I received a letter from poor unhappy Eugenia—­it was the last she ever wrote.  It was to acquaint me with the death of her lovely boy, who, having wandered from the house, had fallen into a trout-stream, where he was found drowned some hours after.  In her distracted state of mind, she could add no more than her blessing, and a firm conviction that we should never meet again in this world.  Her letter concluded incoherently; and although I should have said, in the morning, that my mind had not room for another sorrow, yet the loss of this sweet boy, and the state of his wretched mother, found a place in my bosom for a time, to the total exclusion of all other cares.  She requested me to hasten to her without delay, if I wished to see her before she died.

I took leave of the monks, and travelled with all speed to Paris, and thence to Calais.  Reaching Quillac’s hotel, I received a shock which, although I apprehended danger, I was not prepared for.  It was a letter from Eugenia’s agent, announcing her death.  She had been seized with a brain fever, and had died at a small town in Norfolk, where she had removed soon after our last unhappy interview.  The agent concluded his letter by saying, that Eugenia had bequeathed me all her property, which was very considerable, and that her last rational words to him were, that I was her first and her only love.

I was now callous to suffering.  My feelings had been racked to insensibility.  Like a ship in a hurricane, the last tremendous sea had swept everything from the decks—­the vessel was a wreck, driving as the storm might chance to direct.  In the midst of this devastation, I looked around me, and the only object which presented itself to my mind, as worthy of contemplation, was the tomb which contained the remains of Eugenia and her child.  To that I resolved to repair.

Chapter XXIX

  With sorrow and repentance true,
  Father, I trembling come to you.

  Song.

I arrived at the town where poor Eugenia had breathed her last, and near to which was the cemetery in which her remains were deposited.  I went to the inn, whence, after having dismissed my post-boy and ordered my luggage to be taken up to my room, I proceeded on foot towards the spot.  I was informed that the path lay between the church and the bishop’s palace.  I soon reached it; and, inquiring for the sexton, who lived in a cottage hard by, requested he would lead me to a certain grave, which I indicated by tokens too easily known.

“Oh, you mean the sweet young lady, as died of grief for the loss of her little boy.  There it is,” continued he, pointing with his finger; “the white peacock is now sitting on the headstone of the grave, and the little boy is buried beside it.”