To go up higher was rather difficult, unless one went up into the sky; I felt a door near me, and as it gave way to my hand, I went in, I soon found by the odor of the place where I had got to.
As I stood thus alone, in a horrid place, at the extremity of the world, in a bad neighborhood, among people altogether unknown to me, I could not avoid a feeling of terror thrilling through my frame. The danger that I had incurred presented itself to my mind; and I had determined to effect my escape. Something, however, more powerful than my own resolution arrested my steps; it seemed as if an immense expanse of ocean spread out before my eyes and prevented my gaining the opposite shore. Has not heaven engraved in our hearts the presentiment of what is to befall us? There can be no doubt of it; I experienced it. At this instant the fatal door opened, and some one called me. I was then rushing on my destruction, but how great was the joy that preceded it.
I entered the room with a timid bashful air, and sat down without speaking, supporting my elbow upon a rickety table, and covering my eyes with my hand as if to seek shelter from the reflections that oppressed me. The infernal old hag came to ask me to pay the usual fee of admission; I gave her a liberal present and she thanked me. My sorrowful appearance astonished the priestesses of the temple, and the old woman again approached to ask me the cause of it. I repulsed her sternly, and she said I was uncivil.
“Let him alone, Madame,” said the youngest to her; “perhaps the gentlemen is in distress.”
The sound of this voice smote my heart. I trembled, and fearing to look towards the place whence it proceeded, I closed my eyes, and remained occupied with the feeling that it had awakened in me. But in a few minutes, I reproached myself for being thus indifferent, and wished to ascertain the truth of my suspicions, so I rose and went towards the person, and, O heavens! It was Susan. Her features, though changed by the lapse of time, were too deeply engraved on my heart for me to forget them. I fell into her arms, and my tears flowed abundantly.
“My dear sister,” said I, in a broken voice, “do you recognize your brother?”
She uttered a piercing cry and fell in a swoon. The old woman, in amazement, ran and wanted to aid her; gently put her away and pressed my lips on those of my Susan, that the fire of my kisses might restore her sensibilities. I pressed her against my bosom, and bathed her face with my tears. She soon opened her eyes, and said to me:
“Leave me, Silas; leave a wretched woman.”
“My dear sister, is the sight of your brother so disagreeable to you? Can you refuse his caresses?”
Feeling the justice of my reproaches, she gave me the most lively marks of her love. She resumed her usual gaiety of demeanor, and even the old hag seemed to share her good humor; I gave the latter some money to prepare us a supper. I could freely have given all I had; for in finding Susan, I thought myself rich indeed.
While supper was preparing, I kept Susan in my arms; we neither of us had sufficient courage to make inquiries what adventures could have thus brought us together in a place so distant from our common home. We continued to gaze at each other, and our eyes were the only interpreters of our souls; they shed tears of joy and of sorrow at the same time; our mutual passions had swallowed up every other sentiment in our bosoms. The heart was so full, the mind so occupied, that we were tongue-tied, and could only sigh; if we opened our mouths, we pronounced nothing but words without connection; every feeling seemed centered in the reflection how happy it was to be together. At last I broke the silence.
“Susan, my dear Susan, is it indeed you that I have found? By what hazard art thou restored to me? But in what a place!”
“Oh God! You see in me a wretched creature who has experienced all the vicissitudes of fortune, nearly always exposed to her frowns, and forced to live in a condition that reason condemns, that the heart detests, but that necessity has rendered inevitable. I see you are impatient to hear the recital of my misfortunes? Can I give any other name to the life I have led since I lost you? Less sensible to the shame of pouring my sorrows into your ear, I will tell you without reserve all I have gone through. Shall I tell you the truth? You are in a great measure the cause of them; but my heart shares therein, and has indeed dug the pit into which I have fallen. Do you remember those happy days when you described to me your youthful passion? From that time, I have adored you; in telling you the adventures of Agatha, and laying before you our most secret mysteries, I meant to inflame you, to instruct you, and saw with pleasure the pleasant effect of my discourse. I was witness to your transports with Madame Dinville and your caresses were so many daggers thrust into my heart. When I took you to my chamber, I was devoured by a fire that you had not the power of quenching. That is the first epoch of my misfortunes. You never knew what caused the horrible noise that we heard; it was the Abbe Pilot, that miscreant vomited out of hell, and destined for the scourge of my existence.
“He had conceived a love for me that he was resolved to gratify at any cost. He had chosen that night for the execution of his purpose, and was concealed behind the bed. Alas! he had an easy victory over an unhappy girl that had fainted through fright; he did as he pleased. Revived by the pleasure, and deceived by my passion, I thought I was indebted to you for it, and did my utmost to increase the pleasure of a monster whom I overwhelmed with reproaches as soon as I recognized him. He tried to appease me by caresses, which I refused with loathing; he then threatened to reveal to Madame Dinville what I had been doing with you. The rascal employed those arms against me that I ought to have used against him; however he gained by his menaces what I had denied to his transports. In this manner I granted everything to a man whom I abhorred, and fate snatched me from the arms of the one I adored.
“I soon experienced the bitter fruits of my imprudence. I concealed my shame as much as I could, but I should have betrayed myself by a too obstinate seclusion. I had driven away the abbe, and he consoled himself in the arms of Madame Dinville. I was compelled to recall him; I told him how I was situated, and he pretended to sympathize with me. He offered to take me to Paris, promising to establish me there in the most comfortable manner, and added that he desired nothing for his service than that I would permit him to return them, I only cared for being in a place where I might get rid of my burden, not expecting anything further from him, excepting his influence to place me in a situation with some lady. His promises prevailed on me to accompany him, and I accordingly stared, having assumed the costume of an abbe as my traveling dress. “His attentions towards me on the road were the kindest possible, and little did I suspect what coldness of heart they were intended to conceal. The jolting of the carriage deceived my calculations, and I brought into the world at a village about a league from Paris the unhappy pledge of my miserable love. Everybody was astonished at the circumstance, and some not a little amused. My infamous fellow traveller disappeared, and left me to my grief and misery. A charitable lady took pity on my wretched condition, put me in a carriage, and brought me to Paris, and left me at an hospital. She only saved me from the arms of death to leave me in those of indigence. I should very shortly have felt the utmost horrors that awaited my hapless lot, if chance had not made me acquainted with a girl of the town, and my distress forced me to give way to my natural propensity.
“You need not ask anything further. My subsequent life has been nothing but a succession of pleasure and chagrin. If I have sometimes felt my heart enjoy a temporary happiness, it only served to show me in stronger colors the load of sorrow that overwhelmed me. Will this sorrow ever leave me? But now I have regained you, I ought not to complain. My dear brother, do not let me remain in suspense; have you left your convent? What chance brought you hither to Paris!”
“A misfortune, like your own,” answered I, “caused by your best friend.”
“My best friend!” cried she with a sigh; “have I one still left in the world? Ah, it can be no other than Agatha.”
“Exactly so,” I replied; “but let us now sup, my story will occupy too much time.”
Sitting by Susan's side, I made a most delicious repast. My desire to be alone with her, and her own anxiety to hear my story, made us rise from table immediately the meal was over. We retired to her chamber, where without witnesses, upon a bed worthy of the place where we were, and which had never before served for two such tender lovers, with Susan on my knees and my face pressed against her, I related my adventures from the day I first left the cottage of my supposed parents.
“Well, I am no longer your sister,” cried she when I had finished.
“Do not regret that; it is a quality that the blood confers but which the heart does not always sanction. If you are no more my dear sister, you will always be my idol. My dearest friend, let us forget our woes, and begin to reckon our existence from the day that has reunited us.”
As I uttered these words, I kissed her bosom, and was going to lay her down, having my hand already between her thighs, when she sprung from my arms and exclaimed, “Hold, hold!”
