Adventure stories; Fiction; Mystery fiction; Short stories
‘My money was running out, and it became necessary that I should find
employment. Scarcely had I been three days upon the search, ere I
thought that I was being followed. I made certain of the features of the
man, which were quite strange to me, and turned into a small café, where
I whiled away an hour, pretending to read the papers, but inwardly
convulsed with terror. When I came forth again into the street, it was
quite empty, and I breathed again; but alas, I had not turned three
corners, when I once more observed the human hound pursuing me. Not an
hour was to be lost; timely submission might yet preserve a life which
otherwise was forfeit and dishonoured; and I fled, with what speed you
may conceive, to the Paris agency of the society I served.
‘My submission was accepted. I took up once more the hated burthen of
that life; once more I was at the call of men whom I despised and hated,
while yet I envied and admired them. They at least were wholehearted in
the things they purposed; but I, who had once been such as they, had
fallen from the brightness of my faith, and now laboured, like a
hireling, for the wages of a loathed existence. Ay, sir, to that I was
condemned; I obeyed to continue to live, and lived but to obey.
‘The last charge that was laid upon me was the one which has to-night so
tragically ended. Boldly telling who I was, I was to request from your
highness, on behalf of my society, a private audience, where it was
designed to murder you. If one thing remained to me of my old
convictions, it was the hate of kings; and when this task was offered me,
I took it gladly. Alas, sir, you triumphed. As we supped, you gained
upon my heart. Your character, your talents, your designs for our
unhappy country, all had been misrepresented. I began to forget you were
a prince; I began, all too feelingly, to remember that you were a man.
As I saw the hour approach, I suffered agonies untold; and when, at last,
we heard the slamming of the door which announced in my unwilling ears
the arrival of the partner of my crime, you will bear me out with what
instancy I besought you to depart. You would not, alas! and what could
I? Kill you, I could not; my heart revolted, my hand turned back from
such a deed. Yet it was impossible that I should suffer you to stay; for
when the hour struck and my companion came, true to his appointment, and
he, at least, true to our design, I could neither suffer you to be killed
nor yet him to be arrested. From such a tragic passage, death, and death
alone, could save me; and it is no fault of mine if I continue to exist.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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