorrow. His conjectures, ill-grounded reports alarmed them. At the end of six months it was concluded he was dead. At length, Monsieur and Mademoiselle Kirkabon learned by a letter of ancient date, which one of the king's guards had written to Brittany, that a young man resembling the Huron arrived one night at Versailles, but that since that time no one had heard him spoken of. Alas, said Mademoiselle Kirkabon, our nephew has done some ridiculous thing which has brought on some terrible consequences. He is young, a low-brother, and cannot know how to behave at court. My dear brother, I never saw Versailles nor Paris. Here is a fine opportunity, and we shall, perhaps, find our poor nephew. He is our brother's son, and is our duty to assist him. Who knows we may perhaps at length prevail upon him to become a sub-deacon, when the fire of his youth is somewhat abated. He was much inclined to the sciences. Do you recollect how he reasoned upon the Old and New Testament? We are answerable for his soul. He was baptized at our instigation. His dear mistress Mademoiselle St. Ives does nothing but weep incessantly. Indeed, we must go to Paris. If he is concealed in any of those infamous houses of pleasure, which I have often heard of, we will get him out. The prior was affected at his sister's discourse. He went in search of the Bishop of Saint-Malo, who had baptized the Huron, and requested his protection and advice. The prelate approved of the journey. He gave the prior letters of recommendation to Father Lachaise, the king's confessor, who was invested with the first dignity of the kingdom, to Harlais, Bishop of Paris, and to Bousseau, Bishop of Meaux. At length the brother and the sister set out, but when they came to Paris they found themselves bewildered in a great labyrinth without clue or end. Their fortune was but middling, and they had occasion every day for carriages to pursue their discovery, which they could not accomplish. The prior waited upon the Reverend Father Lachaise. He was with Mademoiselle Duchamp, and could not give audience to priors. He went to the archbishop's door. The prelate was shut up with the beautiful Mademoiselle Le Diguier, about church matters. He flew to the country house of the Bishop of Meaux. He was upon close examination of Mademoiselle de Melan, about the mystical amour of Mademoiselle Guillaume. At length, however, he gained access to these two prelates. They both declared they could not interfere with regard to his nephew, as he was not a subdeacon. He at length saw the Jesuit, who received him with open arms, protesting he had always entertained the greatest private esteem for him, though he had never known him. He swore that his society had always been attached to the inhabitants of Lower Brittany. But, said he, has not your nephew the misfortune of being a Huguenot? No, certainly, Reverend Father. May he not be a Jansenist? I can assure your reverence. He is scarce a Christian. It is about eleven months since he was christened. This is very well. We will take care of him. Is your benefit considerable? No, a very trifle. Our nephew costs us a great deal. Are there any Jansenists in your neighborhood? Take great care, my dear M. Pryor. They are more dangerous than Huguenots or even Atheists. My Reverend Father, we have none. It is not even known, at our Lady of the Mountain, what Jansenism is. So much the better. Go! There is nothing I will not do for you. He dismissed the Pryor in this affectionate manner, but thought no more about him. Time slipped away, and the Pryor and his good sister were almost in despair. In the meanwhile the cursed Bailiff urged very strenuously the marriage of his great booby of a son with the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives, who was taken purposely out of the convent. She always entertained a passion for her godson in proportion as she detested the husband who was designated for her. The insult that had been offered her by shutting her up in a convent increased her infection. And the mandate for wedding the Bailiff's son completed her antipathy for him. Chagrin, tenderness, and terror racked her soul. Love, we know, is much more inventive and more daring in a young woman than friendship in an aged Pryor and an ant upwards of forty-five. Besides, she had received good instruction in her convent with the assistance of romances which she had read by Stealth. The beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives remembered the letter that had been written by the life-guardsmen to lower Brittany, and which had been spoken of in the province. She resolved to go herself and gain information at Versailles, to throw herself at the minister's feet if her husband should be in prison, as it was said, and to obtain justice for him. I know not what secret intelligence she gained that at court nothing has refused a pretty woman, but she knew not the price of these boons. When taken this resolution it afforded her some consolation, and she enjoyed some tranquility without abrading providence with the severity of her lot. She receives her tested, intended father-in-law, caresses the brother, and spreads happiness throughout the house. On the day appointed for the ceremony she secretly departs at four in the morning, with the little nuptial presence she had received and all she could gather. Her plan was so well laid that she was above ten leagues upon her journey, when, about noon, her absence was discovered, and when, every one's consternation and surprise was inexpressible. The inquisitive bailiff asked more questions that day than he would done for a week. The intended bridegroom was more stupefied than ever. The abbey's St. Ives resolved in his rage to pursue his sister. The bailiff and his son were disposed to accompany him. Their fate led almost the whole Canton of lower Brittany to Paris. The beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives was not without apprehensions that she should be pursued. She rode on horseback, and she got all the intelligence she could without being suspected from couriers if they had not met a fat abbey, an enormous bailiff, and a young booby, galloping as fast as they could to Paris. Having learned, on the third day, that they were not far behind, she took quite a different road, and was skillful and lucky enough to arrive in Versailles, whilst they, in a fruitless pursuit after her, at Paris. But how was she to behave at Versailles, young, handsome, untutored, unsupported, unknown, exposed to every danger? How could she dare go in search of the king's guards? She had some thoughts of applying to a Jesuit of low rank, for there were some for every station of life, as God, they say, has given different ailments to every species of animal. He had given the king his confessor, who is called by all solicitors of benefits as the head of the Galatian Church. Then came the princess-confessors, the ministers had none, they were not such dupes. There were Jesuits, for gentile mobs of people, and particularly those for chamber-maids by whom were known the secrets of their mistresses, and this was no small vocation. The beautiful mademoiselle St. Ives addressed herself to one of these last, who is called Father Tutatouce. She confessed to him, set forth her adventure, her situation, her danger, and conjured him to get her a lodging with some good devotee who might shelter her from temptations. Father Tutatouce introduced her to the wife of the cup-bearer, one of his most trusty prenatants. From the moment mademoiselle St. Ives became her lodger, she did her up-nose to obtain the confidence and friendship of this woman. She gained intelligence of the Brighton Guard, and invited him to visit her. Having learned from him that her lover had been carried off after having had a conference with one of the first clerks, she flew to this clerk, the sight of a fine woman softened him, for it must be allowed God-created woman only to tame mankind. The scribe, thus mollified, acknowledged to her everything, your lover has been in the Bastille almost a year, and without your intercession he would, perhaps, have ended his days there. The tender mademoiselle St. Ives swooned at this intelligence. When she recovered herself, the penman told her, I have no power to do good, all my influence extends to doing harm, sometimes. Take my advice, wait upon Monsieur de Saint-Paul-Ange, who has the power of doing both good and ill. He is Monsieur de Lavoie's cousin and favorite. This minister has two souls, the one is Monsieur de Saint-Paul-Ange and the other mademoiselle de Belly, but she is at present absent from Versailles, so that you have nothing to do but captivate the protector I have pointed out to you. The beautiful mademoiselle St. Ives divided between some trifling joy and excessive grief between a glimmering of hope and dreadful apprehensions, pursued by her brother idolizing her lover, wiping her tears which flowed in torrents, trembling in feeble, yet summoned all her courage, and in this situation she flew on the wings of love the Monsieur de Saint-Paul-Ange. Chapter 14 The Progress of the Hurons Intellect The ingenuous youth was making a rapid progress in the sciences, and particularly in the science of man. The cause of the sudden disclosure of his understanding was as much owing to his savage education as to the disposition of his soul. For having learned nothing in his infancy, he had not imbibed any prejudices. His mind, not having been warped by error, had retained all its primitive rectitude. He saw things as they were, whereas the ideas that were communicated to us in our infancy made us see them all our life in a false light. Your persecutors are abominable wretches, said he to his friend Gordon. I pity you for being oppressed, but I condemn you for being a Jansenist. All sects appear to me to be founded in error. Tell me if there be any sectaries in geometry. Know my child, said the good old Gordon, heaving a deep sigh. All men are agreed concerning truth when demonstrated. But they are too much divided about latent truths. If there be but a single truth in your load of arguments, which have so often been sifted for such a number of ages, it would doubtless have been discovered. And the universe would certainly have been unanimous, at least in that respect. If this truth had been necessary, as the sun is to the earth, it would have been as brilliant as that planet. It is an absurdity, an insult to human nature. It is an attack upon the infinite and supreme being, to say that there is an essential truth to the happiness of man which God conceals. All that this ignorant youth, instructed only by nature said, made a very deep impression upon the mind of the old unhappy annotator. Is it really certain, he cried, that I should have made myself truly miserable for mere fantasies? I am much more certain of my misery than of effectual grace. I have spent my time in reasoning upon the liberty of God and human nature, but I have lost my own, and either St. Augustine or St. Prosper will extricate me from my present misfortunes. The ingenuous Huron, who gave way to his natural characteristic at length said, Would you give me leave to speak to you boldly and frankly? Those who bring upon themselves persecution for such idle disputes seem to me to have little sense. Those who persecute appear to me monsters. The two captives entirely coincided with respect to the injustice of their captivity. I am a hundred times more to be pitied than you, said the Huron. I am born free as the air. I had two lives, liberty and the object of my love, and I am deprived of both. We are both in fetters without knowing who put them on us and without being able to inquire. I lived a Huron for twenty years. It is said they are barbarians because they avenged themselves on their enemies, but they never oppressed their friends. I had scarce set foot in France before I shed my blood for this country. I have perhaps preserved a whole province, and my recompense is being swallowed up in this tomb of the living, where I have died with rage had it not been for you. There must be no laws in this country. America can dem without being heard. This is not the case in England, alas, it is not against the English I should have fought. Thus his growing philosophy could not broke nature being insulted in the first of her rights, and he gave vent to his just collar. His companion did not contradict him. Absence ever increases ungratified love, and philosophy does not diminish it. He has frequently spoke of his dear Mademoiselle St. Ives as he did of morality or metaphysics. The more he purified his sentiments, the more he loved. He read some new romances, but he met with few that depicted to him the real state of his soul. He always felt that his heart stretched beyond the bounds of his author. Alas, said he, almost all writers have nothing but wit and art. At length the good Jansseness priest became insensibly the confidant of his tendernesses. He was hitherto acquainted with love as sin, with which penitents accused themselves at confession. He now learned to know it as a sentiment equally noble and tender, which can elevate the soul as well as soften it, and can produce sometimes virtues in fine for the last miracle a Huron converted a Janssenist. Chapter 15 The Beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives Resists Some Delicate Proposals The charming Mademoiselle St. Ives, still more afflicted than her lover, waited accordingly upon Mature de Saint Poirage, accompanied by her friend with whom she lodged, each having their faces covered with their hoods. The first thing she saw at the door was the abbey St. Ives, her brother, coming out. She was terrified. But her pious friend supported her spirits. For the very reason, said she, that people had been speaking against you, speak to him yourself. You may be assured that the accusers in this part of the world are always in the right unless they are immediately detected. Besides, your presence will have greater effect, or else I am much mistaken, than the words of your brother. Ever so little encouragement to a passionate lover makes her intrepid. Mademoiselle St. Ives appears at the audience, her youth, her charms, her languishing eyes, moistened with some involuntary tears, attracted everyone's attention. Every sink-a-fint that the deputy minister forgot for an instant the idol of power to contemplate that of beauty. St. Poirage conducted her into a closet. She spoke with an affecting grace. St. Poirage felt some emotion. She trembled, but he told her not to be afraid. Return to night, he said. Your business requires some reflection, and it must be discussed at leisure. There are too many people here at present. Audiences are rapidly dispatched. I must get to the bottom of all that concerns you. He then paid her some compliments upon her beauty and manner of thinking, and advised her to come at seven in the evening. She did not fail, attending at the hour appointed, and her pious friend again accompanied her. She kept in the hall where she was reading the Christian pedagogue, while St. Poirage and the beautyous Mademoiselle St. Ives were in the back closet. He began by saying, Would you believe it, Mademoiselle, that your brother has been here to request me to grant him a letter de cachet against you, but indeed I would sooner grant one to send him back to lower Brittany. Alas, sir, said she, letters de cachet are granted very liberally in your offices, since people come from the extremities of the kingdom to solicit them like pensions. I am very far from requesting one against my brother, yet I have much reason to complain of him, but I respect the liberty of mankind, and therefore I supplicate for that of a man whom I want to make my husband, of a man to whom the king is indebted for the preservation of a province, who can beneficially serve him, and who is the son of an officer killed in his service. What is he accused of? How could he be treated so cruelly without being heard? The deputy minister then showed her the letter of the spy Jesuit, and that of the profiteous Bailiff. What? Said she, with astonishment, are there such monsters upon the earth? And would they force me to marry a stupid son of a ridiculous wicked man? And is it upon such evidence that the fate of citizens is determined? She threw herself upon her knees, and with a flood of tears solicited the freedom of a brave man who adored her. Her charms appeared to the greatest advantage in such a situation. She was so beautiful, a Saint-Paul-Ange, bereft of all shame, insinuated to her that she would succeed, if she began by yielding to him the first fruits of what she reserved for her lover. Mademoiselle St. Ives shocked and confused, pretended for some time not to understand him, and he was obliged to explain himself more clearly. One word used with some reserve brought on another less delicate, which was succeeded by one still more expressive. The revocation of the Letra de Cache was not only proposed, but pecuniary recompenses, honors, and places, and the more he promised, the greater was his desire of not being refused. Mademoiselle St. Ives wept, whilst her anguish almost choked her. Half resting upon a sofa, scarce able to believe what she saw and heard, Saint-Paul-Ange in turn threw himself upon his knees. He was not disagreeable, and might not so much have shocked a heart less prepossessed. But Mademoiselle St. Ives adored her lover, and thought it the greatest of crimes to betray him in order to serve him. Saint-Paul-Ange renewed with greater fervency his prayers and entreaties. He at length went so far as to say that this was the only means of obtaining the liberty of the man whose interest she so violently and affectionately had at heart. This uncommon conversation continued for a long time. The devotee in the ante-chamber, in reading her Christian pedagogue, said to herself, My God, what can they be doing in there for these two hours? My Lord Saint-Paul-Ange never before gave so long an audience. Perhaps he has refused everything to this poor girl, and she still is in treating him. At length her companion came out of the closet in the greatest confusion without being able to speak in deep meditation upon the character of the great and half-great, who so slightly sacrificed the liberty of men and the honor of women. She did not utter a syllable all the way back, but being returned to her friends she burst out and told all that had happened. Her pious friend made frequent signs of the cross. My dear friend, said she, you must consult tomorrow Father Toulouse, our director. He has much influence over Monsieur de Saint-Paul-Ange. He is confessor to many of the female servants of the house. He is a pious, accommodating man who has also the direction of some women of fashion. Yeal to him, this is my way, and I always found myself right. We weak women stand in need of a man to lead us, and so my dear friend, I'll go to-morrow in search of Father Toulouse. CHAPTER XVI SHE CONSULTS A JESUATE No sooner was the beautiful and disconsolate Mademoiselle St. Ives with her holy confessor than she told him that a powerful, voluptuous man had proposed to her to set at liberty the man whom she intended on making her lawful husband, and that he required a great price for his service, that she held such infidelity in the highest detestation, and that, if only her life had been required, she would have sooner have sacrificed it than have submitted. This most abominable sinner, said Father Toulouse, you should tell me his name this instant. He must certainly be some Jansenist. I will inform against him to the reverend Father de la Ches, who will place him in the situation of your dear, beloved intended bride-room. The girl, after much struggle and embarrassment, at length mentioned Saint Poage. My Lord, Saint Poage? Bride de Jesuit, on my child, the case is quite different. He is cousin to the greatest minister we have ever had, a man of worth, a protector of the good cause, a good Christian. He could not possibly entertain such a thought. You certainly must have misunderstood him. Oh, Father, I did but understand him too well. I am lost on whichever side I turn. The only alternative I have to choose is misery or shame. Either my lover must be buried alive, or I must make myself unworthy of living. I cannot let him perish, nor can I save him. Father Toulouse endeavored to consult her with these gentle expressions. In the first place, my child, never use the word lover. It intimates something worldly, which may offend God. Say, my husband, for although he is not yet your husband, you consider him such, and nothing can be more decent. Secondly, though he be ideally your husband, and you run hopes he will be such, he is not so in effect. Consequently, you will not commit adultery, an enormous sin that should always be avoided as much as possible. Thirdly, actions are not maliciously culpable when the intention is virtuous. And nothing can be more virtuous than to procure your husband his liberty. Fourthly, you have examples in holy antiquity that may miraculously serve for your guide. St. Augustine relates that under the proconsulate of Septimus in the 340th year of our salvation, a poor man could not pay unto Caesar what belonged to Caesar, and was justly condemned to die, notwithstanding the maxim, where there is nothing, the king must lose his right. The object in question was a pound of gold. The culprit had a wife in whom God had united beauty and prudence. An old miser promised to give a pound of gold, and even more to the lady, upon condition that he commit with her the sin of uncleanliness. The lady thought she did not act wrong to save her husband's life. St. Augustine highly approves of her generous resignation. It is true that the old miser cheated her, and perhaps her husband was nonetheless hanged. She did all that was in her power to save his life. You may assure yourself, my child, that when a Jesuit quotes you St. Augustine, that saint must certainly have been in the right. I advise you to nothing, you are prudent, and it is to be presumed that you will do your husband a service. My Lord St. Paul is an honest man. He will not deceive you. This is all I can say. I will pray to God for you, and I hope everything will take place for his glory. The beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives, who is not less terrified with the Jesuit's discourse than with the proposals of the Deputy Minister, turned in despair to her friend. She was tempted to deliver herself by death from the horror of leaving in a shocking activity the lover she adored, and the shame of releasing him at the dearest of all prices, which was the sole property of this unfortunate lover. CHAPTER XVII She yields through virtue. She entreated her friend to kill her, but this lady, who was full as indulgent as the Jesuit, spoke to her still more clearly, alas, said she, business of seldom carried out at this agreeable, gallant, and famous court upon any other terms. The most considerable, as well as the most indifferent places, are seldom given away, but at the price required of you. My dear, you have inspired me with friendship and confidence. I will own to you that if I had been as nice as you are, my husband would not enjoy the post upon which he lives. He knows it, and so far from being displeased, he considers me his benefactress and himself my creature. Do you think all those who have been at the head of provinces or even armies have been indebted for their honors and fortunes solely for their services? There are some who are beholden to the ladies their wives. The dignities of war are solicited by the queen of love, and a place is given to him who got the handsomest wife. You are in a situation that is still more critical. The object is to let your lover see daylight, and to marry him. It is a sacred duty that you are to fulfill. No one has ever censured the great and beautiful ladies I mention to you. The world will applaud you. It will be said that you only allowed yourself to be guilty of a weakness through an excess of virtue. Heavens, cried mademoiselle St. Hives, what kind of virtue is this? What a labyrinth of distress, what a world, what men to become acquainted with, a father de la chaise, and a ridiculous bailiff imprisoned my lover, I am persecuted by my family, assistance has offered me only that I may be dishonored, a Jesuit has ruined a brave man, another Jesuit wants to ruin me, and on every side snares are laid for me, and I am upon the very brink of destruction. I must even speak to the king, I will throw myself at his feet as he goes to mass or to the playhouse. His attendants will not let you approach him, said her good friend, and if you should be so unfortunate as to speak to him, Monsieur de la Voix or the Reverend Father de la Chaise might bury you in a convent for the rest of your days. Whilst this generous friend thus increased the perplexities of mademoiselle St. Hives's tortured soul, and plunged the dagger deeper into her heart, a messenger arrived from Monsieur de Saint Paul-orange, with a letter and two fine-pendant earrings. Mademoiselle St. Hives would tears refused accepting any part of the contents of the packet, but her friend took the charge of them upon herself. As soon as the messenger was gone, our confidant read the letter, in which a little supper was proposed to the two friends for that night. Mademoiselle St. Hives protested she would not go, whilst her pious friend endeavored to make her try on the diamond earrings. But Mademoiselle St. Hives could not endure them, and imposed it all day long, at length being entirely wrapped up in the contemplation of her lover, overcome and dragged along, not knowing with her she was being carried, she let herself be led to the fatal supper. She remained inex honorable to all the treaties of putting on the earrings, so that her confidant took them with her, and placed them in her ears against her will, before they sat down to supper. Mademoiselle St. Hives was so confused and agitated by having to undergo this torment, that her patron considered it a very favorable prognostic. Before the end of the repast, her friend very prudently retired. Her patron then showed her the revocation of the Letradicache, the grant of a considerable recompense, and a captain's commission, which were accompanied by unlimited promises. Ah! said Mademoiselle St. Hives with a deep sigh, how much I should love you, if you did not desire to be loved so much. In a word, after a long resistance, shrieks, cries, and torrents of tears, weakened with the conflict, overwhelmed and languishing, she was compelled to yield. And the only consolation now left her was that she resolved to think of nothing but the ingenuous Huron, whilst her cruel ravisher relentlessly enjoyed the advantage of that necessity to which she was reduced. The end of chapters 13 through 17. This is chapters 18 through 20 of the sincere Huron, or La Angineux, by Voltaire. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. It is recorded here by Roy Schreiber. Chapter 18. She delivers her lover and a Jansenist. Daybreak she flew to Paris with the minister's mandate. It would be difficult to depict the agitations of her mind in this journey. Imagine a virtuous and noble soul humbled by its own reproaches, intoxicated with tenderness distracted with the remorse of having betrayed her lover, and elated with the pleasure of releasing the object of her adoration. Her torments, her conflicts, her success, by turns engaging her reflections. She was no longer that innocent girl whose ideas were confined to a provincial education. Love and misfortune had united to new mold her. Sentiment had made a rapid progress in her mind, as reason had in that of her unfortunate lover. Girls learned to feel more easily than men learned to think. Her adventure afforded her more instruction than four years of confinement in a convent. Her dress was dictated by the greatest simplicity. She viewed with horror the trappings with which she had appeared before her fatal benefactor. Her companion had taken her earrings without her having before looked at them, charmed and confused, idolizing the Huron and detesting herself. She at length arrived at the gate of that dreadful castle, the palace of vengeance, where oft crimes and innocents are alike immured. When she was upon the point of getting out of the coach, her strength failed her. Some people came to her assistance. She entered, whilst her heart was in the greatest palpitation, her eyes streaming, and her whole frame bespoke the greatest consternation. She was presented to the governor. He was going to speak to her, but she had lost all power of expression. She showed her order, whilst, with the greatest difficulty, she articulated some words. The governor entertained a great esteem for his prisoner, and he was greatly pleased at his being released. His heart was not callous, like those of most of his brethren, who think of nothing but the fees their captives are to pay them, extort their revenue from their victims, and living by the misery of others conceive a horrid joy at the lamentations of the unfortunate. He sent for the prisoner into his apartment. The two lovers swooned at the sight of each other. The beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives remained for a long time motionless without any symptoms of life. The other soon recalled his fortitude. This, said the governor, is probably the lady your wife. You did not tell me you were married. I am informed that it is through her generous solicitude that you have obtained your liberty. Alas, said the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives, in a faltering voice, I am not worthy of being his wife, and swooned again. When she recovered her senses, she presented with a trembling hand. The grant and written promise of a company, the Huron equally astonished and affected, awoke from one dream the fall into another. Why was I shut up here? How could you deliver me? Where are the monsters that have mirrored me? You are a divinity sent from heaven to succour me. The beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives, with a dejected look, looked at her lover, blushed, and instantly turned away her streaming eyes. In a word they told him all she knew, and all she had undergone, except what she was willing to conceal forever, but which any other, except the Huron, more accustomed to the world and better acquainted with the customs of courts, would have easily guessed. Is it possible that a wretch like the Baeliph can have deprived me of my liberty? Alas, I find that men, like the vilest animals, can all hurt. But is it possible that a monk, a Jesuit, the king's confessor, should have contributed to my misfortunes as much as the Baeliph, without my being able to imagine under what pretense this detestable nave has persecuted me? Did he make me pass for a Jansenist? In fine, how came you to remember me? I did not deserve it. I was then only a savage. What could you, without advice, without assistance, undertake a journey to Versailles? You appeared there, and my fetters were broke. There must then be in beauty and virtue an invincible charm that opens the gates of the adamant and softened hearts of steel. The word virtue, a flood of tears issued from the eyes of the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives. She did not know how far she had been virtuous in the crime which she reproached herself. Our lover thus continued, Thou Angel, who has broken my chains, if you had sufficient influence, which I do not yet comprehend, to obtain justice for me, obtain it likewise for an old man who first taught me to think as you taught me to love. Misfortunes have united us. I love him as a father. I can neither live without you nor him. I solicit the same man. Oh, yes, I will be beholden to you for everything, and I will own nothing to any one but yourself. Right to this man in power, overwhelm me with kindness, complete what you have begun, perfect your miracle. She was sensible. She ought to do everything her lover desired. She wanted to write, but her hand refused its office. She began her letter three times and tore it up as often. At length she got to the end, and the two lovers left the prison after having embraced the old martyr of efficacious Grace. The happy, yet disconsolate Mademoiselle St. Ives knew where her brother lodged. Thithers she repaired, and her lover took an apartment in the same house. They had scarce reach their lodging, before her protector sent the order for the releasing of the good old Gordon, at the same time making an appointment with her for the next day. Thus was every generous and laudable action the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives performed at the price of her honor. She considered with detestation this practice of selling at once the happiness and misery of man. She gave the order of release to her lover, and refused the appointment of a benefactor whom she could see no more without expiring, without shame and grief. Her lover could not have left her upon any other errand than to release his friend. He flew to the place of his confinement, and fulfilled this duty in reflecting upon the strange vicissitudes of the world, and admiring the courageous virtue of a young lady to whom two unfortunate men owed more than their lives. Chapter 19 The Huron, the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives, and their relations are convened. A generous and respectable, but faithless girl was with her brother, the Abbey St. Ives, a good prior of the mountain, and Lady de Kirkebon. They were equally astonished, but their situations and sentiments were very different. The Abbey de St. Ives was expiating the wrongs he had done his sister at her feet, and she pardoned him. The prior, in his sympathizing sister, likewise wept, but it was for joy. The filthy Bailiff and his insupportable son did not trouble this affecting scene. They had set out upon the first report of their antagonist being released, and they flew, bury in their own province their folly and fear. The four dramatic personae, variously agitated, were waiting for the return of the young man who was gone to deliver his friend. The Abbey St. Ives did not dare raise his eyes to meet those of his sister. The good Kirkebon said, I shall then see, once more, my dear nephew. Yes, you will see him again, said the charming Mademoiselle St. Ives, but he is no longer the same man. His behavior, his manners, his ideas, his sense all have undergone a complete mutation. He has become as respectable as he was ignorant and strange to everything. He will be the honor and consolation of your family. Could I also be the honor of mine? What are you not the same as you were, said the prior? What then has happened to work so great a change? During this conversation the Huron returned the Jansenist in hand. The scene was now changed and became more interesting. It began by the uncle and the aunt's tender embraces. The Abbey de St. Ives almost kissed the knees of the ingenuous Huron, who by the by was no longer ingenuous. The language of the eyes formed all the discourse of the two lovers, who nevertheless expressed every settlement with which they were penetrated. Satisfaction and acknowledgment sparkled in the countenance of the one whilst embarrassment was depicted in Mademoiselle St. Ives's melting eyes turned somewhat sideways. Everyone was astonished that she should meekle grief with so much joy. The venerable Gordon soon endeared himself to the whole family. He and the young prisoner had been unhappy together, and this was sufficient title. He owed his deliverance to the two lovers, and this alone reconciled him to love. The acrimony of his former sentiments was dismissed from his heart, and he was converted to a man as well as the Huron. Everyone related his adventures before supper. The two Abbeys and the aunt listened like children to the relation of stories of ghosts, and like men all interested in so many calamities. Alas! said Gordon, there are perhaps upwards of five hundred virtuous people in the same fetters as Mademoiselle St. Ives has broken. Their misfortunes are unknown. Many hands are found to strike the unhappy multitude, but seldom one to sucker them. This just reflection increased his sensibility and gratitude. Everything heightened the triumph of the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives. The grandeur and intrepidity of her soul, the subject of each one's admiration. The admiration was blended with that respect which we feel, despite ourselves, for a person we think has some influence at court. But the Abbeys St. Ives sometimes said, What could my sister do to obtain this influence so soon? Supper was ready, and everyone seated very early, when low, worthy confident of Versailles arrived without being acquainted with anything that had happened. She was in a coach in six, and it was easily seen to whom the equipage belonged. She entered with the air of authority assumed by people in power, who have a great deal of business, saluted the company with much indifference, and pulling the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives on one side said, Why do you make people wait so long? Follow me, there are diamonds you forgot. However softly so ever, she uttered these expressions. The Huron nevertheless overheard them. He saw the diamonds. The brother was speechless. The uncle and the aunt showed that kind of surprise common to good people who had never before beheld such magnificence. The young man, whose mind was now formed by twelve months of reflection, could not help making some against his will, and was for a moment in anxiety. His mistress perceived it, and a mortal paleness spread itself over her countenance. A tremor seized her, and it was with difficulty that she supported herself. Ah, Madame said she to her fatal friend. You have ruined me. You have given me the mortal blow. These words pierced the heart of the Huron, but he had already learned to possess himself. He did not dwell upon them, lest he should make his mistress uneasy before her brother, but turn pale as well as her. Mademoiselle St. Ives distracted with the change she perceived in her lover's countenance, pulled the woman out of the room into the passage, and there, through the jewels at her feet, saying, Alas, you know they were not my seducers. But he that gave them to me shall never set eyes on me again. A friend took them up, whilst Mademoiselle St. Ives added he may either take them again, or give them to you, be gone, and do not make me still more odious to myself. The female ambassador at length returned, not being able to comprehend the remorse to which she had been witness. The beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives, greatly oppressed and feeling a revolution in her body that almost suffocated her, was compelled to go to bed, but that she might not alarm anyone. She kept her pains and sufferings to herself, and, under pretense of only being weary, she asked leave to take a little rest. This, however, she did not do, till she had reanimated the company with the consolatory and flattering expressions, and cast such a look upon her lover as darted fire into his soul. The supper, which she was not fond of, was in the beginning gloomy, but this gloominess was of that interesting kind that affords attracting and useful conversation so superior to that frivolous joy sought for, in which is usually nothing more than a troublesome noise. Gordon, in a few words, gave the history of Janssenism and Molanism, of those persecutions with which one party hampered the other, and of the obstinacy of both. The Huron entered into a criticism thereupon, pitying those men who, not satisfied with all the confusion occasioned by their opposite interests, create evils by imaginary interests and unintelligenable absurdities. Gordon related the other judged, the guest listened with emotion, and gained new lights. The length of misfortunes and the shortness of life then became the topics. It was remarked that all professions have peculiar vices and dangers next to them, and that from the prince down to the lowest beggar all seem alike to accuse providence. How happens it that so many men, for so little, perform the office of persecutor, sergeants, and executioners to others? With what inhuman indifference does a man in place sign the destruction of a family, and with what joy still more barbarous do mercenaries execute them? I saw in my youth, said the good old Gordon, a relation of the Marshal de Maréliac, being persecuted in his own province on account of that illustrious but unfortunate man, concealed himself under a borrowed name in Paris. He was an old man, near seventy-two years of age. His wife, who accompanied him, was nearly of the same age. They had had a libertine son, who, at fourteen years of age, absconded from his father's house, turned soldier, and deserted. He had gone through every gradation of debauchery and misery, at length, having changed his name. He was in the guards of Cardinal Richelor, for this priest, as well as Mazarin, had guards, and had obtained an exempt staff in their company of sergeants. This adventurer was appointed to arrest the old man and his wife, and acquitted himself with all the obduracy of a man who was willing to please his master. As he was conducting them, he heard these two victims deplore the long succession of miseries, which had befallen them from their cradle. This aged couple reckoned as one of their greatest misfortunes, the wildness and loss of their son. He recollected them, but he nevertheless led them to prison, assuring them that his reverence was to be served in preference to everybody else. His eminence rewarded his zeal. I have seen a spy, a father de la Chez, betray his own brother in hopes of a little benefit which he did not obtain, and I saw him die not of remorse, but of grief at having been cheated by the Jesuit. The vocation of a confessor, which I, for a long while, exercised, made me acquainted with the secrets of families. I have known very few who, though immersed in the greatest distress, did not externally wear the mask of felicity and every appearance of joy, and I have always observed that great grief was the fruit of our unconstrained desires. For my part, said the Huron, I imagine that a noble, grateful, and sensible man may always be happy, and I doubt not but to enjoy an uncheckered felicity with the charming, generous Mademoiselle St. Ives. For I flatter myself, added he, in addressing himself to her brother with a friendly smile, that you will not now refuse me as you did last year, besides I shall pursue a more decent method. The abbey was confounded in apologies for the past and in protesting an eternal attachment. Uncle Kirkabon said, this would be the most glorious day of his whole life. His good aunt, in ecstasies and floods of joy, cried out, I always said you would never be a subdeacon. The sacrament is preferable to the other, with the God I had been honored with it, but I shall serve you as a mother, and now every one vied with each other in applauding gentle Mademoiselle St. Ives. Her lover's heart was too full of what she had done for him, and he loved her too much for the affair of the jewels to make any predominant impression on him, but those words which he too well heard, you have given me the mortal blow, still secretly terrified him, and he interrupted all his joy, whilst the compliments paid his beautiful mistress still increased his love. In a word nothing was thought of but her, nothing was mentioned but the happiness those two lovers deserved. A plan was agitated to live together in Paris, and schemes of grandeur and fortitude succeeded. These hopes, which the smallest ray of happiness engenders, strongly operated. But the Huron felt, in the secret recess of his heart, a sentiment that exploded this illusion. He read over the promises signed by Saint-Paul-Ange, and the commissions signed by Levoix. These men were painted to him such as they were, or such as they were thought to be. Everyone spoke of the ministers and the administration, the freedom of convivial conversation, which is considered in France as the most precious liberty to be obtained on earth. If I were king of France, said the Huron, this is the kind of minister that I would choose for the War Department. I would have a man of the highest birth, as he is to give orders to the nobility. I would require that he should be himself an officer and pass through the various gradations, or at least that he had attained the rank of lieutenant general, and was worthy of being a Marshal of France. For is it not necessary that he should have served himself, be acquainted with the details of service, and will not officers obey, with a hundred times more acrylicy, a military man, who, like themselves, has been singleized by his courage, than a mere man of the cabinet, who at most can only guess at the operations of a campaign, that him have ever so greatest share of sense? I should not be displeased at my minister's generosity, even though it might sometimes embarrass a little the keeper of the royal treasure. I should choose him to have a facility in business, and that he should distinguish himself by that kind of gaiety of mind which is the lot of a man superior to business, so agreeable to the nation, and which renders the performance of every duty less irksome. This is the character he would have chosen for a minister, as he had constantly observed that such an amiable disposition is incompatible with cruelty. Monsieur de la Voix would not, perhaps, have been satisfied with the Huron's wishes. His merit lay in a different walk, but whilst they were still at table, the disorder of this unhappy girl took a fatal turn. Her blood was on fire. The symptoms of a malignant fever had appeared. She suffered, but did not complain, unwilling to disturb the pleasure of the guests. Her brother, knowing that she was not asleep, went to the foot of her bed. He was astonished at the condition he found her in. Everybody flew to her. Her lover appeared next to her brother. He was certainly the most alarmed, and the most affected of anyone, but he had learned to unite discretion. All the happy gifts nature had bestowed upon him, and a quick sensibility of decorum began to prevail over him. A neighboring physician was immediately sent for. He was one of those itinerant doctors who confound the last disorder they consulted upon with the present, and who follow a blind practice in a science for which the most mature investigation and justice observations do not preclude uncertainty and danger. He greatly increased the disorder by prescribing a fashionable nostrum, and fashion extend to medicine. This frenzy was then all too prevalent in Paris. The grief of Mademoiselle St. Ives contributed still more than her physician to render her disorder fatal. Her body suffered martyrdom in the torments of her mind. The crowd of thoughts which agitated her breast communicated to her veins a more dangerous poison than the most burning fever. Chapter 20 The Death of the Beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives and Its Consequences Another physician was called in. This, instead of assisting nature and leaving it to act in a young person whose organs recall the vital stream, applied himself solely to counter at the effects of his brother's prescription. The disorder in two days became mortal. The brain, which is thought to be the seat of the mind, was as violently afflicted as the heart which, we are told, is the seat of passion. By what incomprehensible mechanism are the organs in subjection to sentiment and thought? How is it that a single melancholy idea shall disturb the whole course of the blood, and that the blood should, in turn, communicate its irregularities to the human understanding? What is that unknown fluid that certainly exists and quicker and more active than light flies in less than the twinkling of an eye into all the channels of life? Produces sensations, memory, joy or grief, reason or frenzy, recalls with horror what we would choose to forget, and renders a thinking animal either the subject of admiration or an object of pity and compassion. These were the reflections of the good old Gordon, and these observations, so natural which men seldom make, did not prevent his feelings upon the occasion. He was not of the number of those gloomy philosophers who piqued themselves upon being insensible. He was affected at the fate of this young woman, like a father who sees his dear child yielding to a slow death. The Abbey Saint Ives was desperate. The prior in his sister shed floods of tears. But who could describe the situation of her lover? All expression falls short of the summit of his affliction, and language here proves its imperfection. His aunt, almost lifeless, supported the head of the departing fair one in her feeble arms. Her brother was upon his knees at the foot of the bed. Her lover squeezed her hand, which he bathed in tears. His groans rent the air whilst he called her his guardian angel, his life, his hope, his better half, his mistress, his wife. At the word wife, a sigh escaped her, whilst she looked upon him with inexpressible tenderness, and then abruptly gave a horrid scream. Presently, in one of those intervals when grief, the oppression of the senses and pain subside, and leave the soul its liberty and powers, she cried out, I, your wife, ah, dear lover, this name, this happiness, this felicity, were not distant from me. I die and deserve it. O God, my heart, O you whom I have sacrificed to infernal demons, it is done, I am punished, live and be happy. These tender, dreadful expressions were incomprehensible, yet they melted and terrified every heart. She had the courage to explain herself, and her auditors quaked with astonishment, grief and pity. They, with one voice, detested the man in power, who repaired a shocking act of injustice only by his crimes, and who had forced the most amiable innocence to be his accomplice. Who, you guilty, said her lover? No, you are not. Guilt can only be in the heart. Yours is devoted solely to virtue and to me. This opinion he corroborated by such expressions as seemed to recall the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives back to life. She felt some consolation from them, and was astonished at being still beloved. The aged Gordon would have condemned her at the time he was only a Janssenist, but having attained wisdom he esteemed her and wept. In the midst of these lamentations and fears, whilst the dangerous situation of this worthy girl engrossed every breast, and all were in the greatest consternation, a courier arrived from court. A courier? From whom, and upon what account? He was sent by the king's confessor to the prior of the mountain. It was not Fr. de la Ches who wrote, but Fr. Vadbled, his valet de Chambre, a man of great consequence at that time, who acquainted the Archbishop's with the Reverend Father's pleasure, who gave audience, promised benefits, and sometimes issued that is de Chache. He wrote to the abbey of the mountain that his reverence had been informed of his nephew's exploits, that his being sent to prison was thought a mistake that such little disgraces frequently happened, and should therefore not be attended to, and in fine it behoove him the prior to come and present his nephew the next day, that he was to bring with him that good man Gordon, and that he, Fr. Vadbled, should introduce them to his reverence and M. de la Voix, who would say a word to them in his antechamber, to which he added that the history of the Huron and his combat against the English had been related to the king, that doubtless the king would deign to take notice of him in passing through the gallery, and perhaps might even nod his head to him. The letter concluded by flattering him with hopes that all the ladies of the court would show their eagerness to send for his nephew to their toilets, and that several among them would say to him, Good day, Mr. Huron, and that he was certainly be talked of at the king's supper. The letter was signed, your affectionate brother Jesuit, Vadbled. The prior, having read the letter aloud, his furious nephew for a moment suppressed his rage and said nothing to the bearer. The turning towards the companion of his misfortunes asked him what he thought of that style. Gordon replied, This then is the way that men are treated like monkeys. They are first beaten, and then they dance. The Huron, resuming his character, which always returned in the great emotions of his soul, tore the letter to bits and threw them in the courier's face. There, as my answer said he, his uncle in terrors, who fancied he saw thunderbolts and twenty letters to cachet at once fall upon him, immediately wrote the best excuse he could for these transports of passion in a young man which he considered as evolutions of a great soul. But a solicitude of a more melancholy stamp now seized every heart. The beautiful and unfortunate Mademoiselle St. Ives was already sensible of her approaching end. She was serene, but it was that kind of shocking serenity, the effect of exhausted nature, no longer able to withstand the conflict. Who, my dear lover, said she in a faltering voice? Death punishes me for my weakness, and I expire with the consolation of knowing you are free. I adore you whilst I betrayed you. I adore you in bidding you an eternal adieu. She did not make a parade of a ridiculous fortitude. She did not understand that miserable glory of having some of her neighbors say she died with courage. Who, at twenty, can be at once torn from her lover, from life, and from what is called honor? Without regret, without some pangs, she felt all the horror of her situation and made it felt by those expiring looks and words which speak with so much energy. In a word she shed tears like other people at those intervals that she was capable of giving vent to them. Let others strive to celebrate the pompous deaths of those who insensibly rush into destruction. This is the lot of all animals. We die like them only when age or disorders make us resemble them by the stupidity of our organs. Whoever suffers a great loss, they are stilted. It is nothing but vanity that is pursued even in the arms of death. When the fatal moment came, all around her feelingly expressed their grief by incessant tears and lamentations, the Huron was senseless. Great souls fear more violently sensations than those of less tender dispositions. The good old Gordon knew enough of him to make him dread that when he came to himself he would be guilty of suicide. All kinds of arms were put out of his way, which the unfortunate young man perceived. He said to his relations in Gordon, without shedding any tears, without a groan, without the least emotion, do you then think that any one upon earth hath right and power to prevent my putting an end to my life and to care, to avoid making a parade of those commonplace declamations, whereby it is endeavored to be proved that we are not allowed to exercise our liberty in ceasing to be when we are in a shocking situation, that we may not leave the house when we can no longer remain in it, that a man is on earth like a soldier at his post, as if it signified to the being of beings, whether the conjunction of particles of matter were in one spot or another, impotent reasons, to which a firm and contemplated despair disdains to listen, and to which Keto replied only with the use of a poignard. The Huron's sullen and dreadful silence, his doleful aspect, his trembling lips, and the shivering of his whole frame to every spectator's soul communicated that mixture of compassion and terror, which fetters all its powers, precludes discourse, and is only uttered by faltering words. The hostess and her family came running, they trembled to behold the state of his desperation, yet all kept their eyes upon him, and attended to all his motions. The ice-cold corpse of the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives had already been carried into the lower hall, out of the sight of her lover, who seemed still in search of it, though incapable of observing any object. In the midst of the spectacle of death, whilst the dead body was exposed at the door of the house, whilst two priests by the side of a holy water pot were repeating prayers with an air of distraction, while some passengers, through idleness, sprinkled a beer with some drops of holy water, and others went their ways quite indifferent, whilst her parents were drowned in tears, and everyone thought the lover would not survive his loss. In this situation, Sampo-Age arrived with his female Versailles friend. His transitory taste, having been but once gratified, it became a fixed passion. A refusal of his generous gifts had peaked his pride. Father de la Chasse would never have suggested the thought of coming into this house. But Sampo-Age, having constantly before his eyes the image of the beautiful Mademoiselle St. Ives, earning to satisfy a passion which, by a single enjoyment, had fixed in his heart the poignancy of desire, did not hesitate coming himself in search of her, whom he would not perhaps have been inclined to see a third time had she come to him of her own accord. He alighted from his coach, and the first object that presented itself was a beer. He turned away his eyes with that simple distaste of a man, bred up in pleasures, and who thinks he should avoid the spectacle which might recall him to the contemplation of human misery. He is inclined to go upstairs, whilst his female friend inquires, through curiosity, whose funeral it was. The name of Mademoiselle St. Ives is pronounced. At this name she turned and gave a shocking shriek. Sampo-Age now returns, while surprise and grief possess his soul. The good old Gordon stood with streaming eyes. He for a moment ceased his lamentations to acquaint the courtier with all the circumstances of this melancholy catastrophe. He spoke with that authority which is the companion to sorrow and virtue. Sampo-Age was not naturally wicked. The torrent of business and amusements had turned away his soul, which was not yet acquainted with itself. He did not border upon that gray age which usually hardens the hearts of ministers. He listened to Gordon with a downcast look, and some tears escaped him, which he was surprised to shed in a word. He repented. I will, said he, absolutely see this extraordinary man you have mentioned to me. He affects me almost as much as this innocent victim whose death I have been the occasion of. Gordon followed him as far as the chamber, where were the prier, curcabon, the abbey, St. Ives, and some neighbors who were recalling to life the young man who had again fainted. I have been the cause of your misfortunes, said this deputy minister, and my whole life shall be employed in making reparation. The first idea that struck the Huron was to kill him and then destroy himself. Nothing was more suitable to the circumstances, but he was without arms and closely watched. St. Po-Age was now rebuked with refusals, accompanied with reproach, contempt, and the insults he deserved which were lavished upon him. Time softens everything. M. de Lavoie at length succeeded in making an excellent officer of the Huron who has appeared under another name at Paris, and in the army applauded by all honest men as being at once a warrior and an intrepid philosopher. He never mentioned his adventure without being greatly affected, and yet his greatest consolation was to speak of it. He cherished the memory of his beloved Mademoiselle St. Ives to the last moment of his life. The Abbey of St. Ives and the Pryor were each provided with good livings. The good Kirkabon rather chose to see his nephew invested with military honors than in a subdeconry. The devotee of Versailles kept the diamond earrings and received besides a handsome present. Father Tutatouce had presence of chocolate, coffee, and confectionery with the meditations of the Reverend Father Quasset in the Flower of the Saints found in Morocco. Good old Gordon lived with the Huron till his death in the most friendly intimacy. He also had a benefice and forgot forever effectual grace in the concomitant concourse. He took for his motto, Miss Fortune's are of some use. How many worthy people are there in the world who may justly say, Miss Fortune's are good for nothing. The End of the Sincere Huron or Laonginou by Voltaire. This reading by Roy Schreiber has been based upon the translation by Francis Ashmore.