Alfred de Rosann by G.W.M. Reynolds — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

Alfred de Rosann. 61 most probably family documents. My rage and horror, singularly blended together, knew no bounds; I had committed an enormous crime, and had reaped no benefit; my soul was stained with blood, and the bait that had allured me to so dreadful a deed, had eluded my grasp. In vain I searched the apartments—the murdered man’s per- son—the bed-linen—all was to no purpose; the money was not there. What could he have done with it? I recollected that Gustave occa- sionally went out late at night ; perhaps he had despatched the trea- sure to another land. Vain and useless conjectures! for there was one glaring, damning truth ever present to my faithful memory—a truth which no argument could controvert—that I had deprived an excellent and generous being of his life! I scarcely knew what I was doing, nor what wastobedone. To remain there with the body was impossible ; to dispose of it for any length of time was equally difficult. In my desperation I resolved to fly from the hated spot. I accordingly mfled the pockets of the deceased, took what little money I myself possessed, and—God knows why—putting the Marquis’s papers in my pocket, perhaps with a distant hope that on examination by a person who could read, and to whom I could en- trust my secret, something might be developed by them—lI left Paris, and took the road to St. Malo, intending to embark for Guernsey, and thence seek the shoresof England. I halted within a few miles of the town, and obtained a night’s lodging in a farm-house situate at a little distance from the main-road. Having carefully concealed the Marquis’s documents in an old cupboard that stood near the chimney of the room to which I was shown, I lay down to rest : but no sleep visited my eyes—horrible ideas oppressed me—and the ghost of the murdered man seemed to haunt my bed-side. In the morning I was arrested; the police had followed on my track but too well—and I was conveyed to gaol. Despite of my unceasing declarations of innocence, I was found guilty, and condemned to the galleys for life. As for the papers I left behind me at the farm- house, I never mentioned their existence to the Gendarmes, deter- mined that, if those documents did contain information which might lead to an important discovery, no one should enjoy the benefit of wealth that I had lost, through any disclosure from my lips. It is however more than probable that the farmer found them, saw that they were useless, and destroyed them.” , Such was the horrible tale which Francois—for the old man was generally known by this name—had often told his companions ; and so far as it could be ratified by the proceedings before the tribunal that condemned him, it was perfectly correct. With regard to the rest, no one could attest its veracity, nor prove its falsity. But let us hasten to inform our readers wherefore Francois is now in the strong-room of the prison, and why he is under sentence of death in a place at which he had been already doomed to pass the remain- der of his miserable existence. About six months before the arrival of De Rosann, Belle-Rose, Champignon, and their comrades, a youth of fifteen was sent to the galleys for a period of five years. His character was the most de- praved that can be conceived ; he had participated in many daring robberies; and, after having been repeatedly pardoned and admon- COnicbooolks (GO)