Her
tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and
the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:

“Are you better now, Sir?” said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “I believe I am;
but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am
still alive to feel this misery and horror.”

“For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you
were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you; but you will be hung
when the next sessions come on. However, that’s none of my business, I
am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe
conscience, it were well if every body did the same.”

I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a
speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt
languid, and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series
of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it
were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force
of reality. As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew
feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed
me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The
physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them
for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the
expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who
would gain his fee? These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had
shewn me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to
be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had
provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me;
for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every
human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see
that I was not neglected; but his visits were short, and at long
intervals. One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my
eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death, I was overcome
by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than
remain miserably pent up only to be let loose in a world replete with
wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare
myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than
poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the door of my
apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed
sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me
in French—

“I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any thing to
make you more comfortable?”

“I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole
earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving.”

“I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to
one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I
hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence can
easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge.”

“That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events, become
the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have
been, can death be any evil to me?”

“Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange
chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising
accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality: seized
immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented
to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a
manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path.”

As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this
retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the
knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to
say—

“It was not until a day or two after your illness that I thought of
examining your dress, that I might discover some trace by which I could
send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I
found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from
its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva:
nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.—But
you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit for agitation of any
kind.”

“This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event:
tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament.”

“Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; “and
some one, a friend, is come to visit you.”

I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for
me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and
cried out in agony—

“Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God’s sake, do not let him
enter!”

Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in
rather a severe tone—

“I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father
would have been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent repugnance.”

“My father!” cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure. “Is my father, indeed, come? How kind, how
very kind. But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?”

My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose, and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it. Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried—

“Are you then safe—and Elizabeth—and Ernest?”

My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured,
by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my
desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode
of cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!” said
he, looking mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of
the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to
pursue you. And poor Clerval—”

The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears. “Alas!