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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"

I was wandering distracted,
when I was found by some one in the interests of Monsieur de
Culemberg. I understand he was sent on purpose; I believe, in
order to reach the interior of the prison, he had set his hand to
nameless barbarities: such was the price paid for my worthless,
whimpering little life! He gave me his hand; it was wet, and mine
was reddened; he led me unresisting. I remember but the one
circumstance of my flight--it was my last view of my last pretty
mamma. Shall I describe it to you?' I asked the Count, with a
sudden fierceness.
'Avoid unpleasant details,' observed my great-uncle gently.
At these words a sudden peace fell upon me. I had been angry with
the man before; I had not sought to spare him; and now, in a
moment, I saw that there was nothing to spare. Whether from
natural heartlessness or extreme old age, the soul was not at home;
and my benefactor, who had kept the fire lit in my room for a month
past--my only relative except Alain, whom I knew already to be a
hired spy--had trodden out the last sparks of hope and interest.
'Certainly,' said I; 'and, indeed, the day for them is nearly over.
I was taken to Monsieur de Culemberg's,--I presume, sir, that you
know the Abbe de Culemberg?'
He indicated assent without opening his eyes.
'He was a very brave and a very learned man--'
'And a very holy one,' said my uncle civilly.


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