me all those whose happiness, whose very existence, I had ruined,
reproaching me, in hoarse and hollow voices, with the guilt and crime
of which _I_ had planted the germs. None but my wife could dispel the
nameless sorrow, the terror, which then took possession of me. I made a
solemn vow that I would never touch a card again. I tore myself away.
I burst the bonds which had held me. I withstood the enticements of
my croupiers, who could not get on when my luck was gone from the
enterprise. I had bought a small country house near Rome, and there I
fled with my wife as soon as I had recovered. Alas! for only one single
year was it that I was vouchsafed a peace, a happiness, a contentment,
such as I had never dreamt of. My wife bore me a daughter, and died a
few weeks afterwards. I was in despair. I accused heaven, and then
turned round and cursed myself and my sinful career, punished in this
way by the eternal power, by taking my wife from me, who saved me from
destruction--the only creature on earth who gave me comfort and hope.
Like the criminal whom the dreadfulness of solitude terrifies, I fled
from my country place to Paris. Angela blossomed up, the lovely
counterpart of her mother. My whole heart hung upon her. For her sake I
made it my business not only to keep a considerable fortune together,
but to increase it. It is true that I lent money at high rates of
interest. But it is a shameful calumny when I am accused of being a
fraudulent usurer. Who are my accusers? Light-minded creatures, who
torture and tease me till I lend them money, which they waste and
squander as if it were of no value, and then are furious when I get it
back from them with infallible strictness--the money which is not mine
but my daughter's, whose steward I consider myself to be. Not long ago
I rescued a young man from ruin and disgrace by lending him a
considerable sum. I knew he was very poor, and I said nothing about
repayment till I knew he had succeeded to a fortune. Then I asked him
to pay me. Would you credit it, Chevalier, this light-minded scoundrel,
who was indebted to me for his very existence, wanted to deny his
liability, and, when the law obliged him to pay me, he called me a vile
skinflint. I could tell you of plenty similar cases, which have made me
hard and unfeeling when I have been met with ingratitude and baseness.
More than that, I could tell you of many bitter tears which I have
wiped away, of many a prayer which has gone