The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
"You will now, I hope," pursued the lawyer, without any change of voice,
"understand the position in which you are placed, and how delicately it
behoves you to conduct yourself. Your arrest hangs, if I may so express
myself, by a hair; and as you will be under the perpetual vigilance of
myself and my agents, you must look to it narrowly that you walk
straight. Upon the least dubiety, I will take action." He snuffed,
looking critically at the tortured man. "And now let me remind you that
your chaise is at the door. This interview is agitating to his
lordship--it cannot be agreeable for you--and I suggest that it need not
be further drawn out. It does not enter into the views of your uncle,
the Count, that you should again sleep under this roof."
As Alain turned and passed without a word or a sign from the apartment,
I instantly followed. I suppose I must be at bottom possessed of some
humanity; at least, this accumulated torture, this slow butchery of a
man as by quarters of rock, had wholly changed my sympathies. At that
moment I loathed both my uncle and the lawyer for their cold-blooded
cruelty.
Leaning over the banisters, I was but in time to hear his hasty
footsteps in that hall that had been crowded with servants to honour
his coming, and was now left empty against his friendless departure. A
moment later, and the echoes rang, and the air whistled in my ears, as
he slammed the door on his departing footsteps. The fury of the
concussion gave me (had one been still wanted) a measure of the turmoil
of his passions. In a sense I felt with him; I felt how he would have
gloried to slam that door on my uncle, the lawyer, myself, and the whole
crowd of those who had been witnesses to his humiliation.
CHAPTER XX
AFTER THE STORM
No sooner was the house clear of my cousin than I began to reckon up,
ruefully enough, the probable results of what had passed. Here were a
number of pots broken, and it looked to me as if I should have to pay
for all! Here had been this proud, mad beast goaded and baited both
publicly and privately, till he could neither hear nor see nor reason;
whereupon the gate had been set open, and he had been left free to go
and contrive whatever vengeance he might find possible. I could not help
thinking it was a pity that, whenever I myself was inclined to be upon
my good behaviour, some friends of mine should always determine to play
a piece of heroics and cast me for the hero--or the victim--which is
very much the same. The first duty of heroics is to be of your own
choosing. When they are not that, they are nothing. And I assure you, as
I walked back to my own room, I was in no very complaisant humour:
thought my uncle and Mr. Romaine to have played knuckle-bones with my
life and prospects; cursed them for it roundly; had no wish more urgent
than to avoid the pair of them; and was quite knocked out of time, as
they say in the ring, to find myself confronted with the lawyer.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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