Alfred de Rosann by G.W.M. Reynolds — page 63: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

48 Alfred de Rosann. his inability, for want of proper utensils, to hash the remainder of the fowls at the next morning’s breakfast—stretched himself to sleep upon the straw: dreaming of kitchens, of saucepans, of viands, and of costly dishes. O that man were as happy in reality as he often is in imagination! Alas! that the dreams of riches make the waking truths of poverty the more severe ! A solemn silence reigned throughout the prison, only interrupted at long intervals by the barking of the gaoler’s dog, or the clanking of his keys as he made his occasional rounds; and then the rays of his lanthorn illuminated the cachot for a moment as he passed by, and disappeared as suddenly, to leave the inmates of that dungeon plunged in even darker gloom than before. De Rosann and Belle- Rose could not sleep so soon as their companion ; but they endea- voured to compose themselves to slumber, and therefore refrained from conversation. The ideas of the former were reflected back to other times, when fortune smiled upon him, and life’s prospective joys were sweet—when opulence, friendship, society, and love, were present, to smooth his path through the world, and rob his pillow of unxiety—when the dreams of his youth were not fraught with bitterness, nor his contemplation with care—and when his brow was unclouded, his footstep free, and his bearing proud. He had that morning only, bade a mental adieu to the fairest girl beneath the canopy of heaven—he had seen her pale cheek, her dishevelled hair, and a tear upon that cheek—and he knew that the despajr ictured on her angelic countenance, and the glistening tears, were for him. But he mistrusted not her fidelity—he knew her troth was sacred—he could not for an instant doubt the veracity of her noble and enthusiastic mind. Pure as she was beautiful, affec- tionate as she was pure, ignorant as to the meaning of her love, knowing only that it existed, and that De Rosann was its object, unchanging, unchangeable— Eloise was as free from those feminine vacillations, unworthy caprices, and capability of change, as the seraphim, which, according to Mahommedan mythology, stand around Allah’s throne. And when she sighed ‘ Farewell!” to him in his prison—when with agonizing feelings, with a heart almost broken, and with unutterable anguish rending her inmost soul, she was torn away from his last embrace, the night before the fatal morn on which the chain of convicts left Bicétre—she be- trayed that deeply-rooted affection, that permanent love, that ineffable attachment, which no time could change, no number of ears obliterate, no circumstance destroy. This De Rosann well knew ; and the reflection soothed him in his dungeon. An hour or more had elapsed since the worthy gastronomer’s eyes were temporarily closed against his misfortunes, when sud- denly a low voice at the guichet called ‘* Belle-Rose! Belle-Rose !” ‘¢Who speaks?” inquired the convict; ‘‘ was it you, De Rosann ?” ‘‘ Belle-Rose—my fricnd—listen !’’ continued the voice. ‘¢ Assuredly it is the ghost of my grandfather,” cried Pierre ; ‘Sand if so, it would be as well to arouse this lubberly, snoring, kitchen-fed glutton, to make mince-meat. of him.” ECONlNCOOOlKS.CO