upper. Let us drop the curtain.

CHAPTER XI.

AN INTERVIEW.

I WENT a little out of my way, on departing from Paris, to visit Lord
Bolingbroke, who at that time was in the country. There are some men
whom one never really sees in capitals; one sees their masks, not
themselves: Bolingbroke was one. It was in retirement, however brief
it might be, that his true nature expanded itself; and, weary of being
admired, he allowed one to love, and, even in the wildest course of his
earlier excesses, to respect him. My visit was limited to a few hours,
but it made an indelible impression on me.

"Once more," I said, as we walked to and fro in the garden of his
temporary retreat, "once more you are in your element; minister and
statesman of a prince, and chief supporter of the great plans which are
to restore him to his throne."

A slight shade passed over Bolingbroke's fine brow. "To you, my constant
friend," said he, "to you,--who of all my friends alone remained true in
exile, and unshaken by misfortune,--to you I will confide a secret that
I would intrust to no other. I repent me already of having espoused this
cause. I did so while yet the disgrace of an unmerited attainder tingled
in my veins; while I was in the full tide of those violent and warm
passions which have so often misled me. Myself attainted; the best
beloved of my associates in danger; my party deserted, and seemingly
lost but for some bold measure such as then offered,--these were all
that I saw. I listened eagerly to representations I now find untrue; and
I accepted that rank and power from one prince which were so rudely
and gallingly torn from me by another. I perceive that I have acted
imprudently; but what is done, is done: no private scruples, no private
interest, shall make me waver in a cause that I have once pledged myself
to serve; and if I _can_ do aught to make a weak cause powerful, and a
divided party successful, I will; but, Devereux, you are wrong,--this is
_not_ my element. Ever in the paths of strife, I have sighed for quiet;
and, while most eager in pursuit of ambition, I have languished the most
fondly for content. The littleness of intrigue disgusts me, and while
_the branches_ of my power soared the highest, and spread with the most
luxuriance, it galled me to think of the miry soil in which that power
was condemned to strike _the roots_,* upon which it stood, and by which
it must be nourished."

* "Occasional Writer," No. 1.