The Young Seigneur | Page 7

surroundings to myself.
All were not yet gone, however, it seemed. The peculiar echo of steps
on the hard sandy path indicated someone approaching. A shadow of a
form just appeared in the darkness along the path, and turning off,
disappeared for a moment into the dark grove. A deep sigh of despair
surprised me. I lay still, and in a moment the form came partly between
me and a glimmering of the moonlight between the branches. It was
apparently a man, at least. I strained my attention and kept perfectly
still. There was something extraordinary about the movements of the
shadow.
Suddenly, it stepped forward a stride, I saw an arm go up to the head,
both these became exposed in a open space of moonlight, and a
glimmer reached me from something in the hand. Like a flash it came
across me that I was in the presence of the extraordinary act of suicide.
The glimmer was from the barrel and mountings of a revolver! Those
glintings were unmistakable.
I would have leaped up and sprung into the midst of the scene at once
had not something else been plain at the same moment, which startled
me and froze my blood.
The arm, the face, were those of my classmate Quinet! An involuntary
start of mine rustled a fallen dry branch, and the snap of a dry twig of it
seemed to dissolve his determination; the hand dropped, he sprang
off--and rushed quickly away in the darkness.
Quinet,--the life of this strange fellow always was extraordinary. There
were several of our French-Canadians in college and they differed in

some general respects from the English, but this striking-colored
compatriot of mine, with his dark-red-brown hair, and dark-red-brown
eyes set in his yellow complexion, was even from them a separated
figure. He was fearfully clever: thought himself neglected: brooded
upon it. His strange face and strange writings sometimes published, had
often fastened themselves upon me. Now it was undoubtedly my duty
to save him.
I followed him to his home, went up to his room and confronted him
with the whole story,--myself more agitated than he was. I remember
his passionate state:--"Haviland, do not wonder at me. Mankind are the
key to the universe; and I am sick of a world of turkey-cocks. To speak
frankly is to be proscribed; to be kind to the unfortunate is to lose
standing; to think deeply brings the reputation of a fool. No one
understands me. They do not understand me, the imbeciles!--Coglioni!"
cried he fiercely, grinding the Corsican cry in his teeth and rising to
walk about. "As Napoleon the Great despised them so do I, Quinet.
They never but made one wretched who had genius in him. And I have
it, and dare to say that in their faces. The weapon for neglect is
contempt! If the wretched shallow world can make me miserable, they
can never at least take away the delight of my superiority. I, who would
have sympathized with and helped them and given my talents for them,
shall look down with but scorn. Yes, I delight in these proud
expressions, I am not ashamed of testifying, and one day I shall assert
myself and make them bow to me, and shall hate them, and persecute
them, and anatomize them for the derision of each other!"
His conduct might have seemed completely lunatical to an Englishman.
It was strange in any case. But to me it was his physique that was
wrong, and I should see that all was put right. "Stick to me, Quinet,"
said I to him as soothingly as possible, "and I will always stick to you.
Soyons amis, bon marin, 'Be we friends, good sailor;' and sail over
every sea fearlessly. Neither of us is understood, perhaps because our
critics do not understand themselves."
"Be it so," he said, dejectedly resigning himself.
His odd colour and eyes gave a kind of unearthly tone to the interview.

I met him a few days later in almost as great a depression again.
"It's these English. I hate them. It is necessary that I should kill one."
"My dearest misanthrope," I replied, "what you need is some
horse-riding."
CHAPTER VI.
ALEXANDRA.
Maintenant que la belle saison étale les splendeurs de sa robe.
--BENJ. SULTE.
Listen! A note is struck which, with an old magic, transforms the world!
In the dying beauty of an autumntide, Love Divine, last and most
potent of the goddesses, came walking through the woods and diffused
the mystery of heaven over the forest paths, the trees, the streets of the
town; and she melted into a sweet and noble human face--a face I
caught but for a moment clearly on one of our galloping rides, Quinet's
and mine; yet it remained and still looks upon