Short Fiction - Xavier de Maistre (the unexpected everything .txt) 📗

consciousness returned, I experienced an inexpressible feeling of peace. All that had passed during the evening appeared a dream. My first act was to raise my eyes to heaven in gratitude for my preservation from the greatest of evils. Never had the sky looked so serene and beautiful. A single star glistened before my window. I contemplated it long with indescribable pleasure, thanking God for giving me the delight of watching it; and I felt a secret consolation in thinking that one of its rays was destined to enliven the sad cell of the Leper.

I returned to my room much quieted, and spent the rest of the night in reading the book of Job. It breathed into my soul a holy enthusiasm, which dissipated what trace was left of the dark thoughts that had beset me. These terrible times were unknown to me while my sister lived: the knowledge that she was near calmed me, and the thought of her affection sufficed to console and cheer me.

Compassionate stranger! May God preserve you from the necessity of living alone! My sister, my companion, is no more; but Heaven will give me strength to endure life bravely; for this, at least, I may hope, for I pray for it with heartfelt sincerity.

The Officer

How old was your sister when you lost her?

The Leper

She was not quite twenty-five years old; but her sufferings had made her look older. In spite of the malady of which she died, and which altered the expression of her features, she would still have been beautiful had it not been for the dreadful pallor that disfigured her. She was the image of living death; I could not see her without a groan.

The Officer

You lost her very young!

The Leper

Her feeble and sensitive constitution could not resist so many trials. For some time I had seen that her end was drawing near, and her condition was so sad, that I could not but hope it might be so. As I watched her daily languishing and sinking, I saw with a sort of terrible satisfaction the close of her sufferings approach. For about a month she had been growing weaker and weaker; and frequent fainting-fits threatened her life from hour to hour. One evening, towards the beginning of August, she appeared so exhausted that I did not like to leave her. She was sitting in her armchair, not having been able to lie down in her bed for some days. I seated myself by her side, and in the profound darkness we conversed together for the last time. A cruel presentiment agitated me, and I could not restrain my tears. “Why do you weep?” she asked. “Why do you distress yourself so? I will not leave you for a moment; I shall be with you in your sufferings.”

A little while afterwards, she expressed a wish to be taken outside the tower, and to offer up her prayers in her hazel copse where she used to spend the greater part of the time in fine weather. “I should like to see the sky,” she said, “when I am dying.” But I did not think her last hour was so near. I passed my arm round her, to raise her, but she said, “Let me lean on you, I think I shall be able to walk.” I led her slowly among the nut-trees, and made a seat of the dry leaves that had been collected by her own hand; and, having covered her with a veil to keep off the damp night air, I placed myself near her. But she desired to be alone in her last meditation, and I went to a distance without quite losing sight of her. I saw that she lifted her veil from time to time, and stretched her white hands towards the sky. When after a while I approached the copse, she asked for a little water; I took her some in a cup; she moistened her lips, but could not drink. “I feel that I am dying,” she said, turning her head aside; “my thirst will soon be quenched forever. Support me, my brother; aid me to take the longed-for but awful step. Let me lean against you while you say the prayer for the dying.” These were the last words she spoke to me. I rested her head on my breast, and said the prayer for the dying. “Pass to eternity, my dear sister,” I said; “free yourself from this life; leave this earthly vestment in my arms.” For three hours I thus supported her in nature’s last struggle. The flame of life was at last quietly extinguished, and her soul was released from the earth without an effort.

The Leper, having ended his narrative, covered his face with his hands. The traveller was speechless with sorrow. After a few moments’ silence the Leper arose. “Stranger,” said he, “when grief or disappointment shall come upon you, think of the hermit of the city of Aosta, and your visit to him will not have been useless.” They walked along together towards the gate of the garden. When the officer was on the point of passing through it, he put his glove on his right hand. “You have never shaken a human being by the hand; grant me the favour of shaking hands with me, for mine is the hand of a friend who takes a lively interest in your sad lot.” The Leper drew back for a moment as if startled; then, raising his eyes and hands to heaven, “Loving Father,” he cried, “pour thy blessings upon this compassionate man!”

“One other request I have to make,” continued the traveller. “I am about to leave these parts; and it will, perhaps, be very long before we meet again. Could we not write to one another sometimes, if proper precautions were taken? This might be a source of distraction to you, and would give me much pleasure.”

The Leper paused for some time. “Why,” said he at