The
voyage
came
to
an
end.
We
landed,
and
proceeded
to
Paris. I
soon
found
that
I had overtaxed my
strength
and
that
I
must
repose
before
I
could
continue
my journey. My father's
care
and
attentions
were
indefatigable,
but
he
did
not
know
the
origin
of
my sufferings
and
sought
erroneous
methods
to
remedy
the
incurable
ill.
He
wished
me
to
seek
amusement
in
society. I
abhorred
the
face
of
man. Oh,
not
abhorred!
They
were
my brethren, my
fellow
beings,
and
I felt
attracted
even
to
the
most
repulsive
among
them,
as
to
creatures
of
an
angelic
nature
and
celestial
mechanism.
But
I felt
that
I had
no
right
to
share
their
intercourse. I had unchained
an
enemy
among
them
whose
joy
it
was
to
shed
their
blood
and
to
revel
in
their
groans.
How
they
would,
each
and
all,
abhor
me
and
hunt
me
from
the
world
did
they
know
my
unhallowed
acts
and
the
crimes
which
had
their
source
in
me! My father
yielded
at
length
to
my
desire
to
avoid
society
and
strove
by
various
arguments
to
banish
my despair. Sometimes
he
thought
that
I felt
deeply
the
degradation
of
being obliged
to
answer
a
charge
of
murder,
and
he
endeavoured
to
prove
to
me
the
futility
of
pride. "Alas! My father," said I, "how
little
do
you
know
me.
Human
beings,
their
feelings
and
passions,
would
indeed
be
degraded
if
such
a
wretch
as
I felt pride. Justine,
poor
unhappy Justine,
was
as
innocent
as
I,
and
she
suffered
the
same
charge;
she
died
for
it;
and
I
am
the
cause
of
this—I
murdered
her. William, Justine,
and
Henry—they
all
died
by
my hands." My father had often,
during
my imprisonment,
heard
me
make
the
same
assertion;
when
I
thus
accused myself,
he
sometimes
seemed
to
desire
an
explanation,
and
at
others
he
appeared
to
consider
it
as
the
offspring
of
delirium,
and
that,
during
my illness,
some
idea
of
this
kind
had
presented
itself
to
my imagination,
the
remembrance
of
which
I preserved
in
my convalescence. I
avoided
explanation
and
maintained
a
continual
silence concerning
the
wretch
I had created. I had a
persuasion
that
I
should
be
supposed mad,
and
this
in
itself
would
forever
have
chained
my tongue. But, besides, I
could
not
bring
myself
to
disclose
a
secret
which
would
fill
my hearer
with
consternation
and
make
fear
and
unnatural
horror
the
inmates
of
his
breast. I checked, therefore, my
impatient
thirst
for
sympathy
and
was
silent
when
I
would
have
given
the
world
to
have
confided
the
fatal
secret. Yet, still,
words
like
those
I
have
recorded
would
burst
uncontrollably
from
me. I
could
offer
no
explanation
of
them,
but
their
truth
in
part
relieved
the
burden
of
my
mysterious
woe.
Upon
this
occasion
my father said,
with
an
expression
of
unbounded wonder, "My
dearest
Victor,
what
infatuation
is
this? My
dear
son, I
entreat
you
never
to
make
such
an
assertion
again." "I
am
not
mad," I cried energetically; "the
sun
and
the
heavens,
who
have
viewed my operations,
can
bear
witness
of
my truth. I
am
the
assassin
of
those
most
innocent
victims;
they
died
by
my machinations. A
thousand
times
would
I
have
shed
my
own
blood,
drop
by
drop,
to
have
saved
their
lives;
but
I
could
not, my father,
indeed
I
could
not
sacrifice
the
whole
human
race."
The
conclusion
of
this
speech
convinced
my father
that
my
ideas
were
deranged,
and
he
instantly
changed
the
subject
of
our
conversation
and
endeavoured
to
alter
the
course
of
my thoughts.
He
wished
as
much
as
possible
to
obliterate
the
memory
of
the
scenes
that
had taken
place
in
Ireland
and
never
alluded
to
them
or
suffered
me
to
speak
of
my misfortunes.
As
time
passed
away
I became
more
calm;
misery
had
her
dwelling
in
my heart,
but
I
no
longer
talked
in
the
same
incoherent
manner
of
my
own
crimes;
sufficient
for
me
was
the
consciousness
of
them.
By
the
utmost
self-violence I curbed
the
imperious
voice
of
wretchedness,
which
sometimes
desired
to
declare
itself
to
the
whole
world,
and
my manners
were
calmer
and
more
composed
than
they
had
ever
been
since
my
journey
to
the
sea
of
ice. A
few
days
before
we
left
Paris
on
our
way
to
Switzerland, I received
the
following
letter
from
Elizabeth: "My
dear
Friend, "It gave
me
the
greatest pleasure
to
receive
a
letter
from
my
uncle
dated
at
Paris;
you
are
no
longer
at
a
formidable
distance,
and
I
may
hope
to
see
you
in
less
than
a fortnight. My
poor
cousin,
how
much
you
must
have
suffered! I
expect
to
see
you
looking
even
more
ill
than
when
you
quitted
Geneva.
This
winter
has been
passed
most
miserably, tortured
as
I
have
been
by
anxious
suspense;
yet
I
hope
to
see
peace
in
your
countenance
and
to
find
that
your
heart
is
not
totally void
of
comfort
and
tranquillity. "Yet I
fear
that
the
same
feelings
now
exist
that
made
you
so
miserable
a
year
ago,
even
perhaps
augmented
by
time. I
would
not
disturb
you
at
this
period,
when
so
many
misfortunes
weigh
upon
you,
but
a
conversation
that
I had
with
my
uncle
previous
to
his
departure
renders
some
explanation
necessary
before
we
meet. Explanation!
You
may
possibly say,
What
can
Elizabeth
have
to
explain?
If
you
really
say
this, my
questions
are
answered
and
all
my
doubts
satisfied.
But
you
are
distant
from
me,
and
it
is
possible
that
you
may
dread
and
yet
be
pleased
with
this
explanation;
and
in
a
probability
of
this
being
the
case, I
dare
not
any
longer
postpone
writing
what,
during
your
absence, I
have
often
wished
to
express
to
you
but
have
never
had
the
courage
to
begin. "You
well
know, Victor,
that
our
union had been
the
favourite
plan
of
your
parents
ever
since
our
infancy.
We
were
told
this
when
young,
and
taught
to
look
forward
to
it
as
an
event
that
would
certainly
take
place.
We
were
affectionate playfellows
during
childhood, and, I believe,
dear
and
valued
friends
to
one
another
as
we
grew
older.
But
as
brother
and
sister
often
entertain
a
lively
affection
towards
each
other
without
desiring
a
more
intimate union,
may
not
such
also
be
our
case?
Tell
me,
dearest
Victor.
Answer
me, I
conjure
you
by
our
mutual happiness,
with
simple
truth—Do
you
not
love
another? "You
have
travelled;
you
have
spent
several
years
of
your
life
at
Ingolstadt;
and
I
confess
to
you, my friend,
that
when
I
saw
you
last
autumn
so
unhappy,
flying
to
solitude
from
the
society
of
every
creature, I
could
not
help
supposing
that
you
might
regret
our
connection
and
believe
yourself bound
in
honour
to
fulfil
the
wishes
of
your
parents, although
they
opposed
themselves
to
your
inclinations.
But
this
is
false
reasoning. I
confess
to
you, my friend,
that
I
love
you
and
that
in
my airy
dreams
of
futurity
you
have
been my constant
friend
and
companion.
But
it
is
your
happiness I
desire
as
well
as
my
own
when
I
declare
to
you
that
our
marriage
would
render
me
eternally
miserable
unless
it
were
the
dictate
of
your
own
free
choice.
Even
now
I
weep
to
think
that, borne
down
as
you
are
by
the
cruellest misfortunes,
you
may
stifle,
by
the
word
'honour,'
all
hope
of
that
love
and
happiness
which
would
alone
restore
you
to
yourself. I,
who
have
so
disinterested
an
affection
for
you,
may
increase
your
miseries
tenfold
by
being
an
obstacle
to
your
wishes. Ah! Victor,
be
assured
that
your
cousin
and
playmate has
too
sincere
a
love
for
you
not
to
be
made
miserable
by
this
supposition.
Be
happy, my friend;
and
if
you
obey
me
in
this
one
request,
remain
satisfied
that
nothing
on
earth
will
have
the
power
to
interrupt my tranquillity. "Do
not
let
this
letter
disturb
you;
do
not
answer
tomorrow,
or
the
next
day,
or
even
until
you
come,
if
it
will
give
you
pain. My
uncle
will
send
me
news
of
your
health,
and
if
I
see
but
one
smile
on
your
lips
when
we
meet,
occasioned
by
this
or
any
other
exertion
of
mine, I
shall
need
no
other
happiness.
This
letter
revived
in
my
memory
what
I had
before
forgotten,
the
threat
of
the
fiend—"I
WILL
BE
WITH
YOU
ON
YOUR
WEDDING-NIGHT!"
Such
was
my sentence,
and
on
that
night
would
the
daemon
employ
every
art
to
destroy
me
and
tear
me
from
the
glimpse
of
happiness
which
promised
partly
to
console
my sufferings.
On
that
night
he
had determined
to
consummate
his
crimes
by
my death. Well,
be
it
so; a
deadly
struggle
would
then
assuredly
take
place,
in
which
if
he
were
victorious
I
should
be
at
peace
and
his
power
over
me
be
at
an
end.
If
he
were
vanquished, I
should
be
a
free
man. Alas!
What
freedom?
Such
as
the
peasant
enjoys
when
his
family
have
been
massacred
before
his
eyes,
his
cottage
burnt,
his
lands
laid waste,
and
he
is
turned
adrift, homeless, penniless,
and
alone,
but
free.
Such
would
be
my
liberty
except
that
in
my
Elizabeth
I possessed a treasure, alas,
balanced
by
those
horrors
of
remorse
and
guilt
which
would
pursue
me
until
death.
Sweet
and
beloved Elizabeth! I read
and
reread
her
letter,
and
some
softened feelings
stole
into
my
heart
and
dared
to
whisper
paradisiacal
dreams
of
love
and
joy;
but
the
apple
was
already
eaten,
and
the
angel's
arm
bared
to
drive
me
from
all
hope.
Yet
I
would
die
to
make
her
happy.
If
the
monster
executed
his
threat,
death
was
inevitable; yet, again, I
considered
whether
my
marriage
would
hasten my fate. My
destruction
might
indeed
arrive
a
few
months
sooner,
but
if
my torturer
should
suspect
that
I
postponed
it,
influenced
by
his
menaces,
he
would
surely find
other
and
perhaps
more
dreadful
means
of
revenge.
He
had
vowed
TO
BE
WITH
ME
ON
MY WEDDING-NIGHT,
yet
he
did
not
consider
that
threat
as
binding
him
to
peace
in
the
meantime,
for
as
if
to
show
me
that
he
was
not
yet
satiated
with
blood,
he
had
murdered
Clerval immediately
after
the
enunciation
of
his
threats. I resolved, therefore,
that
if
my
immediate
union
with
my
cousin
would
conduce
either
to
hers
or
my father's happiness, my adversary's
designs
against my
life
should
not
retard
it
a single hour.
In
this
state
of
mind
I wrote
to
Elizabeth. My
letter
was
calm
and
affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little happiness
remains
for
us
on
earth;
yet
all
that
I
may
one
day
enjoy
is
centred
in
you.
Chase
away
your
idle fears;
to
you
alone
do
I
consecrate
my
life
and
my
endeavours
for
contentment. I
have
one
secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one;
when
revealed
to
you,
it
will
chill
your
frame
with
horror,
and
then,
far
from
being surprised
at
my misery,
you
will
only
wonder
that
I
survive
what
I
have
endured. I
will
confide
this
tale
of
misery
and
terror
to
you
the
day
after
our
marriage
shall
take
place, for, my
sweet
cousin,
there
must
be
perfect
confidence
between
us.
But
until
then, I
conjure
you,
do
not
mention
or
allude
to
it.
This
I
most
earnestly
entreat,
and
I
know
you
will
comply."
In
about
a
week
after
the
arrival
of
Elizabeth's
letter
we
returned
to
Geneva.
The
sweet
girl
welcomed
me
with
warm
affection,
yet
tears
were
in
her
eyes
as
she
beheld my emaciated
frame
and
feverish
cheeks. I
saw
a
change
in
her
also.
She
was
thinner
and
had lost
much
of
that
heavenly
vivacity
that
had
before
charmed
me;
but
her
gentleness
and
soft
looks
of
compassion
made
her
a
more
fit
companion
for
one
blasted
and
miserable
as
I was.
The
tranquillity
which
I
now
enjoyed
did
not
endure.
Memory
brought madness
with
it,
and
when
I
thought
of
what
had passed, a
real
insanity
possessed me; sometimes I
was
furious
and
burnt
with
rage, sometimes
low
and
despondent. I
neither
spoke
nor
looked
at
anyone,
but
sat motionless, bewildered
by
the
multitude
of
miseries
that
overcame me.
Elizabeth
alone
had
the
power
to
draw
me
from
these
fits;
her
gentle
voice
would
soothe
me
when
transported
by
passion
and
inspire
me
with
human
feelings
when
sunk
in
torpor.
She
wept
with
me
and
for
me.
When
reason
returned,
she
would
remonstrate
and
endeavour
to
inspire
me
with
resignation. Ah!
It
is
well
for
the
unfortunate
to
be
resigned,
but
for
the
guilty
there
is
no
peace.
The
agonies
of
remorse
poison
the
luxury
there
is
otherwise
sometimes found
in
indulging
the
excess
of
grief.
Soon
after
my
arrival
my father
spoke
of
my
immediate
marriage
with
Elizabeth. I
remained
silent. "Have you, then,
some
other
attachment?" "None
on
earth. I
love
Elizabeth
and
look
forward
to
our
union
with
delight.
Let
the
day
therefore
be
fixed;
and
on
it
I
will
consecrate
myself,
in
life
or
death,
to
the
happiness
of
my cousin." "My
dear
Victor,
do
not
speak
thus. Heavy misfortunes
have
befallen
us,
but
let
us
only
cling
closer
to
what
remains
and
transfer
our
love
for
those
whom
we
have
lost
to
those
who
yet
live.
Our
circle
will
be
small
but
bound close
by
the
ties
of
affection
and
mutual misfortune.
And
when
time
shall
have
softened
your
despair,
new
and
dear
objects
of
care
will
be
born
to
replace
those
of
whom
we
have
been
so
cruelly
deprived."
Such
were
the
lessons
of
my father.
But
to
me
the
remembrance
of
the
threat
returned;
nor
can
you
wonder
that,
omnipotent
as
the
fiend
had
yet
been
in
his
deeds
of
blood, I
should
almost
regard
him
as
invincible,
and
that
when
he
had pronounced
the
words
"I
SHALL
BE
WITH
YOU
ON
YOUR
WEDDING-NIGHT," I
should
regard
the
threatened
fate
as
unavoidable.
But
death
was
no
evil
to
me
if
the
loss
of
Elizabeth
were
balanced
with
it,
and
I therefore,
with
a
contented
and
even
cheerful countenance,
agreed
with
my father
that
if
my
cousin
would
consent,
the
ceremony
should
take
place
in
ten
days,
and
thus
put,
as
I imagined,
the
seal
to
my fate.
Great
God!
If
for
one
instant
I had
thought
what
might
be
the
hellish
intention
of
my
fiendish
adversary, I
would
rather
have
banished
myself
forever
from
my
native
country
and
wandered
a
friendless
outcast
over
the
earth
than
have
consented
to
this
miserable
marriage. But,
as
if
possessed
of
magic
powers,
the
monster
had blinded
me
to
his
real
intentions;
and
when
I
thought
that
I had
prepared
only
my
own
death, I hastened
that
of
a
far
dearer
victim.
As
the
period
fixed
for
our
marriage
drew
nearer,
whether
from
cowardice
or
a
prophetic
feeling, I felt my
heart
sink
within
me.
But
I
concealed
my feelings
by
an
appearance
of
hilarity
that
brought
smiles
and
joy
to
the
countenance
of
my father,
but
hardly
deceived
the
ever-watchful
and
nicer
eye
of
Elizabeth.
She
looked
forward
to
our
union
with
placid
contentment,
not
unmingled
with
a
little
fear,
which
past misfortunes had impressed,
that
what
now
appeared
certain
and
tangible
happiness
might
soon
dissipate
into
an
airy
dream
and
leave
no
trace
but
deep
and
everlasting regret.
Preparations
were
made
for
the
event, congratulatory
visits
were
received,
and
all
wore a
smiling
appearance. I
shut
up,
as
well
as
I could,
in
my
own
heart
the
anxiety
that
preyed
there
and
entered
with
seeming earnestness
into
the
plans
of
my father, although
they
might
only
serve
as
the
decorations
of
my tragedy.
Through
my father's exertions a
part
of
the
inheritance
of
Elizabeth
had been
restored
to
her
by
the
Austrian government. A small
possession
on
the
shores
of
Como
belonged
to
her.
It
was
agreed
that, immediately
after
our
union,
we
should
proceed
to
Villa
Lavenza
and
spend
our
first
days
of
happiness
beside
the
beautiful
lake
near
which
it
stood.
In
the
meantime I
took
every
precaution
to
defend
my
person
in
case
the
fiend
should
openly
attack
me. I carried
pistols
and
a
dagger
constantly
about
me
and
was
ever
on
the
watch
to
prevent
artifice,
and
by
these
means
gained
a
greater
degree
of
tranquillity. Indeed,
as
the
period
approached,
the
threat
appeared
more
as
a delusion,
not
to
be
regarded
as
worthy
to
disturb
my peace,
while
the
happiness I
hoped
for
in
my
marriage
wore a
greater
appearance
of
certainty
as
the
day
fixed
for
its
solemnization
drew
nearer
and
I
heard
it
continually
spoken
of
as
an
occurrence
which
no
accident
could
possibly prevent.
Elizabeth
seemed
happy; my
tranquil
demeanour
contributed
greatly
to
calm
her
mind.
But
on
the
day
that
was
to
fulfil my
wishes
and
my destiny,
she
was
melancholy,
and
a
presentiment
of
evil
pervaded
her;
and
perhaps
also
she
thought
of
the
dreadful
secret
which
I had
promised
to
reveal
to
her
on
the
following
day. My father
was
in
the
meantime
overjoyed
and
in
the
bustle
of
preparation
only
recognized
in
the
melancholy
of
his
niece
the
diffidence
of
a bride.
After
the
ceremony
was
performed
a
large
party
assembled
at
my father's,
but
it
was
agreed
that
Elizabeth
and
I
should
commence
our
journey
by
water, sleeping
that
night
at
Evian
and
continuing
our
voyage
on
the
following
day.
The
day
was
fair,
the
wind favourable;
all
smiled
on
our
nuptial
embarkation.
Those
were
the
last
moments
of
my
life
during
which
I
enjoyed
the
feeling
of
happiness.
We
passed
rapidly
along;
the
sun
was
hot,
but
we
were
sheltered
from
its
rays
by
a
kind
of
canopy
while
we
enjoyed
the
beauty
of
the
scene, sometimes
on
one
side
of
the
lake,
where
we
saw
Mont Saleve,
the
pleasant
banks
of
Montalegre,
and
at
a distance,
surmounting
all,
the
beautiful Mont Blanc
and
the
assemblage
of
snowy
mountains
that
in
vain
endeavour
to
emulate
her; sometimes
coasting
the
opposite
banks,
we
saw
the
mighty
Jura
opposing
its
dark
side
to
the
ambition
that
would
quit
its
native
country,
and
an
almost
insurmountable
barrier
to
the
invader
who
should
wish
to
enslave it. I
took
the
hand
of
Elizabeth. "You
are
sorrowful, my love. Ah!
If
you
knew
what
I
have
suffered
and
what
I
may
yet
endure,
you
would
endeavour
to
let
me
taste
the
quiet
and
freedom
from
despair
that
this
one
day
at
least
permits
me
to
enjoy." "Be happy, my
dear
Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I hope,
nothing
to
distress
you;
and
be
assured
that
if
a
lively
joy
is
not
painted
in
my face, my
heart
is
contented.
Something
whispers
to
me
not
to
depend
too
much
on
the
prospect
that
is
opened
before
us,
but
I
will
not
listen
to
such
a
sinister
voice.
Observe
how
fast
we
move
along
and
how
the
clouds,
which
sometimes
obscure
and
sometimes
rise
above
the
dome
of
Mont Blanc, render
this
scene
of
beauty
still
more
interesting.
Look
also
at
the
innumerable
fish
that
are
swimming
in
the
clear waters,
where
we
can
distinguish
every
pebble
that
lies
at
the
bottom.
What
a
divine
day!
How
happy
and
serene
all
nature
appears!"
Thus
Elizabeth
endeavoured
to
divert
her
thoughts
and
mine
from
all
reflection
upon
melancholy subjects.
But
her
temper
was
fluctuating;
joy
for
a
few
instants
shone
in
her
eyes,
but
it
continually
gave
place
to
distraction
and
reverie.
The
sun
sank
lower
in
the
heavens;
we
passed
the
river
Drance
and
observed
its
path
through
the
chasms
of
the
higher
and
the
glens
of
the
lower
hills.
The
Alps
here
come
closer
to
the
lake,
and
we
approached
the
amphitheatre
of
mountains
which
forms
its
eastern
boundary.
The
spire
of
Evian
shone
under
the
woods
that
surrounded
it
and
the
range
of
mountain
above
mountain
by
which
it
was
overhung.
The
wind,
which
had hitherto carried
us
along
with
amazing rapidity, sank
at
sunset
to
a
light
breeze;
the
soft
air
just
ruffled
the
water
and
caused
a
pleasant
motion
among
the
trees
as
we
approached
the
shore,
from
which
it
wafted
the
most
delightful scent
of
flowers
and
hay.
The
sun
sank
beneath
the
horizon
as
we
landed,
and
as
I touched
the
shore
I felt
those
cares
and
fears
revive
which
soon
were
to
clasp
me
and
cling
to
me
forever.