"His concealed sadness,the bitter disenchantment from which he suffered,had not led him into philosophical deserts of incredulity;this brave statesman was religious,without ostentation;he always attended the earliest mass at Saint-Paul's for pious workmen and servants.Not one of his friends,no one at Court,knew that he so punctually fulfilled the practice of religion.He was addicted to God as some men are addicted to a vice,with the greatest mystery.Thus one day I came to find the Count at the summit of an Alp of woe much higher than that on which many are who think themselves the most tried;who laugh at the passions and the beliefs of others because they have conquered their own;who play variations in every key of irony and disdain.He did not mock at those who still follow hope into the swamps whither she leads,nor those who climb a peak to be alone,nor those who persist in the fight,reddening the arena with their blood and strewing it with their illusions.He looked on the world as a whole;he mastered its beliefs;he listened to its complaining;he was doubtful of affection,and yet more of self-sacrifice;but this great and stern judge pitied them,or admired them,not with transient enthusiasm,but with silence,concentration,and the communion of a deeply-touched soul.He was a sort of catholic Manfred,and unstained by crime,carrying his choiceness into his faith,melting the snows by the fires of a sealed volcano,holding converse with a star seen by himself alone!
"I detected many dark riddles in his ordinary life.He evaded my gaze not like a traveler who,following a path,disappears from time to time in dells or ravines according to the formation of the soil,but like a sharpshooter who is being watched,who wants to hide himself,and seeks a cover.I could not account for his frequent absences at the times when he was working the hardest,and of which he made no secret from me,for he would say,'Go on with this for me,'and trust me with the work in hand.
"This man,wrapped in the threefold duties of the statesman,the judge,and the orator,charmed me by a taste for flowers,which shows an elegant mind,and which is shared by almost all persons of refinement.His garden and his study were full of the rarest plants,but he always bought them half-withered.Perhaps it pleased him to see such an image of his own fate!He was faded like these dying flowers,whose almost decaying fragrance mounted strangely to his brain.The Count loved his country;he devoted himself to public interests with the frenzy of a heart that seeks to cheat some other passion;but the studies and work into which he threw himself were not enough for him;there were frightful struggles in his mind,of which some echoes reached me.Finally,he would give utterance to harrowing aspirations for happiness,and it seemed to me he ought yet to be happy;but what was the obstacle?Was there a woman he loved?This was a question Iasked myself.You may imagine the extent of the circles of torment that my mind had searched before coming to so simple and so terrible a question.Notwithstanding his efforts,my patron did not succeed in stifling the movements of his heart.Under his austere manner,under the reserve of the magistrate,a passion rebelled,though coerced with such force that no one but I who lived with him ever guessed the secret.His motto seemed to be,'I suffer,and am silent.'The escort of respect and admiration which attended him;the friendship of workers as valiant as himself--Grandville and Serizy,both presiding judges--had no hold over the Count:either he told them nothing,or they knew all.Impassible and lofty in public,the Count betrayed the man only on rare intervals when,alone in his garden or his study,he supposed himself unobserved;but then he was a child again,he gave course to the tears hidden beneath the toga,to the excitement which,if wrongly interpreted,might have damaged his credit for perspicacity as a statesman.
"When all this had become to me a matter of certainty,Comte Octave had all the attractions of a problem,and won on my affection as much as though he had been my own father.Can you enter into the feeling of curiosity,tempered by respect?What catastrophe had blasted this learned man,who,like Pitt,had devoted himself from the age of eighteen to the studies indispensable to power,while he had no ambition;this judge,who thoroughly knew the law of nations,political law,civil and criminal law,and who could find in these a weapon against every anxiety,against every mistake;this profound legislator,this serious writer,this pious celibate whose life sufficiently proved that he was open to no reproach?A criminal could not have been more hardly punished by God than was my master;sorrow had robbed him of half his slumbers;he never slept more than four hours.What struggle was it that went on in the depths of these hours apparently so calm,so studious,passing without a sound or a murmur,during which I often detected him,when the pen had dropped from his fingers,with his head resting on one hand,his eyes like two fixed stars,and sometimes wet with tears?How could the waters of that living spring flow over the burning strand without being dried up by the subterranean fire?Was there below it,as there is under the sea,between it and the central fires of the globe,a bed of granite?And would the volcano burst at last?
"Sometimes the Count would give me a look of that sagacious and keen-eyed curiosity by which one man searches another when he desires an accomplice;then he shunned my eye as he saw it open a mouth,so to speak,insisting on a reply,and seeming to say,'Speak first!'Now and then Comte Octave's melancholy was surly and gruff.If these spurts of temper offended me,he could get over it without thinking of asking my pardon;but then his manners were gracious to the point of Christian humility.
