After the execution of this scheme of marrying my mother with my lover, I made every arrangement to have as much as possible of his society, and to prevent discovery, I affected a greater devotion, and would not be interrupted in my prayers; I gave orders to our people not to knock at my door unless the key was outside. Verland, on his side, accustomed my mother to his absence, pretending to have business abroad, and then came to my chamber. Although somewhat constrained, we were not disgusted with our pleasures; I could have imagined they would last for ever, but was undeceived in a moment. I happened one day to meet a young person whose features I recollected, and I asked her what she was doing in the town. She said that as yet she had not situation, so I asked her if she would be my chambermaid, to which she consented.-But my dear Father, there is no need for me to conceal anything from you. This pretended maiden was no other than my Martin, of whom your sister must have spoken in telling you my story. I had not seen him since our separation, and he was still as pretty and lovely as then; his chin was scarcely covered with a slight down, and this I cut off very carefully, so that he appeared to everybody a very pretty girl, but to me he was a man of inestimable value.
I told Martin of my intrigue with Verland, and he was too happy in having found me again to be jealous about it. His docility and vigor were alike charming to me. I so managed my affairs; that the day was devoted to Verland; the night to Martin; and the day only disappeared to give place to a voluptuous night. Never did a mortal enjoy more perfect felicity; but pleasure is ever of short duration, and is followed by pain in proportion to its extent.
In his clothes, Martin could very well pass for a handsome girl. The ungrateful Verland-but why call him ungrateful? Was not I at fault, and had not my heart gone astray from him?-Verland was caught with the charms of my maid; and began to neglect his mistress. As the night always made up for any deficiency of the day, I had not perceived the indifference of Verland; he was so far master of the art of persuasion that the motives he alleged for his absence seemed to me satisfactory. If I scolded, a smile or a kiss appeased my anger. A day's repose made him more vigorous for the morrow: at last he proceeded so far as to make believe that the interest of our pleasure rendered his occasional absence necessary. I consented, and Martin supplied his place.
Yesterday! Oh unhappy day! Which I shall always recall with horror; yesterday was a day of repose for Verland. I was shut in my room with Martin my only companion; and our love assuming its usual dominion over us; we gave way to its dictates. I was laid on my bed; with my bosom naked; my clothes turned up, and my thighs parted, waiting for Martin to recover his strength. He was also naked; and putting his right thigh between mine; had one hand on my bubbies and the other on my left thigh. Whilst his eyes and his mouth sought to revive his ardor, Verland unexpectedly entered and surprised us in this position. He had time to shut the door and to come up to us before our fright allowed us to alter our attitude.
“Agatha,” said he, “I do not blame your pleasures, but you ought to have some consideration for me; I love Javote (that was the name Martin had assumed), and I have vigor enough to satisfy you both.”
As he finished speaking he wanted to embrace Martin, he drew him from my arms, put down his hand and found… How great was his astonishment!-Without leaving hold of Martin, he gave me a look of indignation, and as he dared not vent his rage on me, all the force of it fell on the innocent cause of it. His love was changed into madness; he beat Martin most brutally, and in so doing wounded me in my most sensible part. I threw myself between the rivals.
“Hold!” said I to Verland, embracing him, “respect his youth for God's sake, for our love's sake! Verland take pity on his weakness, be sensible to my tears.”
He stood still; but Martin, who had time to recover his presence of mind, had become furious in this turn. He seized Verland's sword, and rushed upon him. At seeing this, I took to flight, and escaped by a private staircase and ran here; you know the rest.
Agatha burst into tears as she finished her story, and exclaimed, “Alas! What destiny awaits me?”
“The happiest,” said I; “take courage, Agatha; it is very probable that you have no real cause to lament. If you bemoan the loss of your pleasures, still greater attend you.”
It was impossible for me to keep her any longer in my chamber without discovery, and I thought my best plan would be to turn her over to our seraglio. I had no fear of promising her too much, in assuring her that the pleasures she had hitherto known were but a faint image of those that were reserved for her. The fish house must be a heavenly abode for a temperament like hers.
“My dear friend,” said she, “do not abandon me; can I remain with you? Your answer must decide my fate; if I lose you, I shall be wretched.” I assured her that I would not abandon her.
“Then I have now but one thing that disturbs me; your love is strong enough to overlook my weakness.”
I perceived what she alluded to, and offered to go and obtain information of the condition of her lovers, and respecting the effect produced by her own flight, for which she thanked me fervently. I left her alone, and went out with a promise to return speedily.
I went into the town and made inquiries whether there was any news; I then proceeded to the neighbourhood of Verland's residence, but could not learn that anything had transpired; so I supposed that the incident had no other consequences than the elopement of Agatha. I was returning to the convent, when I saw a servant running to meet me. He told me that Father Andrew had charged him to give me a letter and a purse containing a hundred pistoles. I at first thought the Father wished me to execute some commission for him. I opened the letter and read as follows:
Your precautions have betrayed you: they have opened your chamber and found the treasure which you wished to secrete from your brethren, have seized it, and consigned it to the fish-house. You know the nature of monks, my dear Silas; fly, fly, and save yourself the horrors of an eternal prison.
Father Andrew
I was completely thunderstruck on reading this letter which in a manner, deprived me of my senses.
“O heaven!” I cried, “what will become of me! Shall I expose myself to monkish vengeance, or fly? Unhappy man! I must not hesitate, but hasten far away. But whither! Where can I secrete myself?”
It suddenly struck me that Ambrose might afford me an asylum in the present emergency; so I took courage and resolved to go thither, thinking myself fortunate at being preserved from the resentment of the monks by the generous interference of Father Andrew.
I could not without grief exile myself from a place where I left all that was most dear to me. My mind writhing under the lashings of remorse and oppressed by despair, I arrived at the cottage of Ambrose. Annette was alone, she wept over my misfortunes, and what was still better, offered to aid me as far as lay in her power. In the first place she gave me some of her husband's clothes to conceal my priestly estate. The next day, I started for Paris, hoping to find there some mode of life that might compensate for my recent loss.
As I left my native province, I shook off the dust of my feet, in imitation of the apostles, as a testimony against its ingratitude, and on foot, staff in hand, I pursued my journey to Paris. When I reached the metropolis, I thought myself safe from the monks, and the purse sent me by Father Andrew and some addition made to it by Annette, would very well support me for some months. My first intention was to look out for a situation as a teacher, and await a chance of getting something better. I had acquaintances in Paris who could have been of service to me in that way, but I thought it might be dangerous to discover myself to them. I changed my peasant's dress for one much more respectable by giving a moderate sum into the bargain; and happy should I have been, had I changed my nature as completely as my personal appearance. The dreadful situation into which my amorous propensity had brought me made me hope that I should henceforward be able to keep it in due subjection. I had even sworn to do so; foolishly thinking to enchain by a voluntary oath what the most sacred bonds had failed to restrain. What a bundle of weaknesses is man!
One day, when walking in the street, I was pushed down; the push was not very violent, as it proceeded from the elbow of a coquettish young woman, who, on applying it, exclaimed: “Well, Abbe, won't you treat me to a salad?”
“To two, if you like,” said I, stimulated by my natural character. I instantly reflected that this was rather imprudent but I was too far engaged to draw back. We proceeded into a dark, narrow passage, and I thought a thousand times that I must break my neck in the twisting staircase, for the steps were so unlevel and slippery that I stumbled every moment, though my lass kept hold of my hand. I will acknowledge that having never been in similar circumstances I could not avoid feeling a kind of timidity at which my conductress would have laughed heartily, had she known my quality. At last after much trouble we reached the door of my companion's abode. When we knocked, an old hag, apparently more ancient than the Cumean sibyl, opened to us, or rather only half- opened.
“My little king,” said she, “you must wait a moment, for there is company; go up a little higher.”
