THE

ROMANCE OF THE FOREST:



INTERSPERSED

WITH SOME PIECES OF POETRY.



BY THE

AUTHORESS OF "THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO."

_&c. &c._



EMBELLISHED

WITH ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.



London:

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. LIMBIRD, 143, STRAND,

(_Near Somerset House._)

1824.


CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI




THE
ROMANCE OF THE FOREST




CHAPTER I


I am a man,
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it, or be rid ou't.


When once sordid interest seizes on the heart, it freezes up the source
of every warm and liberal feeling; it is an enemy alike to virtue and to
taste--_this_ it perverts, and _that_ it annihilates. The time may come,
my friend, when death shall dissolve the sinews of avarice, and justice
be permitted to resume her rights.

Such were the words of the Advocate Nemours to Pierre de la Motte, as
the latter stept at midnight into the carriage which was to bear him far
from Paris, from his creditors and the persecution of the laws. De la
Motte thanked him for this last instance of his kindness; the assistance
he had given him in escape; and, when the carriage drove away, uttered a
sad adieu! The gloom of the hour, and the peculiar emergency of his
circumstances, sunk him in silent reverie.

Whoever has read Gayot de Pitaval, the most faithful of those writers
who record the proceedings in the Parliamentary Courts of Paris during
the seventeenth century, must surely remember the striking story of
Pierre de la Motte and the Marquess Philippe de Montalt: let all such,
therefore, be informed, that the person here introduced to their notice
was that individual Pierre de la Motte.

As Madame de la Motte leaned from the coach window, and gave a last look
to the walls of Paris--Paris, the scene of her former happiness, and the
residence of many dear friends--the fortitude, which had till now
supported her, yielding to the force of grief--Farewell all! sighed she,
this last look and we are separated for ever! Tears followed her words,
and, sinking back, she resigned herself to the stillness of sorrow. The
recollection of former times pressed heavily upon her heart; a few
months before and she was surrounded by friends, fortune, and
consequence; now she was deprived of all, a miserable exile from her
native place, without home, without comfort--almost without hope. It was
not the least of her afflictions that she had been obliged to quit Paris
without bidding adieu to her only son, who was now on duty with his
regiment in Germany; and such had been the precipitancy of this removal,
that had she even known where he was stationed, she had no time to
inform him of it, or of the alteration in his father's circumstances.

Pierre de la Motte was a gentleman, descended from an ancient house of
France. He was a man whose passions often overcame his reason, and, for
a time, silenced his conscience; but though the image of virtue, which
nature had impressed upon his heart, was sometimes obscured by the
passing influence of vice, it was never wholly obliterated. With
strength of mind sufficient to have withstood temptation, he would have
been a good man; as it was, he was always a weak, and sometimes a
vicious member of society; yet his mind was active, and his imagination
vivid, which co-operating with the force of passion, often dazzled his
judgment and subdued principle. Thus he was a man, infirm in purpose and
visionary in virtue:--in a word, his conduct was suggested by feeling,
rather than principle; and his virtue, such as it was, could not stand
the pressure of occasion.

Early in life he had married Constance Valentia, a beautiful and elegant
woman, attached to her family and beloved by them. Her birth was equal,
her fortune superior to his; and their nuptials had been celebrated
under the auspices of an approving and flattering world. Her heart was
devoted to La Motte, and, for some time, she found in him an
affectionate husband; but, allured by the gaieties of Paris, he was soon
devoted to its luxuries, and in a few years his fortune and affection
were equally lost in dissipation. A false pride had still operated
against his interest, and withheld him from honourable retreat while it
was yet in his power: the habits which he had acquired, enchained him to
the scene of his former pleasure; and thus he had continued an expensive
style of life till the means of prolonging it were exhausted. He at
length awoke from this lethargy of security; but it was only to plunge
into new error, and to attempt schemes for the reparation of his
fortune, which served to sink him deeper in destruction. The consequence
of a transaction, in which he thus engaged, now drove him, with the
small wreck of his property, into dangerous and ignominious exile.

It was his design to pass into one of the southern provinces, and there
seek, near the borders of the kingdom, an asylum in some obscure
village. His family consisted of a wife and two faithful domestics, a
man and woman, who had followed the fortune of their master.

The night was dark and tempestuous, and at about the distance of three
leagues from Paris, Peter, who now acted as postillion, having driven
for some time over a wild heath where many ways crossed, stopped, and
acquainted De la Motte with his perplexity. The sudden stopping of the
carriage roused the latter from his reverie, and filled the whole party
with the terror of pursuit; he was unable to supply the necessary
direction, and the extreme darkness made it dangerous to proceed without
one. During this period of distress, a light was perceived at some
distance, and after much doubt and hesitation, La Motte, in the hope of
obtaining assistance, alighted and advanced towards it; he proceeded
slowly, from the fear of unknown pits. The light issued from the window
of a small and ancient house, which stood alone on the heath, at the
distance of half a mile.

Having reached the door, he stopped for some moments, listening in
apprehensive anxiety--no sound was heard but that of the wind, which
swept in hollow gusts over the waste. At length he ventured to knock,
and having waited for some time, during which he indistinctly heard
several voices in conversation, some one within inquired what he wanted?
La Motte answered, that he was a traveller who had lost his way, and
desired to be directed to the nearest town. That, said the person, is
seven miles off, and the road bad enough, even if you could see it; if
you only want a bed, you may have it here, and had better stay.

The "pitiless pelting" of the storm, which at this time beat with
increasing fury upon La Motte, inclined him to give up the attempt of
proceeding further till daylight; but, desirous of seeing the person
with whom he conversed, before he ventured to expose his family by
calling up the carriage, he asked to be admitted. The door was now
opened by a tall figure with a light, who invited La Motte to enter. He
followed the man through a passage into a room almost unfurnished, in
one corner of which a bed was spread upon the floor. The forlorn and
desolate aspect of this apartment made La Motte shrink involuntarily,
and he was turning to go out when the man suddenly pushed him back, and
he heard the door locked upon him; his heart failed, yet he made a
desperate, though vain, effort to force the door, and called loudly for
release. No answer was returned; but he distinguished the voices of men
in the room above, and, not doubting but their intention was to rob and
murder him, his agitation, at first, overcame his reason. By the light
of some almost-expiring embers, he perceived a window, but the hope
which this discovery revived was quickly lost, when he found the
aperture guarded by strong iron bars. Such preparation for security
surprised him, and confirmed his worst apprehensions. Alone,
unarmed--beyond the chance of assistance, he saw himself in the power of
people whose trade was apparently rapine!--murder their means!--After
revolving every possibility of escape, he endeavoured to await the event
with fortitude; but La Motte could boast of no such virtue.

The voices had ceased, and all remained still for a quarter of an hour,
when, between the pauses of the wind, he thought he distinguished the
sobs and moaning of a female; he listened attentively, and became
confirmed in his conjecture; it was too evidently the accent of
distress. At this conviction the remains of his courage forsook him, and
a terrible surmise darted, with the rapidity of lightning, across his
brain. It was probable that his carriage had been discovered by the
people of the house, who, with a design of plunder, had secured his
servant, and brought hither Madame de la Motte. He was the more inclined
to believe this, by the stillness which had for some time reigned in the
house, previous to the sounds he now heard. Or it was possible that the
inhabitants were not robbers, but persons to whom he had been betrayed
by his friend or servant, and who were appointed to deliver him into the
hands of justice. Yet he hardly dared to doubt the integrity of his
friend, who had been intrusted with the secret of his flight and the
plan of his route, and had procured him the carriage in which he had
escaped. Such depravity, exclaimed La Motte, cannot surely exist in
human nature; much less in the heart of Nemours!

This ejaculation was interrupted by a noise in the passage leading to
the room: it approached--the door was unlocked--and the man who had
admitted La Motte into the house entered, leading, or rather forcibly
dragging along, a beautiful girl, who appeared to be about eighteen. Her
features were bathed in tears, and she seemed to suffer the utmost
distress. The man fastened the lock and put the key in his pocket. He
then advanced to La Motte, who had before observed other persons in the
passage, and pointing a pistol to his breast, You are wholly in our
power, said he, no assistance can reach you: if you wish to save your
life, swear that you will convey this girl where I may never see her
more; or rather consent to take her with you, for your oath I would not
believe, and I can take care you shall not find me again.--Answer
quickly, you have no time to lose.

He now seized the trembling hand of the girl, who shrunk aghast with
terror, and hurried her towards La Motte, whom surprise still kept
silent. She sunk at his feet, and with supplicating eyes, that streamed
with tears, implored him to have pity on her. Notwithstanding his
present agitation, he found it impossible to contemplate the beauty and
distress of the object before him with indifference. Her youth, her
apparent innocence--the artless energy of her manner forcibly assailed
his heart, and he was going to speak, when the ruffian, who mistook the
silence of astonishment for that of hesitation, prevented him, I have a
horse ready to take you from hence, said he, and I will direct you over
the heath. If you return within an hour, you die: after then, you are at
liberty to come here when you please.

La Motte, without answering, raised the lovely girl from the floor, and
was so much relieved from his own apprehensions, that he had leisure to
attempt dissipating hers. Let us be gone, said the ruffian, and have no
more of this nonsense; you may think yourself well off it's no worse.
I'll go and get the horse ready.

The last words roused La Motte, and perplexed him with new fears; he
dreaded to discover his carriage, lest its appearance might tempt the
banditti to plunder; and to depart on horseback with this man might
reduce a consequence yet more to be dreaded, Madame la Motte, wearied
with apprehension, would, probably, send for her husband to the house,
when all the former danger would be incurred, with the additional evil
of being separated from his family, and the chance of being detected by
the emissaries of justice in endeavouring to recover them. As these
reflections passed over his mind in tumultuous rapidity, a noise was
again heard in the passage, an uproar and scuffle ensued, and in the
same moment he could distinguish the voice of his servant, who had been
sent by Madame La Motte in search of him. Being now determined to
disclose what could not long be concealed, he exclaimed aloud, that a
horse was unnecessary, that he had a carriage at some distance, which
would convey them from the heath, the man who was seized being his
servant.

The ruffian, speaking through the door, bade him be patient a while and
he should hear more from him. La Motte now turned his eyes upon his
unfortunate companion, who, pale and exhausted, leaned for support
against the wall. Her features, which were delicately beautiful, had
gained from distress an expression of captivating sweetness: she had


An eye
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud
Of purest white.


A habit of gray camlet, with short slashed sleeves, showed, but did not
adorn, her figure: it was thrown open at the bosom, upon which part of
her hair had fallen in disorder, while the light veil hastily thrown on,
had, in her confusion, been suffered to fall back. Every moment of
further observation heightened the surprise of La Motte, and interested
him more warmly in her favour. Such elegance and apparent refinement,
contrasted with the desolation of the house, and the savage manners of
its inhabitants, seemed to him like a romance of imagination, rather
than an occurrence of real life. He endeavoured to comfort her, and his
sense of compassion was too sincere to be misunderstood. Her terror
gradually subsided into gratitude and grief. Ah, Sir, said she, Heaven
has sent you to my relief, and will surely reward you for your
protection: I have no friend in the world, if do not find one in you.

La Motte assured her of his kindness, when he was interrupted by the
entrance of the ruffian. He desired to be conducted to his family. All
in good time, replied the latter; I have taken care of one of them, and
will of you, please St. Peter; so be comforted. These _comfortable_
words renewed the terror of La Motte, who now earnestly begged to know
if his family were safe. O! as for that matter they are safe enough, and
you will be with them presently; but don't stand _parlying_ here all
night. Do you choose to go or stay? you know the conditions. They now
bound the eyes of La Motte and of the young lady, whom terror had
hitherto kept silent, and then placing them on two horses, a man mounted
behind each, and they immediately galloped off. They had proceeded in
this way near half an hour, when La Motte entreated to know whither he
was going? You will know that by and by, said the ruffian, so be at
peace. Finding interrogatories useless, La Motte resumed silence till
the horses stopped. His conductor then hallooed, and being answered by
voices at some distance, in a few moments the sound of carriage wheels
was heard, and, presently after, the words of a man directing Peter
which way to drive. As the carriage approached, La Motte called, and, to
his inexpressible joy, was answered by his wife.

You are now beyond the borders of the heath, and may go which way you
will, said the ruffian; if you return within an hour, you will be
welcomed by a brace of bullets. This was a very unnecessary caution to
La Motte, whom they now released. The young stranger sighed deeply, as
she entered the carriage; and the ruffian, having bestowed upon Peter
some directions and more threats, waited to see him drive off. They did
not wait long.

[Illustration 01]

La Motte immediately gave a short relation of what passed at the house,
including an account of the manner in which the young stranger had been
introduced to him. During this narrative, her deep convulsive sighs
frequently drew the attention of Madame La Motte, whose compassion
became gradually interested in her behalf, and who now endeavoured to
tranquillize her spirits. The unhappy girl answered her kindness in
artless and simple expressions, and then relapsed into tears and
silence. Madame forbore for the present to ask any questions that might
lead to a discovery of her connexions, or seem to require an explanation
of the late adventure, which now furnishing her with a new subject of
reflection, the sense of her own misfortunes pressed less heavily upon
her mind. The distress of La Motte was even for a while suspended; he
ruminated on the late scene, and it appeared like a vision, or one of
those improbable fictions that sometimes are exhibited in a romance: he
could reduce it to no principles of probability, nor render it
comprehensible by any endeavour to analyze it. The present charge, and
the chance of future trouble brought upon him by this adventure,
occasioned some dissatisfaction; but the beauty and seeming innocence of
Adeline united with the pleadings of humanity in her favor, and he
determined to protect her.

The tumult of emotions which had passed in the bosom of Adeline began
now to subside; terror was softened into anxiety, and despair into
grief. The sympathy so evident in the manners of her companions,
particularly in those of Madame La Motte, soothed her heart, and
encouraged her to hope for better days.

Dismally and silently the night passed on, for the minds of the
travellers were too much occupied by their several sufferings to admit
of conversation.

The dawn, so anxiously watched for, at length appeared, and introduced
the strangers more fully to each other. Adeline derived comfort from the
looks of Madame La Motte, who gazed frequently and attentively at her,
and thought she had seldom seen a countenance so interesting, or a form
so striking. The languor of sorrow threw a melancholy grace upon her
features, that appealed immediately to the heart; and there was a
penetrating sweetness in her blue eyes, which indicated an intelligent
and amiable mind.

La Motte now looked anxiously from the coach window, that he might judge
of their situation, and observe whether he was followed. The obscurity
of the dawn confined his views, but no person appeared. The sun at
length tinted the eastern clouds and the tops of the highest hills, and
soon after burst in full splendour on the scene. The terrors of La Motte
began to subside, and the griefs of Adeline to soften. They entered upon
a lane confined by high banks and overarched by trees, on whose branches
appeared the first green buds of spring glittering with dews. The fresh
breeze of the morning animated the spirits of Adeline, whose mind was
delicately sensible to the beauties of nature. As she viewed the flowery
luxuriance of the turf, and the tender green of the trees, or caught,
between the opening banks, a glimpse of the varied landscape, rich with
wood, and fading into blue and distant mountains, her heart expanded in
momentary joy. With Adeline the charms of external nature were
heightened by those of novelty: she had seldom seen the grandeur of an
extensive prospect, or the magnificence of a wide horizon--and not often
the picturesque beauties of more confined scenery. Her mind had not lost
by long oppression that elastic energy, which resists calamity; else,
however, susceptible might have been her original taste, the beauties of
nature would no longer have charmed her thus easily even to temporary
repose.

The road, at length, wound down the side of a hill, and La Motte, again
looking anxiously from the window, saw before him an open champaign
country, through which the road, wholly unsheltered from observation,
extended almost in a direct line. The danger of these circumstances
alarmed him, for his flight might, without difficulty, be traced for
many leagues from the hills he was now descending. Of the first peasant
that passed, he inquired for a road among the hills, but heard of none.
La Motte now sunk into his former terrors. Madame, notwithstanding her
own apprehensions, endeavoured to reassure him; but finding her efforts
ineffectual, she also retired to the contemplation of her misfortunes.
Often, as they went on, did La Motte look back upon the country they had
passed, and often did imagination suggest to him the sounds of distant
pursuit.

The travellers stopped to breakfast in a village, where the road was at
length obscured by woods, and La Motte's spirits again revived. Adeline
appeared more tranquil than she had yet been, and La Motte now asked for
an explanation of the scene he had witnessed on the preceding night. The
inquiry renewed all her distress, and with tears she entreated for the
present to be spared on the subject. La Motte pressed it no farther, but
he observed that for the greater part of the day she seemed to remember
it in melancholy and dejection. They now travelled among the hills, and
were, therefore, in less danger of observation; but La Motte avoided the
great towns, and stopped in obscure ones no longer than to refresh the
horses. About two hours after noon, the road wound into a deep valley,
watered by a rivulet and overhung with wood. La Motte called to Peter,
and ordered him to drive to a thickly embowered spot, that appeared on
the left. Here he alighted with his family; and Peter having spread the
provisions on the turf, they seated themselves and partook of a repast,
which, in other circumstances, would have been thought delicious.
Adeline endeavoured to smile, but the languor of grief was now
heightened by indisposition. The violent agitation of mind and fatigue
of body which she had suffered for the last twenty-four hours, had
overpowed her strength, and when La Motte led her back to the carriage,
her whole frame trembled with illness. But she uttered no complaint,
and, having long observed the dejection of her companions, she made a
feeble effort to enliven them.

They continued to travel throughout the day without any accident or
interruption, and about three hours after sunset arrived at Monville, a
small town where La Motte determined to pass the night. Repose was,
indeed, necessary to the whole party, whose pale and haggard looks, as
they alighted from the carriage, were but too obvious to pass unobserved
by the people of the inn. As soon as beds could be prepared, Adeline
withdrew to her chamber, accompanied by Madame La Motte, whose concern
for the fair stranger made her exert every effort to soothe and console
her. Adeline wept in silence, and taking the hand of Madame, pressed it
to her bosom. These were not merely tears of grief--they were mingled
with those which flow from the grateful heart, when, unexpectedly, it
meets with sympathy. Madame La Motte understood them. After some
momentary silence, she renewed her assurances of kindness, and entreated
Adeline to confide in her friendship; but she carefully avoided any
mention of the subject which had before so much affected her. Adeline at
length found words to express her sense of this goodness, which she did
in a manner so natural and sincere, that Madame, finding herself much
affected, took leave of her for the night.

In the morning, La Motte rose at an early hour, impatient to be gone.
Every thing was prepared for his departure, and the breakfast had been
waiting some time, but Adeline did not appear. Madame La Motte went to
her chamber, and found her sunk in a disturbed slumber. Her breathing
was short and irregular--she frequently started, or sighed, and
sometimes she muttered an incoherent sentence. While Madame gazed with
concern upon her languid countenance, she awoke, and, looking up, gave
her hand to Madame La Motte, who found it burning with fever. She had
passed a restless night, and, as she now attempted to rise, her head,
which beat with intense pain, grew giddy, her strength failed, and she
sunk back.

Madame was much alarmed, being at once convinced that it was impossible
she could travel, and that a delay might prove fatal to her husband. She
went to inform him of the truth, and his distress may be more easily
imagined than described. He saw all the inconvenience and danger of
delay, yet he could not so far divest himself of humanity as to abandon
Adeline to the care, or rather to the neglect, of strangers. He sent
immediately for a physician, who pronounced her to be in a high fever,
and said a removal in her present state must be fatal. La Motte now
determined to wait the event, and endeavour to calm the transports of
terror which at times assailed him. In the mean while he took such
precautions as his situation admitted of, passing the greater part of
the day out of the village, in a spot from whence he had a view of the
road for some distance; yet to be exposed to destruction by the illness
of a girl whom he did not know, and who had actually been forced upon
him, was a misfortune to which La Motte had not philosophy enough to
submit with composure.

Adeline's fever continued to increase during the whole day, and at
night, when the physician took his leave, he told La Motte the event
would very soon be decided. La Motte received this intelligence with
real concern. The beauty and innocence of Adeline had overcome the
disadvantageous circumstances under which she had been introduced to
him, and he now gave less consideration to the inconvenience she might
hereafter occasion him, than to the hope of her recovery.

Madame La Motte watched over her with tender anxiety, and observed with
admiration her patient sweetness and mild resignation. Adeline amply
repaid her, though she thought she could not.--Young as I am, she would
say, and deserted by those upon whom I have a claim for protection, I
can remember no connexion to make me regret life so much, as that I
hoped to form with you. If I live, my conduct will best express my sense
of your goodness;--words are but feeble testimonies.

The sweetness of her manners so much attracted Madame La Motte, that she
watched the crisis of her disorder with a solicitude which precluded
every other interest. Adeline passed a very disturbed night, and, when
the physician appeared in the morning, he gave orders that she should be
indulged with whatever she liked, and answered the inquiries of La Motte
with a frankness that left him nothing to hope.

In the mean time, his patient, after drinking profusely of some mild
liquids, fell asleep, in which she continued for several hours, and so
profound was her repose, that her breath alone gave sign of existence.
She awoke free from fever, and with no other disorder than weakness,
which in a few days she overcame so well as to be able to set out with
La Motte for B----, a village out of the great road, which he thought it
prudent to quit. There they passed the following night, and early the
next morning commenced their journey upon a wild and woody tract of
country. They stopped about noon at a solitary village, where they took
refreshments, and obtained directions for passing the vast forest of
Fontanville, upon the borders of which they now were. La Motte wished at
first to take a guide, but he apprehended more evil from the discovery
he might make of his route, than he hoped for benefit from assistance in
the wilds of this uncultivated tract.

La Motte now designed to pass on to Lyons, where he could either seek
concealment in its neighbourhood, or embark on the Rhone for Geneva,
should the emergency of his circumstances hereafter require him to leave
France. It was about twelve o'clock at noon, and he was desirous to
hasten forward, that he might pass the forest of Fontanville, and reach
the town on its opposite borders, before night-fall. Having deposited a
fresh stock of provisions in the carriage, and received such directions
as were necessary concerning the roads, they again set forward, and in a
short time entered upon the forest. It was now the latter end of April,
and the weather was remarkably temperate and fine. The balmy freshness
of the air, which breathed the first pure essence of vegetation; and the
gentle warmth of the sun, whose beams vivified every hue of nature, and
opened every floweret of spring, revived Adeline and inspired her with
life and health. As she inhaled the breeze, her strength seemed to
return, and as her eyes wandered through the romantic glades that opened
into the forest, her heart was gladdened with complacent delight: but
when from these objects she turned her regard upon Monsieur and Madame
La Motte, to whose tender attentions she owed her life, and in whose
looks she now read esteem and kindness, her bosom glowed with sweet
affections, and she experienced a force of gratitude which might be
called sublime.

For the remainder of the day they continued to travel, without seeing a
hut or meeting a human being. It was now near sunset, and the prospect
being closed on all sides by the forest, La Motte began to have
apprehensions that his servant had mistaken the way. The road, if a road
it could be called, which afforded only a slight track upon the grass,
was sometimes over-run by luxuriant vegetation, and sometimes obscured
by the deep shades, and Peter at length stopped uncertain of the way. La
Motte, who dreaded being benighted in a scene so wild and solitary as
this forest, and whose apprehensions of banditti were very sanguine,
ordered him to proceed at any rate, and, if he found no track, to
endeavour to gain a more open part of the forest. With these orders
Peter again set forwards; but having proceeded some way, and his views
being still confined by woody glades and forest walks, he began to
despair of extricating himself, and stopped for further orders. The sun
was now set; but as La Motte looked anxiously from the window, he
observed upon the vivid glow of the western horizon some dark towers
rising from among the trees at a little distance, and ordered Peter to
drive towards them.--If they belong to a monastery, said he, we may
probably gain admittance for the night.

The carriage drove along under the shade of "melancholy boughs," through
which the evening twilight, which yet coloured the air, diffused a
solemnity that vibrated in thrilling sensations upon the hearts of the
travellers. Expectation kept them silent. The present scene recalled to
Adeline a remembrance of the late terrific circumstances, and her mind
responded but too easily to the apprehension of new misfortunes. La
Motte alighted at the foot of a green knoll, where the trees again
opening to light, permitted a nearer though imperfect view of the
edifice.




CHAPTER II


..........how these antique towers
And vacant courts chill the suspended soul!
Till expectation wears the face of fear:
And fear, half ready to become devotion,
Mutters a kind of mental orison
It knows not wherefore! What a kind of being
Is circumstance!

HORACE WALPOLE.


He approached, and perceived the Gothic remains of an abbey: it stood on
a kind of rude lawn, overshadowed by high and spreading trees which
seemed coeval with the building, and diffused a romantic gloom around.
The greater part of the pile appeared to be sinking into ruins, and that
which had withstood the ravages of time, showed the remaining features
of the fabric more awful in decay. The lofty battlements, thickly
enwreathed with ivy, were half demolished, and become the residence of
birds of prey. Huge fragments of the eastern tower, which was almost
demolished, lay scattered amid the high grass, that waved slowly to the
breeze. "The thistle shook its lonely head; the moss whistled to the
wind." A Gothic gate, richly ornamented with fret-work, which opened
into the main body of the edifice, but which was now obstructed with
brush-wood, remained entire. Above the vast and magnificent portal of
this gate arose a window of the same order, whose pointed arches still
exhibited fragments of stained glass, once the pride of monkish
devotion. La Motte, thinking it possible it might yet shelter some human
being, advanced to the gate and lifted a massy knocker. The hollow
sounds rung through the emptiness of the place. After waiting a few
minutes, he forced back the gate, which was heavy with iron work and
creaked harshly on its hinges.

He entered what appeared to have been the chapel of the abbey, where the
hymn of devotion had once been raised, and the tear of penitence had
once been shed; sounds, which could now only be recalled by
imagination--tears of penitence, which had been long since fixed in
fate. La Motte paused a moment, for he felt a sensation of sublimity
rising into terror--a suspension of mingled astonishment and awe! He
surveyed the vastness of the place, and as he contemplated its ruins,
fancy bore him back to past ages.--And these walls, said he, where once
superstition lurked, and austerity anticipated an earthly purgatory, now
tremble over the mortal remains of the beings who reared them!

The deepening gloom now reminded La Motte that he had no time to lose;
but curiosity prompted him to explore further, and he obeyed the
impulse. As he walked over the broken pavement, the sound of his steps
ran in echoes through the place, and seemed like the mysterious accents
of the dead reproving the sacrilegious mortal who thus dared to disturb
their precincts.

From this chapel he passed into the nave of the great church, of which
one window, more perfect than the rest, opened upon a long vista of the
forest, through which was seen the rich colouring of evening, melting by
imperceptible gradations into the solemn gray of upper air. Dark hills,
whose outline appeared distinct upon the vivid glow of the horizon,
closed the perspective. Several of the pillars, which had once supported
the roof, remained the proud effigies of sinking greatness, and seemed
to nod at every murmur of the blast over the fragments of those that had
fallen a little before them. La Motte sighed. The comparison between
himself and the gradation of decay which these columns exhibited, was
but too obvious and affecting. A few years, said he, and I shall become
like the mortals on whose relicks I now gaze, and, like them too, I may
be the subject of meditation to a succeeding generation, which shall
totter but a little while over the object they contemplate ere they also
sink into the dust.

Retiring from the scene, he walked through the cloisters, till a door,
which communicated with the lofty part of the building, attracted his
curiosity. He opened this, and perceived across the foot of the
staircase another door;--but now, partly checked by fear, and partly by
the recollection of the surprise his family might feel in his absence,
he returned with hasty steps to his carriage, having wasted some of the
precious moments of twilight and gained no information.

Some slight answer to Madame La Motte's inquiries, and a general
direction to Peter to drive carefully on and look for a road,
was all that his anxiety would permit him to utter. The night shade
fell thick around, which, deepened by the gloom of the forest,
soon rendered it dangerous to proceed. Peter stopped; but La Motte,
persisting in his first determination, ordered him to go on. Peter
ventured to remonstrate, Madame La Motte entreated, but La Motte
reproved--commanded, and at length repented; for the hind wheel rising
upon the stump of an old tree, which the darkness had prevented Peter
from observing, the carriage was in an instant overturned.

The party, as may be supposed, were much terrified, but no one was
materially hurt; and having disengaged themselves from their perilous
situation, La Motte and Peter endeavoured to raise the carriage. The
extent of this misfortune was now discovered, for they perceived that
the wheel was broke. Their distress was reasonably great, for not only
was the coach disabled from proceeding, but it could not even afford a
shelter from the cold dews of the night, it being impossible to preserve
it in an upright situation. After a few moments' silence, La Motte
proposed that they should return to the ruins which they had just
quitted, which lay at a very short distance, and pass the night in the
most habitable part of them: that, when morning dawned, Peter should
take one of the coach horses, and endeavour to find a road and a town,
from whence assistance could be procured for repairing the carriage.
This proposal was opposed by Madame La Motte, who shuddered at the idea
of passing so many hours of darkness in a place so forlorn as the
monastery. Terrors, which she neither endeavoured to examine or combat,
overcame her, and she told La Motte she had rather remain exposed to the
unwholesome dews of night, than encounter the desolation of the ruins.
La Motte had at first felt an equal reluctance to return to this spot;
but having subdued his own feelings, he resolved not to yield to those
of his wife.

The horses being now disengaged from the carriage, the party moved
towards the edifice. As they proceeded, Peter, who followed them, struck
a light, and they entered the ruins by the flame of sticks which he had
collected. The partial gleams thrown across the fabric seemed to make
its desolation more solemn, while the obscurity of the greater part of
the pile heightened its sublimity, and led fancy on to scenes of horror.
Adeline, who had hitherto remained in silence, now uttered an
exclamation of mingled admiration and fear. A kind of pleasing dread
thrilled her bosom, and filled all her soul. Tears started into her
eyes:--she wished yet feared to go on;--she hung upon the arm of La
Motte, and looked at him with a sort of hesitating interrogation.

He opened the door of the great hall, and they entered: its extent was
lost in gloom.--Let us stay here, said Madame de La Motte, I will go no
further. La Motte pointed to the broken roof, and was proceeding, when
he was interrupted by an uncommon noise, which passed along the hall.
They were all silent--it was the silence of terror. Madame La Motte
spoke first. Let us quit this spot, said she, any evil is preferable to
the feeling which now oppresses me. Let us retire instantly. The
stillness had for some time remained undisturbed, and La Motte, ashamed
of the fear he had involuntarily betrayed, now thought it necessary to
affect a boldness which he did not feel. He therefore opposed ridicule
to the terror of Madame, and insisted upon proceeding. Thus compelled to
acquiesce, she traversed the hall with trembling steps. They came to a
narrow passage, and Peter's sticks being nearly exhausted, they awaited
here, while he went in search of more.

The almost expiring light flashed faintly upon the walls of the passage,
showing the recess more horrible. Across the hall, the greater part of
which was concealed in shadow, the feeble ray spread a tremulous gleam,
exhibiting the chasm in the roof, while many nameless objects were seen
imperfectly through the dusk. Adeline with a smile inquired of La Motte
if he believed in spirits. The question was ill-timed; for the present
scene impressed its terrors upon La Motte, and, in spite of endeavour,
he felt a superstitious dread stealing upon him. He was now, perhaps,
standing over the ashes of the dead. If spirits were ever permitted to
revisit the earth, this seemed the hour and the place most suitable for
their appearance. La Motte remaining silent, Adeline said, Were I
inclined to superstition--she was interrupted by a return of the noise
which had been lately heard. It sounded down the passage, at whose
entrance they stood, and sunk gradually away. Every heart palpitated,
and they remained listening in silence. A new subject of apprehension
seized La Motte:--the noise might proceed from banditti, and he
hesitated whether it would be safe to proceed. Peter now came with the
light: Madame refused to enter the passage--La Motte was not much
inclined to it; but Peter, in whom curiosity was more prevalent than
fear, readily offered his services. La Motte, after some hesitation,
suffered him to go, while he awaited at the entrance the result of the
inquiry. The extent of the passage soon concealed Peter from view, and
the echoes of his footsteps were lost in a sound which rushed along the
avenue, and became fainter and fainter till it sunk into silence. La
Motte now called aloud to Peter, but no answer was returned; at length,
they heard the sound of a distant footstep, and Peter soon after
appeared, breathless, and pale with fear.

When he came within hearing of La Motte, he called out, An please your
honour, I've done for them, I believe, but I've had a hard bout. I
thought I was fighting with the devil.--What are you speaking of? said
La Motte.

They were nothing but owls and rooks after all, continued Peter; but the
light brought them all about my ears, and they made such a confounded
clapping with their wings, that I thought at first I had been beset with
a legion of devils. But I have driven them all out, master, and you have
nothing to fear now.

The latter part of the sentence, intimating a suspicion of his courage,
La Motte, could have dispensed with, and to retrieve in some degree his
reputation, he made a point of proceeding through the passage. They now
moved on with alacrity, for, as Peter said, they had nothing to fear.

The passage led into a large area, on one side of which, over a range of
cloisters, appeared the west tower, and a lofty part of the edifice; the
other side was open to the woods. La Motte led the way to a door of the
tower, which he now perceived was the same he had formerly entered; but
he found some difficulty in advancing, for the area was overgrown with
brambles and nettles, and the light which Peter carried afforded only an
uncertain gleam. When he unclosed the door, the dismal aspect of the
place revived the apprehensions of Madame La Motte, and extorted from
Adeline an inquiry whither they were going. Peter held up the light to
show the narrow staircase that wound round the tower; but La Motte,
observing the second door, drew back the rusty bolts, and entered a
spacious apartment, which, from its style and condition, was evidently
of a much later date than the other part of the structure: though
desolate and forlorn, it was very little impaired by time; the walls
were damp, but not decayed; and the glass was yet firm in the windows.

They passed on to a suit of apartments resembling the first they had
seen, and expressed their surprise at the incongruous appearance of this
part of the edifice with the mouldering walls they had left behind.
These apartments conducted them to a winding passage, that received
light and air through narrow cavities placed high in the wall; and was
at length closed by a door barred with iron, which being with some
difficulty opened, they entered a vaulted room. La Motte surveyed it
with a scrutinizing eye, and endeavoured to conjecture for what purpose
it had been guarded by a door of such strength; but he saw little within
to assist his curiosity. The room appeared to have been built in modern
times upon a Gothic plan. Adeline approached a large window that formed
a kind of recess raised by one step over the level of the floor; she
observed to La Motte that the whole floor was inlaid with Mosaic work;
which drew from him a remark, that the style of this apartment was not
strictly Gothic. He passed on to a door which appeared on the opposite
side of the apartment, and, unlocking it, found himself in the great
ball by which he had entered the fabric.

He now perceived, what the gloom had before concealed, a spiral
staircase which led to a gallery above, and which, from its present
condition, seemed to have been built with the more modern part of the
fabric, though this also affected the Gothic mode of architecture: La
Motte had little doubt that these stairs led to apartments corresponding
with those he had passed below, and hesitated whether to explore them;
but the entreaties of Madame, who was much fatigued, prevailed with him
to defer all further examination. After some deliberation in which of
the rooms they should pass the night, they determined to return to that
which opened from the tower.

A fire was kindled on a hearth, which it is probable had not for many
years before afforded the warmth of hospitality; and Peter having spread
the provision he had brought from the coach, La Motte and his family,
encircled round the fire, partook of a repast which hunger and fatigue
made delicious. Apprehension gradually gave way to confidence, for they
now found themselves in something like a human habitation, and they had
leisure to laugh at their late terrors; but, as the blasts shook the
doors, Adeline often started, and threw a fearful glance around. They
continued to laugh and talk cheerfully for a time; yet their merriment
was transient, if not affected; for a sense of their peculiar and
distressed circumstances pressed upon their recollection, and sunk each
individual into languor and pensive silence. Adeline felt the
forlornness of her condition with energy; she reflected upon the past
with astonishment, and anticipated the future with fear. She found
herself wholly dependent upon strangers, with no other claim than what
distress demands from the common sympathy of kindred beings; sighs
swelled her heart, and the frequent tear started to her eye; but she
checked it, ere it betrayed on her check the sorrow which she thought it
would be ungrateful to reveal.

La Motte at length broke this meditative silence, by directing the fire
to be renewed for the night, and the door to be secured: this seemed a
necessary precaution, even in this solitude, and was effected by means
of large stones piled against it, for other fastening there was none. It
had frequently occurred to La Motte, that this apparently forsaken
edifice might be a place of refuge to banditti. Here was solitude to
conceal them; and a wild and extensive forest to assist their schemes of
rapine, and to perplex with its labyrinths those who might be bold
enough to attempt pursuit. These apprehensions, however, he hid within
his own bosom, saving his companions from a share of the uneasiness they
occasioned. Peter was ordered to watch at the door; and having given the
fire a rousing stir, our desolate party drew round it, and sought in
sleep a short oblivion of care.

The night passed on without disturbance. Adeline slept, but uneasy
dreams fleeted before her fancy, and she awoke at an early hour: the
recollection of her sorrows arose upon her mind, and yielding to their
pressure, her tears flowed silently and fast. That she might indulge
them without restraint, she went to a window that looked upon an open
part of the forest: all was gloom and silence; she stood for some time
viewing the shadowy scene.

The first tender tints of morning now appeared on the verge of the
horizon, stealing upon the darkness;--so pure, so fine, so ethereal! it
seemed as if heaven was opening to the view. The dark mists were seen to
roll off to the west, as the tints of light grew stronger, deepening the
obscurity of that part of the hemisphere, and involving the features of
the country below; meanwhile, in the east, the hues became more vivid,
darting a trembling lustre far around, till a ruddy glow, which fired
all that part of the heavens, announced the rising sun. At first, a
small line of inconceivable splendour emerged on the horizon, which
quickly expanding, the sun appeared in all his glory, unveiling the
whole face of nature, vivifying every colour of the landscape, and
sprinkling the dewy earth with glittering light. The low and gentle
responses of birds, awakened by the morning ray, now broke the silence
of the hour; their soft warblings rising by degrees till they swelled
the chorus of universal gladness. Adeline's heart swelled too with
gratitude and adoration.

The scene before her soothed her mind, and exalted her thoughts to the
great Author of Nature; she uttered an involuntary prayer: Father of
good, who made this glorious scene! I resign myself to thy hands: thou
wilt support me under my present sorrows, and to protect me from future
evil.

Thus confiding in the benevolence of God, she wiped the tears from her
eyes, while the sweet union of conscience and reflection rewarded her
trust; and her mind, losing the feelings which had lately oppressed it,
became tranquil and composed.

La Motte awoke soon after, and Peter prepared to set out on his
expedition. As he mounted his horse. An' please you, master, said he, I
think we had as good look no further for a habitation till better times
turn up; for nobody will think of looking for us here; and when one sees
the place by daylight, it's none so bad, but what a little patching up
would make it comfortable enough. La Motte made no reply, but he thought
of Peter's words. During the intervals of the night, when anxiety had
kept him waking, the same idea had occurred to him; concealment was his
only security, and this place afforded it. The desolation of the spot
was repulsive to his wishes; but he had only a choice of evils--a forest
with liberty was not a bad home for one who had too much reason to
expect a prison. As he walked through the apartments, and examined their
condition more attentively, he perceived they might easily be made
habitable; and now surveying them under the cheerfulness of morning, his
design strengthened; and he mused upon the means of accomplishing it,
which nothing seemed so much to obstruct as the apparent difficulty of
procuring food.

He communicated his thoughts to Madame La Motte, who felt repugnance to
the scheme. La Motte, however, seldom consulted his wife till he had
determined how to act; and he had already resolved to be guided in this
affair by the report of Peter. If he could discover a town in the
neighbourhood of the forest, where provisions and other necessaries
could be procured, he would seek no further for a place of rest.

In the mean time he spent the anxious interval of Peter's absence in
examining the ruin, and walking over the environs; they were sweetly
romantic, and the luxuriant woods with which they abounded, seemed to
sequester this spot from the rest of the world. Frequently a natural
vista would yield a view of the country, terminated by hills, which
retiring in distance faded into the blue horizon. A stream, various and
musical in its course, wound at the foot of the lawn on which stood the
abbey; here it silently glided beneath the shades, feeding the flowers
that bloomed on its banks, and diffusing dewy freshness around; there it
spread in broad expanse to day, reflecting the sylvan scene, and the
wild deer that tasted its waves. La Motte observed every where a
profusion of game; the pheasants scarcely flew from his approach, and
the deer gazed mildly at him as he passed. They were strangers to man!

On his return to the abbey, La Motte ascended the stairs that led to the
tower. About half way up, a door appeared in the wall; it yielded,
without resistance, to his hand; but a sudden noise within, accompanied
by a cloud of dust, made him step back and close the door. After waiting
a few minutes, he again opened it, and perceived a large room of the
more modern building. The remains of tapestry hung in tatters upon the
walls, which were become the residence of birds of prey, whose sudden
flight on the opening of the door had brought down a quantity of dust,
and occasioned the noise. The windows were shattered, and almost without
glass; but he was surprised to observe some remains of furniture;
chairs, whose fashion and condition bore the date of their antiquity; a
broken table, and an iron grate almost consumed by rust.

On the opposite side of the room was a door which led to another
apartment, proportioned like the first, but hung with arras somewhat
less tattered. In one corner stood a small bedstead, and a few shattered
chairs were placed round the walls. La Motte gazed with a mixture of
wonder and curiosity. 'Tis strange, said he, that these rooms, and these
alone, should bear the marks of inhabitation; perhaps, some wretched
wanderer like myself, may have here sought refuge from a persecuting
world; and here, perhaps, laid down the load of existence; perhaps, too,
I have followed his footsteps, but to mingle my dust with his! He turned
suddenly, and was about to quit the room, when he perceived a small door
near the bed; it opened into a closet, which was lighted by one small
window, and was in the same condition as the apartments he had passed,
except that it was destitute even of the remains of furniture. As he
walked over the floor, he thought he felt one part of it shake beneath
his steps, and, examining, found a trap-door. Curiosity prompted him to
explore further, and with some difficulty he opened it. It disclosed a
staircase which terminated in darkness. La Motte descended a few steps,
but was unwilling to trust the abyss; and, after wondering for what
purpose it was so secretly constructed, he closed the trap, and quitted
this suit of apartments.

The stairs in the tower above were so much decayed, that he did not
attempt to ascend them: he returned to the hall, and by the spiral
staircase which he had observed the evening before, reached the gallery,
and found another suit of apartments entirely furnished, very much like
those below.

He renewed with Madame La Motte his former conversation respecting the
abbey, and she exerted all her endeavours to dissuade him from his
purpose, acknowledging the solitary security of the spot, but pleading
that other places might be found equally well adapted for concealment
and more for comfort. This La Motte doubted: besides, the forest
abounded with game, which would, at once, afford him amusement and food,
a circumstance, considering his small stock of money, by no means to be
overlooked; and he had suffered his mind to dwell so much upon the
scheme, that it was become a favourite one. Adeline listened in anxiety
to the discourse, and waited the issue of Peter's report.

The morning passed but Peter did not return. Our solitary party took
their dinner of the provision they had fortunately brought with them,
and afterwards walked forth into the woods. Adeline, who never suffered
any good to pass unnoticed because it came attended with evil, forgot
for a while the desolation of the abbey in the beauty of the adjacent
scenery. The pleasantness of the shades soothed her heart, and the
varied features of the landscape amused her fancy; she almost thought
she could be contented to live here. Already she began to feel an
interest in the concerns of her companions, and for Madame La Motte she
felt more; it was the warm emotion of gratitude and affection.

The afternoon wore away, and they returned to the abbey. Peter was still
absent, and his absence now began to excite surprise and apprehension.
The approach of darkness also threw a gloom upon the hopes of the
wanderers: another night must be passed under the same forlorn
circumstances as the preceding one! and, what was still worse, with a
very scanty stock of provisions. The fortitude of Madame La Motte now
entirely forsook her, and she wept bitterly. Adeline's heart was as
mournful as Madame's, but she rallied her drooping spirits, and gave the
first instance of her kindness by endeavouring to revive those of her
friend.

La Motte was restless and uneasy, and, leaving the abbey, he walked
alone the way which Peter had taken. He had not gone far, when he
perceived him between the trees, leading his horse.--What news, Peter?
hallooed La Motte. Peter came on, panting for breath, and said not a
word, till La Motte repeated the question in a tone of somewhat more
authority. Ah, bless you, master! said he, when he had taken breath to
answer, I am glad to see you; I thought I should never have got back
again: I've met with a world of misfortunes.

Well, you may relate them hereafter; let me hear whether you have
discovered--

Discovered? interrupted Peter, yes, I am discovered with a vengeance! if
your honour will look at my arms, you'll see how I am discovered.

Discoloured! I suppose you mean, said La Motte. But how came you in this
condition!

Why I tell you how it was, Sir; your honour knows I learnt a smack of
boxing of that Englishman that used to come with his master to our
house.

Well, well--tell me where you have been.

I scarcely know myself, master; I've been where I got a sound drubbing,
but then it was in your business, and so I don't mind. But if ever I
meet with that rascal again!--

You seem to like your first drubbing so well, that you want another, and
unless you speak more to the purpose, you shall soon have one.

Peter was now frightened into method, and endeavoured to proceed: When I
left the old abbey, said he, I followed the way you directed, and
turning to the right of that grove of trees yonder, I looked this way
and that to see if I could see a house or a cottage, or even a man, but
not a _soul_ of them was to be seen, and so I jogged on near the value
of a league, I warrant, and then I came to a track; Oh! oh! says I, we
have you now; this will do--paths can't be made without feet. However, I
was out in my reckoning, for the devil a bit of a _soul_ could I see,
and after following the track this way and that way, for the third
of a league, I lost it, and had to find out another.

Is it impossible for you to speak to the point? said La Motte; omit
these foolish particulars, and tell whether you have succeeded.

Well, then, master, to be short, for that's the nearest way after all, I
wandered a long while at random, I did not know where, all through a
forest like this, and I took special care to note how the trees stood,
that I might find my way back. At last I came to another path, and was
sure I should find something now, though I had found nothing before, for
I could not be mistaken twice; so, peeping between the trees, I spied a
cottage, and I gave my horse a lash that sounded through the forest, and
I was at the door in a minute. They told me there was a town about half
a league off, and bade me follow the track and it would bring me
there,--so it did; and my horse, I believe, smelt the corn in the manger
by the rate he went at. I inquired for a wheel-wright, and was told
there was but one in the place, and he could not be found. I waited and
waited, for I knew it was in vain to think of returning without doing my
business. The man at last came home from the country, and I told him how
long I had waited; for, says I, I knew it was in vain to return without
my business.

Do be less tedious, said La Motte, if it is in thy nature.

It is in my nature, answered Peter, and if it was more in my nature your
honour should have it all. Would you think it, Sir, the fellow had the
impudence to ask a louis-d'or for mending the coach-wheel! I believe in
my conscience he saw I was in a hurry and could not do without him. A
louis-d'or! says I, my master shall give no such price, he sha'n't be
imposed upon by no such rascal as you. Whereupon, the fellow looked
glum, and gave me a douse o'the chops: with this, I up with my fist and
gave him another, and should have beat him presently, if another man had
not come in, and then I was obliged to give up.

And so you are returned as wise as you went?

Why, master, I hope I have too much spirit to submit to a rascal, or let
you submit, to one either: besides, I have bought some nails to try if I
can't mend the wheel myself--I had always a hand at carpentry.

Well, I commend your zeal in my cause, but on this occasion it was
rather ill-timed. And what have you got in that basket?

Why, master, I bethought me that we could not get away from this place
till the carriage was ready to draw us, and in the mean time, says I,
nobody can live without victuals, so I'll e'en lay out the little money
I have and take a basket with me.

That's the only wise thing you have done yet, and this, indeed, redeems
your blunders.

Why now, master, it does my heart good to hear you speak; I knew I was
doing for the best all the while: but I've had a hard job to find my way
back; and here's another piece of ill luck, for the horse has got a
thorn in his foot.

La Motte made inquiries concerning the town, and found it was capable of
supplying him with provision, and what little furniture was necessary to
render the abbey habitable. This intelligence almost settled his plans,
and he ordered Peter to return on the following morning and make
inquiries concerning the abbey. If the answers were favourable to his
wishes, he commissioned him to buy a cart and load it with some
furniture, and some materials necessary for repairing the modern
apartments. Peter stared: What, does your honour mean to live here?

Why, suppose I do?

Why, then your honour has made a wise determination, according to my
hint; for your honour knows I said--

Well, Peter, it is not necessary to repeat what you said; perhaps I had
determined on the subject before.

Egad, master, you're in the right, and I'm glad of it, for I believe we
shall not quickly be disturbed here, except by the rooks and owls. Yes,
yes--I warrant I'll make it a place fit for a king; and as for the town,
one may get any thing, I'm sure of that; though they think no more about
this place than they do about India or England, or any of those places.

They now reached the abbey; where Peter was received with great joy: but
the hopes of his mistress and Adeline were repressed, when they learned
that he returned without having executed his commission, and heard his
account of the town. La Motte's orders to Peter were heard with almost
equal concern by Madame and Adeline; but the latter concealed her
uneasiness, and used all her efforts to overcome that of her friend. The
sweetness of her behaviour, and the air of satisfaction she assumed,
sensibly affected Madame, and discovered to her a source of comfort
which she had hitherto overlooked. The affectionate attentions of her
young friend promised to console her for the want of other society, and
her conversation to enliven the hours which might otherwise be passed in
painful regret.

The observations and general behaviour of Adeline already bespoke a good
understanding and an amiable heart; but she had yet more--she had
genius. She was now in her nineteenth year; her figure of the middling
size, and turned to the most exquisite proportion; her hair was dark
auburn, her eyes blue, and whether they sparkled with intelligence, or
melted with tenderness, they were equally attractive: her form had the
airy lightness of a nymph, and when she smiled, her countenance might
have been drawn for the younger sister of Hebe: the captivations of her
beauty were heightened by the grace and simplicity of her manners, and
confirmed by the intrinsic value of a heart.


That might be shrined in chrystal,
And have all its movements scann'd.


Annette now kindled the fire for the night: Peter's basket was opened,
and supper prepared. Madame La Motte was still pensive and
silent.--There is scarcely any condition so bad, said Adeline, but we
may one time or the other wish we had not quitted it. Honest Peter, when
he was bewildered in the forest, or had two enemies to encounter instead
of one, confesses he wished himself at the abbey. And I am certain,
there is no situation so destitute, but comfort may be extracted from
it. The blaze of this fire shines yet more cheerfully from the
contrasted dreariness of the place; and this plentiful repast is made
yet more delicious from the temporary want we have suffered. Let us
enjoy the good and forget the evil.

You speak, my dear, replied Madame La Motte, like one whose spirits have
not been often depressed by misfortune (Adeline sighed), and whose hopes
are therefore vigorous. Long suffering, said La Motte, has subdued in
our minds that elastic energy which repels the pressure of evil and
dances to the bound of joy. But I speak in raphsody, though only from
the remembrance of such a time. I once, like you, Adeline, could extract
comfort from most situations.

And may now, my dear Sir, said Adeline. Still believe it possible, and
you will find it is so.

The illusion is gone--I can no longer deceive myself.

Pardon me, Sir, if I say, it is now only you deceive yourself, by
suffering the cloud of sorrow to tinge every object you look upon.

It may be so, said La Motte, but let us leave the subject.

After supper, the doors were secured, as before, for the night, and the
wanderers resigned themselves to repose.

On the following morning, Peter again set out for the little town of
Auboine, and the hours of his absence were again spent by Madame La
Motte and Adeline in much anxiety and some hope, for the intelligence he
might bring concerning the abbey might yet release them from the plans
of La Motte. Towards the close of the day he was descried coming slowly
on; and the cart, which accompanied him, too certainly confirmed their
fears. He brought materials for repairing the place, and some furniture.

Of the abbey he gave an account, of which the following is the
substance:--It belonged, together with a large part of the adjacent
forest, to a nobleman, who now resided with his family on a remote
estate. He inherited it, in right of his wife, from his father-in-law,
who had caused the more modern apartments to be erected, and had resided
in them some part of every year, for the purpose of shooting and
hunting. It was reported, that some person was, soon after it came to
the present possessor, brought secretly to the abbey and confined in
these apartments; who, or what he was, had never been conjectured, and
what became of him nobody knew. The report died gradually away, and many
persons entirely disbelieved the whole of it. But however this affair
might be, certain it was, the present owner had visited the abbey only
two summers since his succeeding to it; and the furniture after some
time, was removed.

This circumstance had at first excited surprise, and various reports
rose in consequence, but it was difficult to know what ought to be
believed. Among the rest, it was said that strange appearances had been
observed at the abbey, and uncommon noises heard; and though this report
had been ridiculed by sensible persons as the idle superstition of
ignorance, it had fastened so strongly upon the minds of the common
people, that for the last seventeen years none of the peasantry had
ventured to approach the spot. The abbey was now, therefore, abandoned
to decay.

La Motte ruminated upon this account. At first it called up unpleasant
ideas, but they were soon dismissed, and considerations more interesting
to his welfare took place: he congratulated himself that he had now
found a spot where he was not likely to be either discovered or
disturbed; yet it could not escape him that there was a strange
coincidence between one part of Peter's narrative, and the condition of
the chambers that opened from the tower above stairs. The remains of
furniture, of which the other apartments were void--the solitary
bed--the number and connexion of the rooms, were circumstances that
united to confirm his opinion. This, however, he concealed in his own
breast, for he already perceived that Peter's account had not assisted
in reconciling his family to the necessity of dwelling at the abbey.

But they had only to submit in silence, and whatever disagreeable
apprehension might intrude upon them, they now appeared willing to
suppress the expression of it. Peter, indeed, was exempt from any evil
of this kind; he knew no fear, and his mind was now wholly occupied with
his approaching business. Madame La Motte, with a placid kind of
despair, endeavoured to reconcile herself to that which no effort of
understanding could teach her to avoid, and which an indulgence in
lamentation could only make more intolerable. Indeed, though a sense of
the immediate inconveniences to be endured at the abbey had made her
oppose the scheme of living there, she did not really know how their
situation could be improved by removal: yet her thoughts often wandered
towards Paris, and reflected the retrospect of past times, with the
images of weeping friends left, perhaps, for ever. The affectionate
endearments of her only son, whom, from the danger of his situation, and
the obscurity of hers, she might reasonably fear never to see again,
arose upon her memory and overcame her fortitude. Why--why was I
reserved for this hour? would she say, and what will be my years to
come?

Adeline had no retrospect of past delight to give emphasis to present
calamity--no weeping friends--no dear regretted objects to point the
edge of sorrow, and throw a sickly hue upon her future prospects: she
knew not yet the pangs of disappointed hope, or the acuter sting of
self-accusation; she had no misery but what patience could assuage, or
fortitude overcome.

At the dawn of the following day Peter arose to his labour: he proceeded
with alacrity, and in a few days two of the lower apartments were so
much altered for the better that La Motte began to exult, and his family
to perceive that their situation would not be so miserable as they had
imagined. The furniture Peter had already brought was disposed in these
rooms, one of which was the vaulted apartment. Madame La Motte furnished
this as a sitting-room, preferring it for its large Gothic window, that
descended almost to the floor, admitting a prospect of the lawn, and the
picturesque scenery of the surrounding woods.

Peter having returned to Auboine for a further supply, all the lower
apartments were in a few weeks not only habitable, but comfortable.
These, however, being insufficient for the accommodation of the family,
a room above stairs was prepared for Adeline: it was the chamber that
opened immediately from the tower, and she preferred it to those beyond,
because it was less distant from the family, and the windows fronting an
avenue of the forest afforded a more extensive prospect. The tapestry,
that was decayed, and hung loosely from the walls, was now nailed up,
and made to look less desolate; and though the room had still a solemn
aspect, from its spaciousness and the narrowness of the windows, it was
not uncomfortable.

The first night that Adeline retired hither, she slept little: the
solitary air of the place affected her spirits; the more so, perhaps,
because she had, with friendly consideration, endeavoured to support
them in the presence of Madame La Motte. She remembered the narrative of
Peter, several circumstances of which had impressed her imagination in
spite of her reason, and she found it difficult wholly to subdue
apprehension. At one time, terror so strongly seized her mind, that she
had even opened the door with an intention of calling Madame La Motte;
but, listening for a moment on the stairs of the tower, every thing
seemed still: at length, she heard the voice of La Motte speaking
cheerfully, and the absurdity of her fears struck her forcibly; she
blushed that she had for a moment submitted to them, and returned to her
chamber wondering at herself.




CHAPTER III


Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season's difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind.

SHAKSPEARE.


La Motte arranged his little plan of living. His mornings were usually
spent in shooting or fishing, and the dinner, thus provided by his
industry, he relished with a keener appetite than had ever attended him
at the luxurious tables of Paris. The afternoons he passed with his
family: sometimes he would select a book from the few he had brought
with him, and endeavoured to fix his attention to the words his lips
repeated:--but his mind suffered little abstraction from its own cares,
and the sentiment he pronounced left no trace behind it. Sometimes he
conversed, but oftener sat in gloomy silence, musing upon the past, or
anticipating the future.

At these moments, Adeline, with a sweetness almost irresistible,
endeavoured to enliven his spirits, and to withdraw him from himself.
Seldom she succeeded; but when she did, the grateful looks of Madame La
Motte, and the benevolent feelings of her own bosom, realized the
cheerfulness she had at first only assumed. Adeline's mind had the happy
art, or, perhaps, it were more just to say, the happy nature, of
accommodating itself to her situation. Her present condition, though
forlorn, was not devoid of comfort, and this comfort was confirmed by
her virtues. So much she won upon the affections of her protectors, that
Madame La Motte loved her as her child, and La Motte himself, though a
man little susceptible of tenderness, could not be insensible to her
solicitudes. Whenever he relaxed from the sullenness of misery, it was
at the influence of Adeline.

Peter regularly brought a weekly supply of provisions from Auboine, and,
on those occasions, always quitted the town by a route contrary to that
leading to the abbey. Several weeks having passed without molestation,
La Motte dismissed all apprehension of pursuit, and at length became
tolerably reconciled to the complexion of his circumstances.

As habit and effort strengthened the fortitude of Madame La Motte, the
features of misfortune appeared to soften. The forest, which at first
seemed to her a frightful solitude, had lost its terrific aspect; and
that edifice, whose half demolished walls and gloomy desolation had
struck her mind with the force of melancholy and dismay, was now beheld
as a domestic asylum, and a safe refuge from the storms of power.

She was a sensible and highly accomplished woman, and it became her
chief delight to form the rising graces of Adeline, who had, as has been
already shown, a sweetness of disposition, which made her quick to repay
instruction with improvement, and indulgence with love. Never was
Adeline so pleased as when she anticipated her wishes, and never so
diligent as when she was employed in her business. The little affairs of
the household she overlooked and managed with such admirable exactness,
that Madame La Motte had neither anxiety nor care concerning them. And
Adeline formed for herself in this barren situation, many amusements
that occasionally banished the remembrance of her misfortunes. La
Motte's books were her chief consolation. With one of these she would
frequently ramble into the forest, where the river, winding through a
glade, diffused coolness, and with its murmuring accents invited repose:
there she would seat herself, and, resigned to the illusions of the
page, pass many hours in oblivion of sorrow.

Here too, when her mind was tranquillized by the surrounding scenery,
she wooed the gentle muse, and indulged in ideal happiness. The delight
of these moments she commemorated in the following address:


TO THE VISIONS OF FANCY.

Dear, wild illusions of creative mind!
  Whose varying hues arise to Fancy's art,
And by her magic force are swift combined
  In forms that please, and scenes that touch the
    heart:
Oh! whether at her voice ye soft assume
  The pensive grace of sorrow drooping low;
Or rise sublime on terror's lofty plume,
  And shake the soul with wildly thrilling woe;
Or, sweetly bright, your gayer tints ye spread,
  Bid scenes of pleasures steal upon my view,
Love wave his purple pinions o'er my head,
  And wake the tender thought to passion true.
O! still----ye shadowy forms! attend my lonely hours,
Still chase my real cares with your illusive powers!


Madame La Motte had frequently expressed curiosity concerning the events
of Adeline's life, and by what circumstances she had been thrown into a
situation so perilous and mysterious as that in which La Motte had found
her. Adeline had given a brief account of the manner in which she had
been brought thither, but had always with tears entreated to be spared
for that time from a particular relation of her history. Her spirits
were not then equal to retrospection; but now that they were soothed by
quiet, and strengthened by confidence, she one day gave Madame La Motte
the following narration.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am the only child, said Adeline, Of Louis de St. Pierre, a chevalier
of reputable family, but of small fortune, who for many years resided at
Paris. Of my mother I have a faint remembrance: I lost her when I was
only seven years old, and this was my first misfortune. At her death, my
father gave up housekeeping, boarded me in a convent, and quitted Paris.
Thus was I, at this early period of my life, abandoned to strangers. My
father came sometimes to Paris; he then visited me, and I well remember
the grief I used to feel when he bade me farewell. On these occasions,
which wrung my heart with grief, he appeared unmoved; so that I often
thought he had little tenderness for me. But he was my father, and the
only person to whom I could look up for protection and love.

In this convent I continued till I was twelve years old. A thousand
times I had entreated my father to take me home; but at first, motives
of prudence, and afterwards of avarice, prevented him. I was now removed
from this convent, and placed in another, where I learned my father
intended I should take the veil. I will not attempt to express my
surprise and grief on this occasion. Too long I had been immured in the
walls of a cloister, and too much had I seen of the sullen misery of its
votaries, not to feel horror and disgust at the prospect of being added
to their number.

The Lady Abbess was a woman of rigid decorum and severe devotion: exact
in the observance of every detail of form, and never forgave an offence
against ceremony. It was her method, when she wanted to make converts to
her order, to denounce and terrify, rather than to persuade and allure.
Hers were the arts of cunning practised upon fear, not those of
sophistication upon reason. She employed numberless stratagems to gain
me to her purpose, and they all wore the complexion of her character.
But in the life to which she would have devoted me, I saw too many forms
of real terror, to be overcome by the influence of her ideal host, and
was resolute in rejecting the veil. Here I passed several years of
miserable resistance against cruelty and superstition. My father I
seldom saw; when I did, I entreated him to alter my destination; but he
objected that his fortune was insufficient to support me in the world,
and at length denounced vengeance on my head if I persisted in
disobedience.

You, my dear Madam, can form little idea of the wretchedness of my
situation, condemned to perpetual imprisonment, and imprisonment of the
most dreadful kind, or to the vengeance of a father, from whom I had no
appeal. My resolution relaxed--for some time I paused upon the choice of
evils--but at length the horrors of the monastic life rose so fully to
my view, that fortitude gave way before them. Excluded from the cheerful
intercourse of society--from the pleasant view of nature--almost from
the light of day--condemned to silence--rigid formality--abstinence and
penance--condemned to forgo the delights of a world which imagination
painted in the gayest and most alluring colours, and whose hues were,
perhaps, not the less captivating because they were only ideal--such was
the sate to which I was destined. Again my resolution was invigorated:
my father's cruelty subdued tenderness, and roused indignation. Since he
can forget, said I, the affection of a parent, and condemn his child
without remorse to wretchedness and despair--the bond of filial and
parental duty no longer subsists between us--he has himself dissolved
it, and I will yet struggle for liberty and life.

Finding me unmoved by menace, the Lady Abbess had now recourse to more
subtle measures: she condescended to smile, and even to flatter; but
hers was the distorted smile of cunning, not the gracious emblem of
kindness; it provoked disgust, instead of inspiring affection. She
painted the character of a vestal in the most beautiful tints of
art--its holy innocence--its mild dignity--its sublime devotion. I
sighed as she spoke. This she regarded as a favourable symptom, and
proceeded on her picture with more animation. She described the serenity
of a monastic life--its security from the seductive charms, restless
passions, and sorrowful vicissitudes of the world--the rapturous
delights of religion, and the sweet reciprocal affection of the
sisterhood.

So highly she finished the piece, that the lurking lines of cunning
would, to an inexperienced eye, have escaped detection. Mine was too
sorrowfully informed. Too often had I witnessed the secret tear and
bursting sigh of vain regret, the sullen pinings of discontent, and the
mute anguish of despair. My silence and my manner assured her of my
incredulity, and it was with difficulty that she preserved a decent
composure.

My father, as may be imagined, was highly incensed at my perseverance,
which he called obstinacy; but, what will not be so easily believed, he
soon after relented, and appointed a day to take me from the convent. O!
judge of my feelings when I received this intelligence. The joy it
occasioned awakened all my gratitude; I forgot the former cruelty of my
father, and that the present indulgence was less the effect of his
kindness than of my resolution. I wept that I could not indulge his
every wish.

What days of blissful expectation were those that preceded my departure!
The world, from which I had been hitherto secluded--the world, in which
my fancy had been so often delighted to roam--whose paths were strewn
with fadeless roses--whose every scene smiled in beauty and invited to
delight--where all the people were good, and all the good happy--Ah!
_then_ that world was bursting upon my view. Let me catch the rapturous
remembrance before it vanish! It is like the passing lights of autumn,
that gleam for a moment on a hill, and then leave it to darkness. I
counted the days and hours that withheld me from this fairy land. It was
in the convent only that people were deceitful and cruel; it was there
only that misery dwelt. I was quitting it all! How I pitied the poor
nuns that were to be left behind! I would have given half that world I
prized so much, had it been mine, to have taken them out with me.

The long wished for day at last arrived. My father came, and for a
moment my joy was lost in the sorrow of bidding farewell to my poor
companions, for whom I had never felt such warmth of kindness as at this
instant. I was soon beyond the gates of the convent. I looked around me,
and viewed the vast vault of heaven no longer bounded by monastic walls,
and the green earth extended in hill and dale to the round verge of the
horizon! My heart danced with delight, tears swelled in my eyes, and for
some moments I was unable to speak. My thoughts rose to heaven in
sentiments of gratitude to the Giver of all good!

At length I returned to my father: Dear Sir, said I, how I thank you for
my deliverance, and how I wish I could do every thing to oblige you!

Return, then, to your convent, said he in a harsh accent. I shuddered:
his look and manner jarred the tone of my feelings; they struck discord
upon my heart! which had before responded only to harmony. The ardour of
joy was in a moment repressed, and every object around me was saddened
with the gloom of disappointment. It was not that I suspected my father
would take me back to the convent; but that his feelings seemed so very
dissonant to the joy and gratitude which I had but a moment before felt
and expressed to him.--Pardon, Madam, a relation of these trivial
circumstances; the strong vicissitudes of feeling which they impressed
upon my heart, make me think them important, when they are, perhaps,
only disgusting.

No, my dear, said Madame La Motte, they are interesting to me; they
illustrate little traits of character, which I love to observe. You are
worthy of all my regards, and from this moment I give my tenderest pity
to your misfortunes, and my affection to your goodness.

These words melted the heart of Adeline; she kissed the hand which
Madame held out, and remained a few minutes silent. At length she said,
May I deserve this goodness! and may I ever be thankful to God, who, in
giving me such a friend, has raised me to comfort and hope!

My father's house was situated a few leagues on the other side of Paris,
and in our way to it we passed through that city. What a novel scene!
Where were now the solemn faces, the demure manners I had been
accustomed to see in the convent? Every countenance was here animated,
either by business or pleasure; every step was airy, and every smile was
gay. All the people appeared like friends; they looked and smiled at me;
I smiled again, and wished to have told them how pleased I was. How
delightful, said I, to live surrounded by friends!

What crowded streets! what magnificent hotels! what splendid equipages!
I scarcely observed that the streets were narrow, or the way dangerous.
What bustle, what tumult, what delight! I could never be sufficiently
thankful that I was removed from the convent. Again I was going to
express my gratitude to my father, but his looks forbad me, and I was
silent. I am too diffuse; even the faint forms which memory reflects of
passed delight are grateful to the heart. The shadow of pleasure is
still gazed upon with a melancholy enjoyment, though the substance is
fled beyond our reach.

Having quitted Paris, which I left with many sighs, and gazed upon till
the towers of every church dissolved in distance from my view, we
entered upon a gloomy and unfrequented road. It was evening when we
reached a wild heath; I looked round in search of a human dwelling, but
could find none; and not a human being was to be seen. I experienced
something of what I used to feel in the convent; my heart had not been
so sad since I left it. Of my father, who still sat in silence, I
inquired if we were near home; he answered in the affirmative. Night
came on, however, before we reached the place of our destination; it was
a lone house on the waste; but I need not describe it to you, Madam.
When the carriage stopped, two men appeared at the door, and assisted us
to alight: so gloomy were their countenances, and so few their words, I
almost fancied myself again in the convent; certain it is, I had not
seen such melancholy faces since I quitted it. Is this a part of the
world I have so fondly contemplated? said I.

The interior appearance of the house was desolate and mean; I was
surprised that my father had chosen such a place for his habitation, and
also that no woman was to be seen; but I knew that inquiry would only
produce a reproof, and was therefore silent. At supper, the two men I
had before seen sat down with us; they said little, but seemed to
observe me much. I was confused and displeased; which my father
noticing, frowned at them with a look which convinced me he meant more
than I comprehended. When the cloth was drawn, my father took my hand
and conducted me to the door of my chamber; having set down the candle,
and wished me good night, he left me to my own solitary thoughts.

How different were they from those I had indulged a few hours before!
then expectation, hope, delight, danced before me; now melancholy and
disappointment chilled the ardour of my mind, and discoloured my future
prospect. The appearance of every thing around conduced to depress me.
On the floor lay a small bed without curtains or hangings; two old
chairs and a table were all the remaining furniture in the room. I went
to the window, with an intention of looking out upon the surrounding
scene, and found it was grated. I was shocked at this circumstance, and
comparing it with the lonely situation and the strange appearance of the
house, together with the countenances and behaviour of the men who had
supped with us, I was lost in a labyrinth of conjecture.

At length I lay down to sleep; but the anxiety of my mind prevented
repose; gloomy unpleasing images flitted before my fancy, and I fell
into a sort of waking dream: I thought that I was in a lonely forest
with my father; his looks were severe, and his gestures menacing: he
upbraided me for leaving the convent, and while he spoke, drew from his
pocket a mirror, which he held before my face; I looked in it and saw,
(my blood now thrills as I repeat it) I saw myself wounded, and bleeding
profusely. Then I thought myself in the house again; and suddenly heard
these words, in accents so distinct, that for some time after I awoke I
could scarcely believe them ideal, Depart this house, destruction hovers
here.

I was awakened by a footstep on the stairs; it was my father retiring to
his chamber; the lateness of the hour surprised me, for it was past
midnight.

On the following morning, the party of the preceding evening assembled
at breakfast, and were as gloomy and silent as before. The table was
spread by a boy of my father's; but the cook and the housemaid, whatever
they might be, were invisible.

The next morning I was surprised, on attempting to leave my chamber, to
find the door locked; I waited a considerable time before I ventured to
call; when I did, no answer was returned; I then went to the window, and
called more loudly, but my own voice was still the only sound I heard.
Near an hour I passed in a state of surprise and terror not to be
described: at length I heard a person coming up stairs, and I renewed
the call; I was answered, that my father had that morning set off for
Paris, whence he would return in a few days; in the meanwhile he had
ordered me to be confined in my chamber. On my expressing surprise and
apprehension at this circumstance, I was assured I had nothing to fear,
and that I should live as well as if I was at liberty.

The latter part of this speech seemed to contain an odd kind of comfort;
I made little reply, but submitted to necessity. Once more I was
abandoned to sorrowful reflection: what a day was the one I now passed!
alone, and agitated with grief and apprehension. I endeavoured to
conjecture the cause of this harsh treatment; and at length concluded it
was designed by my father, as a punishment for my former disobedience.
But why abandon me to the power of strangers, to men, whose countenances
bore the stamp of villainy so strongly as to impress even my
inexperienced mind with terror! Surmise involved me only deeper in
perplexity, yet I found it impossible to forbear pursuing the subject;
and the day was divided between lamentation and conjecture. Night at
length came, and such a night! Darkness brought new terrors: I looked
round the chamber for some means of fastening my door on the inside, but
could perceive none; at last I contrived to place the back of a chair in
an oblique direction, so as to render it secure.

I had scarcely done this, and lain down upon my bed in my clothes, not
to sleep, but to watch, when I heard a rap at the door of the house,
which was opened and shut so quickly, that the person who had knocked,
seemed only to deliver a letter or message. Soon after, I heard voices
at intervals in a room below stairs, sometimes speaking very low, and
sometimes rising all together, as if in dispute. Something more
excusable than curiosity made me endeavour to distinguish what was said,
but in vain; now and then a word or two reached me, and once I heard my
name repeated, but no more.

Thus passed the hours till midnight, when all became still. I had lain
for some time in a state between fear and hope, when I heard the lock of
my door gently moved backward and forward; I started up and listened;
for a moment it was still, then the noise returned, and I heard a
whispering without; my spirits died away, but I was yet sensible.
Presently an effort was made at the door, as if to force it; I shrieked
aloud, and immediately heard the voices of the men I had seen at my
father's table: they called loudly for the door to be opened, and on my
returning no answer, uttered dreadful execrations. I had just strength
sufficient to move to the window, in the desperate hope of escaping
thence; but my feeble efforts could not even shake the bars. O! how can
I recollect these moments of horror, and be sufficiently thankful that I
am now in safety and comfort!

They remained some time at the door, then they quitted it, and went down
stairs. How my heart revived at every step of their departure! I fell
upon my knees, thanked God that he had preserved me this time, and
implored his further protection. I was rising from this short prayer,
when suddenly I heard a noise in a different part of the room, and on
looking round, I perceived the door of a small closet open, and two men
enter the chamber.

They seized me, and I sunk senseless in their arms; how long I remained
in this condition I know not; but on reviving, I perceived myself again
alone, and heard several voices from below stairs. I had presence of
mind to run to the door of the closet, my only chance of escape; but it
was locked! I then recollected it was possible that the ruffians might
have forgot to turn the key of the chamber door, which was held by the
chair; but here, also, I was disappointed. I clasped my hands in an
agony of despair, and stood for some time immoveable.

A violent noise from below roused me, and soon after I heard people
ascending the stairs: I now gave myself up for lost. The steps
approached, the door of the closet was again unlocked. I stood calmly,
and again saw the men enter the chamber; I neither spoke, nor resisted:
the faculties of my soul were wrought up beyond the power of feeling; as
a violent blow on the body stuns for awhile the sense of pain. They led
me down stairs; the door of a room below was thrown open, and I beheld a
stranger; it was then that my senses returned; I shrieked and resisted,
but was forced along. It is unnecessary to say that this stranger was
Monsieur La Motte, or to add, that I shall for ever bless him as my
deliverer.

Adeline ceased to speak; Madame La Motte remained silent. There were
some circumstances in Adeline's narrative, which raised all her
curiosity. She asked if Adeline believed her father to be a party in
this mysterious affair. Adeline, though it was impossible to doubt that
he had been principally and materially concerned in some part of it,
thought, or said she thought, he was innocent of any intention against
her life. Yet, what motive, said Madame La Motte, could there be for a
degree of cruelty so apparently unprofitable?--Here the inquiry ended;
and Adeline confessed she had pursued it till her mind shrunk from all
further research.

The sympathy which such uncommon misfortune excited, Madame La Motte now
expressed without reserve, and this expression of it strengthened the
tie of mutual friendship. Adeline felt her spirits relieved by the
disclosure she had made to Madame La Motte; and the latter acknowledged
the value of the confidence, by an increase of affectionate attentions.




CHAPTER IV


...... My May of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf.

MACBETH.


Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
He wore his endless noons alone,
Amid th' autumnal wood:
Oft was he wont in hasty fit,
Abrupt the social board to quit.

WHARTON.


La Motte had now passed above a month in this seclusion; and his wife
had the pleasure to see him recover tranquillity and even cheerfulness.
In this pleasure Adeline warmly participated; and she might justly have
congratulated herself as one cause of his restoration; her cheerfulness
and delicate attention had effected what Madame La Motte's greater
anxiety had failed to accomplish. La Motte did not seem regardless of
her amiable disposition, and sometimes thanked her in a manner more
earnest than was usual with him. She, in her turn, considered him as her
only protector and now felt towards him the affection of a daughter.

The time she had spent in this peaceful retirement had softened the
remembrance of past events, and restored her mind to its natural tone:
and when memory brought back to her view the former short and romantic
expectations of happiness, though she gave a sigh to the rapturous
illusion, she less lamented the disappointment, than rejoiced in her
present security and comfort.

But the satisfaction which La Motte's cheerfulness diffused around him
was of short continuance; he became suddenly gloomy and reserved; the
society of his family was no longer grateful to him; and he would spend
whole hours in the most secluded parts of the forest, devoted to
melancholy and secret grief. He did not, as formerly, indulge the humour
of his sadness, without restraint, in the presence of others; he now
evidently endeavoured to conceal it, and affected a cheerfulness that
was too artificial to escape detection.

His servant Peter, either impelled by curiosity or kindness, sometimes
followed him unseen, into the forest. He observed him frequently retire
to one particular spot, in a remote part, which having gained, he always
disappeared, before Peter, who was obliged to follow at a distance,
could exactly notice where. All his endeavours, now prompted by wonder
and invigorated by disappointment, were unsuccessful, and he was at
length compelled to endure the tortures of unsatisfied curiosity.

This change in the manners and habits of her husband was too conspicuous
to pass unobserved by Madame La Motte, who endeavoured, by all the
stratagems which affection could suggest, or female invention supply, to
win him to her confidence. He seemed insensible to the influence of the
first, and withstood the wiles of the latter. Finding all her efforts
insufficient to dissipate the glooms which overhung his mind, or to
penetrate their secret cause, she desisted from further attempt, and
endeavoured to submit to this mysterious distress.

Week after week elapsed, and the same unknown cause sealed the lips and
corroded the heart of La Motte. The place of his visitation in the
forest had not been traced. Peter had frequently examined round the spot
where his master disappeared, but had never discovered any recess which
could be supposed to conceal him. The astonishment of the servant was at
length raised to an insupportable degree, and he communicated to his
mistress the subject of it.

The emotion which this information excited, she disguised from Peter,
and reproved him for the means he had taken to gratify his curiosity.
But she revolved this circumstance in her thoughts, and comparing it
with the late alteration in his temper, her uneasiness was renewed, and
her perplexity considerably increased. After much consideration, being
unable to assign any other motive for his conduct, she began to
attribute it to the influence of illicit passion; and her heart, which
now out-ran her judgment, confirmed the supposition, and roused all the
torturing pangs of jealousy.

Comparatively speaking, she had never known affliction till now: she had
abandoned her dearest friends and connexions--had relinquished the
gaieties, the luxuries, and almost the necessaries of life;--fled with
her family into exile, an exile the most dreary and comfortless;
experiencing the evils of reality, and those of apprehension, united:
all these she had patiently endured, supported by the affection of him
for whose sake she suffered. Though that affection, indeed, had for some
time appeared to be abated, she had borne its decrease with fortitude;
but the last stroke of calamity, hitherto withheld, now came with
irresistible force--the love, of which she lamented the loss, she now
believed was transferred to another.

The operation of strong passion confuses the powers of reason, and warps
them to its own particular direction. Her usual degree of judgment,
unopposed by the influence of her heart, would probably have pointed out
to Madame La Motte some circumstances upon the subject of her distress,
equivocal, if not contradictory to her suspicions. No such circumstances
appeared to her, and she did not long hesitate to decide, that Adeline
was the object of her husband's attachment. Her beauty out of the
question, who else, indeed, could it be in a spot thus secluded from the
world?

The same cause destroyed, almost at the same moment, her only remaining
comfort; and when she wept that she could no longer look for happiness
in the affection of La Motte, she wept also, that she could no longer
seek solace in the friendship of Adeline. She had too great an esteem
for her, to doubt, at first, the integrity of her conduct; but, in spite
of reason, her heart no longer expanded to her with its usual warmth of
kindness. She shrunk from her confidence; and as the secret broodings of
jealousy cherished her suspicions, she became less kind to her, even in
manner.

Adeline, observing the change, at first attributed it to accident, and
afterwards to a temporary displeasure arising from some little
inadvertency in her conduct. She, therefore, increased her assiduities;
but perceiving, contrary to all expectation, that her efforts to please
failed of their usual consequence, and that the reserve of Madame's
manner rather increased than abated, she became seriously uneasy, and
resolved to seek an explanation. This Madame La Motte as sedulously
avoided, and was for some time able to prevent. Adeline, however, too
much interested in the event to yield to delicate scruples, pressed the
subject so closely, that Madame, at first agitated and confused, at
length invented some idle excuse, and laughed off the affair.

She now saw the necessity of subduing all appearance of reserve towards
Adeline; and though her art could not conquer the prejudices of passion,
it taught her to assume, with tolerable success, the aspect of kindness.
Adeline was deceived, and was again at peace. Indeed, confidence in the
sincerity and goodness of others was her weakness. But the pangs of
stifled jealousy struck deeper to the heart of Madame La Motte, and she
resolved, at all events, to obtain some certainty upon the subject of
her suspicions.

She now condescended to a meanness which she had before despised, and
ordered Peter to watch the steps of his master, in order to discover, if
possible, the place of his visitation! So much did passion win upon her
judgment, by time and indulgence, that she sometimes ventured even to
doubt the integrity of Adeline, and afterwards proceeded to believe it
possible that the object of La Motte's rambles might be an assignation
with her. What suggested this conjecture was, that Adeline frequently
took long walks alone in the forest, and sometimes was absent from the
abbey for many hours. This circumstance, which Madame La Motte had at
first attributed to Adeline's fondness for the picturesque beauties of
nature, now operated forcibly upon her imagination, and she could view
it in no other light, than as affording an opportunity for secret
conversation with her husband.

Peter obeyed the orders of his mistress with alacrity, for they were
warmly seconded by his own curiosity. All his endeavours were, however,
fruitless; he never dared to follow La Motte near enough to observe the
place of his last retreat. Her impatience thus heightened by delay, and
her passion stimulated by difficulty, Madame La Motte now resolved to
apply to her husband for an explanation of his conduct.

After some consideration concerning the manner most likely to succeed
with him, she went to La Motte; but when she entered the room where he
sat, forgetting all her concerted address, she fell at his feet, and was
for some moments lost in tears. Surprised at her attitude and distress,
he inquired the occasion of it, and was answered, that it was caused by
his own conduct. My conduct! What part of it, pray? inquired he.

Your reserve, your secret sorrow, and frequent absence from the abbey.

Is it then so wonderful, that a man who has lost almost every thing
should sometimes lament his misfortunes? or so criminal to attempt
concealing his grief, that he must be blamed for it by those whom he
would save from the pain of sharing it?

Having uttered these words, he quitted the room, leaving Madame La Motte
lost in surprise, but somewhat relieved from the pressure of her former
suspicions. Still however, she pursued Adeline with an eye of scrutiny;
and the mask of kindness would sometimes fall off, and discover the
features of distrust. Adeline, without exactly knowing why, felt less at
ease and less happy in her presence than formerly; her spirits drooped,
and she would often, when alone, weep at the forlornness of her
condition. Formerly, her remembrance of past sufferings was lost in the
friendship of Madame La Motte; now, though her behaviour was too guarded
to betray any striking instances of unkindness, there was something in
her manner which chilled the hopes of Adeline, unable as she was to
analyze it. But a circumstance which soon occurred, suspended for a
while the jealousy of Madame La Motte, and roused her husband from his
state of gloomy stupefaction.

Peter, having been one day to Auboine for the weekly supply of
provisions, returned with intelligence that awakened in La Motte new
apprehension and anxiety.

Oh, Sir! I have heard something that has astonished me, as well it may,
cried Peter, and so it will you when you come to know it. As I was
standing in the blacksmith's shop, while the smith was driving a nail
into the horse's shoe (by the by, the horse lost it in an odd way, I'll
tell you, Sir, how it was)--

Nay, prithee leave it till another time, and go on with your story.

Why then, Sir, as I was standing in the blacksmith's shop, comes in a
man with a pipe in his mouth, and a large pouch of tobacco in his hand--

Well--what has the pipe to do with the story?

Nay, Sir, you put me out; I can't go on, unless you let me tell it my
own way. As I was saying--with a pipe in his mouth--I think I was there
your honour!

Yes, yes.

He sets himself down on the bench, and, taking the pipe from his mouth,
says to the blacksmith--Neighbour, do you know any body of the Name of
La Motte hereabouts!--Bless your honour, I turned all of a cold sweat in
a minute!--Is not your honour well! shall I fetch you any thing?

No--but be short in your narrative.

La Motte! La Motte! said the blacksmith, I think I've heard the
name.--Have you? said I, you're cunning then, for there's no such person
hereabouts, to my knowledge.

Fool!--why did you say that?

Because I did not want them to know your honour was here; and if I had
not managed very cleverly, they would have found me out. There is no
such person hereabouts, to my knowledge, says I.--Indeed! says the
blacksmith, you know more of the neighbourhood than I do then.--Aye,
says the man with the pipe, that's very true. How came you to know so
much of the neighbourhood? I came here twenty-six years ago, come next
St. Michael, and you know more than I do. How came you to know so much?

With that he put his pipe in his mouth, and gave a whiff full in my
face. Lord! your honour, I trembled from head to foot. Nay, as for that
matter says I, I don't know more than other people, but I'm sure I never
heard of such a man as that.--Pray, says the blacksmith, staring me full
in the face, an't you the man that was inquiring some time since about
St. Clair's abbey?--Well, what of that? says I, what does that
prove?--Why they say somebody lives in the abbey now, said the man,
turning to the other; and, for aught I know, it may be this same La
Motte.--Aye, or for aught I know either, says the man with the pipe,
getting up from the bench, and you know more of this than you'll own.
I'll lay my life on't, this Monsieur La Motte lives at the abbey.--Aye,
says I, you are out there, for he does not live at the abbey now.

Confound your folly! cried La Motte; but be quick--how did the matter
end?

My master does not live there now, said I.--Oh! oh! said the man with
the pipe; he is your master then? And pray how long has he left the
abbey--and where does he live now?--Hold, said I, not so fast--I know
when to speak and when to hold my tongue--but who has been inquiring for
him?

What! he expected somebody to inquire for him? says the man.--No, says
I, he did not, but if he did, what does that prove?--that argues
nothing. With that he looked at the blacksmith, and they went out of the
shop together, leaving my horse's shoe undone. But I never minded that,
for the moment they were gone, I mounted and rode away as fast as I
could. But in my fright, your honour, I forgot to take the round about
way, and so came straight home.

La Motte, extremely shocked at Peter's intelligence, made no other reply
than by cursing his folly, and immediately went in search of Madame, who
was walking with Adeline on the banks of the river. La Motte was too
much agitated to soften his information by preface. We are discovered!
said he, the king's officers have been inquiring for me at Auboine, and
Peter has blundered upon my ruin. He then informed her of what Peter had
related, and bade her prepare to quit the abbey.

But whither can we fly? said Madame La Motte, scarcely able to support
herself. Any where! said he: to stay here is certain destruction. We
must take refuge in Switzerland, I think. If any part of France would
have concealed me, surely it had been this!

Alas, how are we persecuted! rejoined Madame. This spot is scarcely made
comfortable, before we are obliged to leave it, and go we know not
whither.

I wish we may not yet know whither, replied La Motte, that is the least
evil that threatens us. Let us escape a prison, and I care not whither
we go. But return to the abbey immediately, and pack up what moveables
you can.--A flood of tears came to the relief of Madame La Motte, and
she hung upon Adeline's arm, silent and trembling. Adeline, though she
had no comfort to bestow, endeavoured to command her feelings and appear
composed. Come, said La Motte, we waste time; let us lament hereafter,
but at present prepare for flight; exert a little of that fortitude
which is so necessary for our preservation. Adeline does not weep, yet
her state is as wretched as your own, for I know not how long I shall be
able to protect her.

Notwithstanding her terror, this reproof touched the pride of Madame La
Motte, who dried her tears, but disdained to reply, and looked at
Adeline with a strong expression of displeasure. As they moved silently
toward the abbey, Adeline asked La Motte if he was sure they were the
king's officers who inquired for him. I cannot doubt it, he replied, who
else could possibly inquire for me? Besides, the behaviour of the man,
who mentioned my name, puts the matter beyond a question.

Perhaps not, said Madame La Motte: let us wait till morning ere we set
off. We may then find it will be unnecessary to go.

We may, indeed; the king's officers would probably by that time have
told us as much. La Motte went to give orders to Peter. Set off in an
hour! said Peter, Lord bless you, master! only consider the coach wheel;
it would take me a day at least to mend it, for your honour knows I
never mended one in my life.

This was a circumstance which La Motte had entirely overlooked. When
they settled at the abbey, Peter had at first been too busy in repairing
the apartments, to remember the carriage; and afterwards, believing it
would not quickly be wanted, he had neglected to do it. La Motte's
temper now entirely forsook him, and with many execrations he ordered
Peter to go to work immediately: but on searching for the materials
formerly bought, they were no where to be found; and Peter at length
remembered, though he was prudent enough to conceal this circumstance,
that he had used the nails in repairing the abbey.

It was now, therefore, impossible to quit the forest that night, and La
Motte had only to consider the most probable plan of concealment, should
the officers of justice visit the ruin before the morning; a
circumstance which the thoughtlessness of Peter, in returning from
Auboine by the straight way, made not unlikely.

At first, indeed, it occurred to him, that, though his family could not
be removed, he might himself take one of the horses, and escape from the
forest before night. But he thought there would still be some danger of
detection in the towns through which he must pass, and he could not well
bear the idea of leaving his family unprotected, without knowing when he
could return to them, or whither he could direct them to follow him. La
Motte was not a man of very vigorous resolution, and he was, perhaps,
rather more willing to suffer in company than alone.

After much consideration, he recollected the trap-door of the closet
belonging to the chambers above. It was invisible to the eye and
whatever might be its direction, it would securely shelter _him_, at
least, from discovery. Having deliberated further upon the subject he
determined to explore the recess to which the stairs led, and thought it
possible that for a short time his whole family might be concealed
within it. There was little time between the suggestion of the plan and
the execution of his purpose, for darkness was spreading around, and in
every murmur of the wind he thought he heard the voices of his enemies.

He called for a light, and ascended alone to the chamber. When he came
to the closet, it was some time before he could find the trap-door, so
exactly did it correspond with the boards of the floor. At length, he
found and raised it. The chill damps of long confined air rushed from
the aperture, and he stood for a moment to let them pass, ere he
descended. As he stood looking down the abyss, he recollected the report
which Peter had brought concerning the abbey, and it gave him an uneasy
sensation. But this soon yielded to more pressing interests.

The stairs were steep, and in many places trembled beneath his weight.
Having continued to descend for some time, his feet touched the ground,
and he found himself in a narrow passage; but as he turned to pursue it,
the damp vapours curled round him and extinguished the light. He called
aloud for Peter, but could make nobody hear, and after some time he
endeavoured to find his way up the stairs. In this, with difficulty, he
succeeded, and passing the chambers with cautious steps descended the
tower.

The security which the place he had just quitted seemed to promise, was
of too much importance to be slightly rejected, and he determined
immediately to make another experiment with the light:--having now fixed
it in a lantern, he descended a second time to the passage. The current
of vapours occasioned by the opening of the trap-door was abated, and
the fresh air thence admitted had begun to circulate: La Motte passed on
unmolested.

The passage was of considerable length, and led him to a door which was
fastened. He placed the lantern at some distance, to avoid the current
of air, and applied his strength to the door. It shook under his hands,
but did not yield. Upon examining it more closely, he perceived the wood
round the lock was decayed, probably by the damps, and this encouraged
him to proceed. After some time it gave way to his effort, and he found
himself in a square stone room.

He stood for some time to survey it. The walls, which were dripping with
unwholesome dews, were entirely bare, and afforded not even a window. A
small iron grate alone admitted the air. At the further end, near a low
recess, was another door. La Motte went towards it, and, as he passed,
looked into the recess. Upon the ground within it stood a large chest,
which he went forward to examine; and, lifting the lid, he saw the
remains of a human skeleton. Horror struck upon his heart, and he
involuntarily stepped back. During a pause of some moments, his first
emotion subsided. That thrilling curiosity, which objects of terror
often excite in the human mind, impelled him to take a second view of
this dismal spectacle.

La Motte stood motionless as he gazed; the object before him seemed to
confirm the report that some person had formerly been murdered in the
abbey. At length he closed the chest, and advanced to the second door,
which also was fastened, but the key was in the lock. He turned it with
difficulty, and then found the door was held by two strong bolts. Having
undrawn these, it disclosed a flight of steps, which he descended. They
terminated in a chain of low vaults, or rather cells, that, from the
manner of their construction and present condition, seemed to be coeval
with the most ancient parts of the abbey. La Motte, in his then
depressed state of mind, thought them the burial places of the monks,
who formerly inhabited the pile above; but they were more calculated for
places of penance for the living, than of rest for the dead.

Having reached the extremity of these cells, the way was again closed by
a door. La Motte now hesitated whether he should attempt to proceed any
further. The present spot seemed to afford the security he sought. Here
he might pass the night unmolested by apprehension of discovery; and it
was most probable, that if the officers arrived in the night, and found
the abbey vacated, they would quit it before morning, or, at least,
before he could have any occasion to emerge from concealment. These
considerations restored his mind to a state of greater composure. His
only immediate care was to bring his family, as soon as possible, to
this place of security, lest the officers should come unawares upon
them; and while he stood thus musing, he blamed himself for delay.

But an irresistible desire of knowing to what this door led, arrested
his steps, and he turned to open it. The door, however, was fastened;
and as he attempted to force it, he suddenly thought he heard a noice
above. It now occurred to him that the officers might already have
arrived, and he quitted the cells with precipitation, intending to
listen at the trap-door.

There, said he, I may wait in security, and perhaps hear something of
what passes. My family will not be known, or at least not hurt, and
their uneasiness on my account they must learn to endure.

These were the arguments of La Motte, in which, it must be owned,
selfish prudence was more conspicuous than tender anxiety for his wife.
He had by this time reached the bottom of the stairs, when, on looking
up, he perceived the trap-door was left open; and ascending in haste to
close it, he heard footsteps advancing through the chambers above.
Before he could descend entirely out of sight, he again looked up, and
perceived through the aperture the face of a man looking down, upon him.
Master, cried Peter.--La Motte was somewhat relieved at the sound of his
voice, though angry that he had occasioned, him so much terror.

What brings you here, and what is the matter below?

Nothing, Sir, nothing's the matter, only my mistress sent me to see
after your honour.

There's nobody there then? said La Motte, setting his foot upon the
step.

Yes, Sir, there is my mistress and Mademoiselle Adeline, and--

Well--well--said La Motte briskly, go your ways, I am coming.

He informed Madame La Motte where he had been, and of his intention of
secreting himself, and deliberated upon the means of convincing the
officers, should they arrive, that he had quitted the abbey. For this
purpose he ordered all the moveable furniture to be conveyed to the
cells below. La Motte himself assisted in this business, and every hand
was employed for dispatch. In a very short time the habitable part of
the fabric was left almost as desolate as he had found it. He then bade
Peter take the horses to a distance from the abbey and turn them loose.
After further consideration, he thought it might contribute to mislead
them, if he placed in some conspicuous part of the fabric an
inscription, signifying his condition, and mentioning the date of his
departure from the abbey. Over the door of the tower which led to the
habitable part of the structure, he therefore cut the following lines:


O ye! whom misfortune may lead to this spot,
Learn that there are others as miserable as yourselves.
P----L--M----a wretched exile, sought within these walls a refuge from
persecution on the 27th of April, 1658, and quitted them on the 12th of
July in the same year, in search of a more convenient asylum.


After engraving these words with a knife, the small stock of provisions
remaining from the week's supply (for Peter, in his fright, had returned
unloaded from his last journey) was put into a basket; and La Motte
having assembled his family, they all ascended the stairs of the tower,
and passed through the chambers to the closet. Peter went first with a
light, and with some difficulty found the trap-door. Madame La Motte
shuddered as she surveyed the gloomy abyss; but they were all silent.

La Motte now took the light and led the way; Madame followed, and then
Adeline. These old monks loved good wine as well as other people, said
Peter, who brought up the rear; I warrant your honour, now, this was
their cellar; I smell the casks already.

Peace, said La Motte, reserve your jokes for a proper occasion.

There is no harm in loving good wine, as your honour knows.

Have done with this buffoonery, said La Motte in a tone more
authoritative, and go first. Peter obeyed.

They came to the vaulted room. The dismal spectacle he had seen here,
deterred La Motte from passing a night in this chamber; and the
furniture had, by his own order, been conveyed to the cells below. He
was anxious that his family should not perceive the skeleton; an object
which would probably excite a degree of horror not to be overcome during
their stay. La Motte now passed the chest in haste; and Madame La Motte
and Adeline were too much engrossed by their own thoughts, to give
minute attention to external circumstances.

When they reached the cells, Madame La Motte wept at the necessity which
condemned her to a spot so dismal. Alas, said she, are we indeed thus
reduced! The apartments above formerly appeared to me a deplorable
habitation; but they are a palace compared to these.

True, my dear, said La Motte, and let the remembrance of what you once
thought them soothe your discontent now; these cells are also a palace
compared to the Bicêtre, or the Bastille, and to the terrors of further
punishment which would accompany them: let the apprehension of the
greater evil teach you to endure the less: I am contented if we find
here the refuge I seek.

Madame La Motte was silent, and Adeline, forgetting her late unkindness,
endeavoured as much as she could to console her; while her heart was
sinking with the misfortunes which she could not but anticipate, she
appeared composed, and even cheerful. She attended Madame La Motte with
the most watchful solicitude, and felt so thankful that La Motte was now
secreted within this recess, that she almost lost her perception of its
glooms and inconveniences.

This she artlessly expressed to him, who could not be insensible to the
tenderness it discovered. Madame La Motte was also sensible of it, and
it renewed a painful sensation. The effusions of gratitude she mistook
for those of tenderness.

La Motte returned frequently to the trap-door to listen if any body was
in the abbey; but no sound disturbed the stillness of night: at length
they sat down to supper; the repast was a melancholy one. If the
officers do not come hither to-night, said Madame La Motte, sighing,
suppose, my dear, Peter returns to Auboine to-morrow? He may there learn
something more of this affair; or, at least, he might procure a carriage
to convey us hence.

To be sure he might, said La Motte peevishly, and people to attend it
also. Peter would be an excellent person to show the officers the way to
the abbey, and to inform them of what they might else be in doubt about,
my concealment here.

How cruel is this irony! replied Madame La Motte. I proposed only what I
thought would be for our mutual good; my judgment was, perhaps, wrong,
but my intention was certainly right. Tears swelled into her eyes as she
spoke these words. Adeline wished to relieve her; but delicacy kept her
silent. La Motte observed the effect of his speech, and something like
remorse touched his heart. He approached, and taking her hand, You must
allow for the perturbation of my mind, said he, I did not mean to
afflict you thus. The idea of sending Peter to Auboine, where he has
already done so much harm by his blunders, teased me, and I could not
let it pass unnoticed. No, my dear, our only chance of safety is to
remain where we are while our provisions last. If the officers do not
come here to-night, they probably will to-morrow, or, perhaps, the next
day. When they have searched the abbey, without finding me, they will
depart; we may then emerge from this recess, and take measures for
removing to a distant country.

Madame La Motte acknowledged the justice of his words; and her mind
being relieved by the little apology he had made, she became tolerably
cheerful. Supper being ended, La Motte stationed the faithful though
simple Peter at the foot of the steps that ascended to the closet, there
to keep watch during the night. Having done this, he returned to the
lower cells, where he had left his little family. The beds were spread;
and having mournfully bidden each other good night, they lay down, and
implored rest.

Adeline's thoughts were too busy to suffer her to repose, and when she
believed her companions were sunk in slumbers, she indulged the sorrow
which reflection brought. She also looked forward to the future with the
most mournful apprehension. Should La Motte be seized, what was to
become of her. She would then be a wanderer in the wide world; without
friends to protect, or money to support her. The prospect was
gloomy--was terrible! She surveyed it, and shuddered! The distresses too
of Monsieur and Madame La Motte, whom she loved with the most lively
affection, formed no inconsiderable part of hers.

Sometimes she looked back to her father; but in him she only saw an
enemy from whom she must fly: this remembrance heightened her sorrow;
yet it was not the recollection of the suffering he had occasioned her,
by which she was so much afflicted, as by the sense of his unkindness:
she wept bitterly. At length, with that artless piety which innocence
only knows, she addressed the Supreme Being, and resigned herself to his
care. Her mind then gradually became peaceful and reassured, and soon
after she sunk to repose.




CHAPTER V

A SURPRISE--AN ADVENTURE--A
MYSTERY.


The night passed without any alarm; Peter had remained upon his post,
and heard nothing that prevented his sleeping. La Motte heard him, long
before he saw him, most musically snoring; though it must be owned there
was more of the bass than of any other part of the gamut in his
performance. He was soon roused by the _bravura_ of La Motte, whose
notes sounded discord to his ears, and destroyed the torpor of his
tranquillity.

God bless you, master! what's the matter? cried Peter, waking, are they
come?

Yes, for aught you care, they might be come. Did I place you here to
sleep, sirrah? Bless you, master, returned Peter, sleep is the only
comfort to be had here; I'm sure I would not deny it to a dog in such a
place as this.

La Motte sternly questioned him concerning any noise he might have heard
in the night; and Peter full as solemnly protested he had heard none; an
assertion which was strictly true, for he had enjoyed the comfort of
being asleep the whole time.

La Motte ascended to the trap-door and listened attentively. No sounds
were heard, and as he ventured to lift it, the full light of the sun
burst upon his sight, the morning being now far advanced: he walked
softly along the chambers, and looked through a window--no person was to
be seen. Encouraged by this apparent security, he ventured down the
stairs of the tower, and entered the first apartment. He was proceeding
towards the second, when suddenly recollecting himself, he first peeped
through the crevice of the door, which stood half open. He looked, and
distinctly saw a person sitting near the window, upon which his arm
rested.

The discovery so much shocked him, that for a moment he lost all
presence of mind, and was utterly unable to move from the spot. The
person, whose back was towards him, arose, and turned his head: La Motte
now recovered himself, and quitting the apartment as quickly and at the
same time as silently as possible, ascended to the closet. He raised the
trap-door, but, before he closed it, heard the footsteps of a person
entering the outward chamber. Bolts or other fastening to the trap there
was none; and his security depended solely upon the exact correspondence
of the boards. The outer door of the stone room had no means of defence,
and the fastenings of the inner one were on the wrong side to afford
security even till some means of escape could be found.

When he reached this room he paused, and heard distinctly persons
walking in the closet above. While he was listening, he heard a voice
call him by name, and he instantly fled to the cells below, expecting
every moment to hear the trap lifted and the footsteps of pursuit; but
he was fled beyond the reach of hearing either. Having thrown himself on
the ground at the furthest extremity of the vaults, he lay for some time
breathless with agitation. Madame La Motte and Adeline, in the utmost
terror, inquired what had happened. It was some time before he could
speak; when he did, it was almost unnecessary, for the distant noises
which sounded from above, informed his family of a part of the truth.

The sounds did not seem to approach; but Madame La Motte, unable to
command her terror, shrieked aloud: this redoubled the distress of La
Motte. You have already destroyed me, cried he; that shriek has informed
them where I am. He traversed the cells with clasped hands and quick
steps. Adeline stood pale and still as death, supporting Madame La
Motte, whom with difficulty she prevented from fainting. O! Dupras!
Dupras! you are already avenged! said he in a voice that seemed to burst
from his heart: there was a pause of silence. But why should I deceive
myself with a hope of escaping? he resumed; why do I wait here for their
coming? Let me rather end those torturing pangs by throwing myself into
their hands at once.

As he spoke, he moved towards the door; but the distress of Madame La
Motte arrested his steps. Stay, said she, for my sake, stay; do not
leave me thus, nor throw yourself voluntarily into destruction!

Surely, Sir, said Adeline, you are too precipitate; this despair is
useless, as it is ill-founded. We hear no person approaching; if the
officers had discovered the trap-door, they would certainly have been
here before now. The words of Adeline stilled the tumult of his mind:
the agitation of terror subsided; and reason beamed a feeble ray upon
his hopes. He listened attentively; and perceiving that all was silent,
advanced with caution to the stone room, and thence to the foot of the
stairs that led to the trap-door. It was closed: no sound was heard
above.

He watched a long time, and the silence continuing, his hopes
strengthened; and at length he began to believe that the officers had
quitted the abbey; the day, however, was spent in anxious watchfulness.
He did not dare to unclose the trap-door; and he frequently thought he
heard distant noises. It was evident, however, that the secret of the
closet had escaped discovery; and on this circumstance he justly founded
his security. The following night was passed, like the day, in trembling
hope and incessant watching.

But the necessities of hunger now threatened them. The provisions, which
had been distributed with the nicest economy, were nearly exhausted, and
the most deplorable consequences might be expected from their remaining
longer in concealment. Thus circumstanced, La Motte deliberated upon the
most prudent method of proceeding. There appeared no other alternative,
than to send Peter to Auboine, the only town from which he could return
within the time prescribed by their necessities. There was game, indeed,
in the forest; but Peter could neither handle a gun nor use a fishing
rod to any advantage.

It was therefore agreed he should go to Auboine for a supply of
provisions, and at the same time bring materials for mending the
coach-wheel, that they might have some ready conveyance from the forest.
La Motte forbade Peter to ask any questions concerning the people who
had inquired for him, or take any methods for discovering whether they
had quitted the country, lest his blunders should again betray him. He
ordered him to be entirely silent as to these subjects, and to finish
his business and leave the place with all possible dispatch.

A difficulty yet remained to be overcome--Who should first venture
abroad into the abbey, to learn whether it was vacated by the officers
of justice? La Motte considered that if he was again seen, he should be
effectually betrayed; which would not be so certain if one of his family
was observed, for they were all unknown to the officers. It was
necessary, however, that the person he sent should have courage enough
to go through with the inquiry, and wit enough to conduct it with
caution. Peter, perhaps, had the first; but was certainly destitute of
the last. Annette had neither. La Motte looked at his wife, and asked
her if, for his sake, she dared to venture. Her heart shrunk from the
proposal, yet she was unwilling to refuse, or appear indifferent upon a
point so essential to the safety of her husband. Adeline observed in her
countenance the agitation of her mind, and, surmounting the fears which
had hitherto kept her silent, she offered herself to go.

They will be less likely to offend me, said she, than a man--Shame would
not suffer La Motte to accept her offer; and Madame, touched with the
magnanimity of her conduct, felt a momentary renewal of all her former
kindness. Adeline pressed her proposal so warmly, and seemed so much in
earnest, that La Motte began to hesitate. You, Sir, said she, once
preserved me from the most imminent danger, and your kindness has since
protected me: do not refuse me the satisfaction of deserving your
goodness by a grateful return of it. Let me go into the abbey; and if,
by so doing, I should preserve you from evil, I shall be sufficiently
rewarded for what little danger I may incur, for my pleasure will be at
least equal to yours.

Madame La Motte could scarcely refrain from tears as Adeline spoke; and
La Motte sighing deeply, said, Well, be it so; go, Adeline, and from
this moment consider me as your debtor. Adeline staid not to reply, but
taking a light, quitted the cells. La Motte following to raise the
trap-door, and cautioning her to look, if possible, into every apartment
before she entered it. If you _should_ be seen, said he, you must
account for your appearance so as not to discover me. Your own presence
of mind may assist you, I cannot--God bless you!

When she was gone, Madame La Motte's admiration of her conduct began to
yield to other emotions. Distrust gradually undermined kindness, and
jealousy raised suspicions. It must be a sentiment more powerful than
gratitude, thought she, that could teach Adeline to subdue her fears.
What, but love, could influence her to a conduct so generous! Madame La
Motte, when she found it impossible to account for Adeline's conduct
without alleging some interested motives for it, however her suspicions
might agree with the practice of the world, had surely forgotten how
much she once admired the purity and disinterestedness of her young
friend.

Adeline, mean while, ascended to the chambers: the cheerful beams of the
sun played once more upon her sight, and reanimated her spirits; she
walked lightly through the apartments, nor stopped till she came to the
stairs of the tower. Here she stood for some time, but no sounds met her
ear, save the sighing of the wind among the trees, and at length she
descended. She passed the apartments below without seeing any person,
and the little furniture that remained seemed to stand exactly as she
had left it. She now ventured to look out from the tower: the only
animate objects that appeared were the deer quietly grazing under the
shade of the woods. Her favourite little fawn distinguished Adeline, and
came bounding towards her with strong marks of joy. She was somewhat
alarmed lest the animal, being observed, should betray her, and walked
swiftly away through the cloisters.

[Illustration 02]

She opened the door that lead to the great hall of the abbey, but the
passage was so gloomy and dark that she feared to enter it, and started
back. It was necessary, however, that she should examine further,
particularly on the opposite side of the ruin, of which she had hitherto
had no view: but her fears returned when she recollected how far it
would lead her from her only place of refuge, and how difficult it would
be to retreat. She hesitated what to do; but when she recollected her
obligations to La Motte, and considered this as perhaps her only
opportunity of doing him a service, she determined to proceed.

As these thoughts passed rapidly over her mind, she raised her innocent
looks to heaven, and breathed a silent prayer. With trembling steps she
proceeded over fragments of the ruin, looking anxiously around, and
often starting as the breeze rustled among the trees, mistaking it for
the whisperings of men. She came to the lawn which fronted the fabric,
but no person was to be seen, and her spirits revived. The great door of
the hall she now endeavoured to open; but suddenly remembering that it
was fastened by La Motte's orders, she proceeded to the north end of the
abbey, and, having surveyed the prospect around as far as the thick
foliage of the trees would permit, without perceiving any person, she
turned her steps to the tower from which she had issued.

Adeline was now light of heart, and returned with impatience to inform
La Motte of his security. In the cloisters she was again met by her
little favourite, and stopped for a moment to caress it. The fawn seemed
sensible to the sound of her voice, and discovered new joy; but while
she spoke, it suddenly started from her hand, and looking up, she
perceived the door of the passage, leading to the great hall, open, and
a man in the habit of a soldier issue forth.

With the swiftness of an arrow she fled along the cloisters, nor once
ventured to look back; but a voice called to her to stop, and she heard
steps advancing quick in pursuit. Before she could reach the tower, her
breath failed her, and she leaned against a pillar of the ruin, pale and
exhausted. The man came up, and gazing at her with a strong expression
of surprise and curiosity, he assumed a gentle manner, assured her she
had nothing to fear, and inquired if she belonged to La Motte. Observing
that she still looked terrified and remained silent, he repeated his
assurances and his question.

I know that he is concealed within the ruin, said the stranger; the
occasion of his concealment I also know; but it is of the utmost
importance I should see him, and he will then be convinced he has
nothing to fear from me. Adeline trembled so excessively, that it was
with difficulty she could support herself--she hesitated, and knew not
what to reply. Her manner seemed to confirm the suspicions of the
stranger, and her consciousness of this increased her embarrassment: he
took advantage of it to press her further. Adeline at length, replied
that La Motte had some time since resided at the abbey. And does still.
Madam, said the stranger; lead me to where he may be found--I must see
him, and--

Never, Sir, replied Adeline; and I solemnly assure you it will be in
vain to search for him.

That I must try, resumed he, since you, Madam, will not assist me. I
have already followed him to some chambers above, where I suddenly lost
him; thereabouts he must be concealed, and it's plain therefore they
afford some secret passage.

Without waiting Adeline's reply, he sprung to the door of the tower. She
now thought it would betray a consciousness of the truth of his
conjecture to follow him, and resolved to remain below. But upon further
consideration, it occurred to her that he might steal silently into the
closet, and possibly surprise La Motte at the door of the trap. She
therefore hastened after him, that her voice might prevent the danger
she apprehended. He was already in the second chamber when she overtook
him: she immediately began to speak aloud.

This room he searched with the most scrupulous care; but finding no
private door, or other outlet, he proceeded to the closet: then it was
that it required all her fortitude to conceal her agitation. He
continued the search. Within these chambers I know he is concealed, said
he, though hitherto I have not been able to discover how. It was hither
I followed a man, whom I believe to be him, and he could not escape
without a passage; I shall not quit the place till I have found it.

He examined the walls and the boards, but without discovering the
division of the floor, which indeed so exactly corresponded, that La
Motte himself had not perceived it by the eye, but by the trembling of
the floor beneath his feet. Here is some mystery, said the stranger,
which I cannot comprehend, and perhaps never shall. He was turning to
quit the closet, when, who can paint the distress of Adeline, upon
seeing the trap-door gently raised, and La Motte himself appeared! Hah!
cried the stranger, advancing eagerly to him. La Motte sprang forward,
and they were locked in each other's arms.

The astonishment of Adeline, for a moment, surpassed even her former
distress; but a remembrance darted across her mind, which explained the
present scene, and before La Motte could exclaim My son! she knew the
stranger as such. Peter, who stood at the foot of the stairs, and heard
what passed above, flew to acquaint his mistress with the joyful
discovery, and in a few moments she was folded in the embrace of her
son. This spot, so lately the mansion of despair, seemed metamorphosed
into the palace of pleasure, and the walls echoed only to the accents of
joy and congratulation.

The joy of Peter on this occasion was beyond expression: he acted a
perfect pantomime--he capered about, clasped his hands--ran to his young
master--shook him by the hand, in spite of the frowns of La Motte; ran
every where, without knowing for what, and gave no rational answer to
any thing that was said to him.

After their first emotions were subsided, La Motte, as if suddenly
recollecting himself, resumed his wanted solemnity: I am to blame, said
he, thus to give way to joy, when I am still, perhaps surrounded by
danger. Let us secure a retreat while it is yet in our power, continued
he; in a few hours the king's officers may search for me again.

Louis comprehended his father's words, and immediately relieved his
apprehensions by the following relation:--

A letter from Monsieur Nemours, containing an account of your flight
from Paris, reached me at Peronne, where I was then upon duty with my
regiment. He mentioned that you were gone towards the south of France,
but as he had not since heard from you, he was ignorant of the place of
your refuge. It was about this time that I was dispatched into Flanders;
and being unable to obtain further intelligence of you, I passed some
weeks of very painful solicitude. At the conclusion of the campaign I
obtained leave of absence, and immediately set out for Paris, hoping to
learn from Nemours where you had found an asylum.

Of this, however, he was equally ignorant with myself. He informed me
that you had once before written to him from D----, upon your second
day's journey from Paris, under an assumed name, as had been agreed
upon; and that you then said the fear of discovery would prevent your
hazarding another letter. He therefore remained ignorant of your abode,
but said he had no doubt you had continued your journey to the
southward. Upon this slender information I quitted Paris in search of
you, and proceeded immediately to V----, where my inquiries concerning
your further progress were successful as far as M----. There they told
me you had staid some time, on account of the illness of a young lady; a
circumstance which perplexed me much, as I could not imagine what young
lady would accompany you. I proceeded, however, to L----; but there all
traces of you seemed to be lost. As I sat musing at the window of the
inn, I observed some scribbling on the glass, and the curiosity of
idleness prompted me to read it. I thought I knew the characters, and
the lines I read confirmed my conjectures, for I remembered to have
heard you often repeat them.

Here I renewed my inquiries concerning your route, and at length I made
the people of the inn recollect you, and traced you as far as Auboine.
There I again lost you, till upon my return from a fruitless inquiry in
the neighbourhood, the landlord of the little inn where I lodged, told
me he believed he had heard news of you, and immediately recounted what
had happened at a blacksmith's shop a few hours before.

His description of Peter was so exact, that I had not a doubt it was you
who inhabited the abbey; and as I knew your necessity for concealment,
Peter's denial did not shake my confidence. The next morning, with the
assistance of my landlord, I found my way hither, and having searched
every visible part of the fabric, I began to credit Peter's assertion:
your appearance, however, destroyed this fear, by proving that the place
was still inhabited, for you disappeared so instantaneously that I was
not certain it was you whom I had seen. I continued seeking you till
near the close of day, and till then scarcely quitted the chambers
whence you had disappeared. I called on you repeatedly, believing that
my voice might convince you of your mistake. At length I retired to pass
the night at a cottage near the border of the forest.

I came early this morning to renew my inquiries, and hoped that,
believing yourself safe, you would emerge from concealment. But how was
I disappointed to find the abbey as silent and solitary as I had left it
the preceding evening! I was returning once more from the great hall,
when the voice of this young lady caught my ear, and effected the
discovery I had so anxiously sought.

This little narrative entirely dissipated the late apprehensions of La
Motte; but he now dreaded that the inquiries of his son, and his own
obvious desire of concealment, might excite a curiosity amongst the
people of Auboine, and lead to a discovery of his true circumstances.
However, for the present he determined to dismiss all painful thoughts,
and endeavour to enjoy the comfort which the presence of his son had
brought him. The furniture was removed to a more habitable part of the
abbey, and the cells were again abandoned to their own glooms.

The arrival of her son seemed to have animated Madame La Motte with new
life, and all her afflictions were, for the present, absorbed in joy.
She often gazed silently on him with a mother's fondness, and her
partiality heightened every improvement which time had wrought in his
person and manner. He was now in his twenty-third year; his person was
manly and his air military; his manners were unaffected and graceful,
rather than dignified; and though his features were irregular, they
composed a countenance which, having seen it once, you would seek it
again.

She made eager inquiries after the friends she had left at Paris, and
learned that within the few months of her absence some had died and
others quitted the place. La Motte also learned that a very strenuous
search for him had been prosecuted at Paris; and, though this
intelligence was only what he had before expected, it shocked him so
much, that he now declared it would be expedient to remove to a distant
country. Louis did not scruple to say that he thought he would be as
safe at the abbey as at any other place; and repeated what Nemours had
said, that the king's officers had been unable to trace any part of his
route from Paris.

Besides, resumed Louis, this abbey is protected by a supernatural power,
and none of the country people dare approach it.

Please you, my young master, said Peter, who was waiting in the room, we
were frightened enough the first night we came here, and I myself, God
forgive me! thought the place was inhabited by devils, but they were
only owls, and such like, after all.

Your opinion was not asked, said La Motte, learn to be silent.

Peter was abashed. When he had quitted the room, La Motte asked his son
with seeming carelessness, what were the reports circulated by the
country people? O! Sir, replies Louis, I cannot recollect half of them:
I remember, however, they said that, many years ago, a person (but
nobody had ever seen him, so we may judge how far the report ought to be
credited)--a person was privately brought to this abbey, and confined in
some part of it, and that there was strong reasons to believe he came
unfairly to his end.

La Motte sighed. They further said, continued Louis, that the spectre of
the deceased had ever since watched nightly among the ruins: and to make
the story more wonderful, for the marvellous is the delight of the
vulgar, they added, that there was a certain part of the ruin from
whence no person that had dared to explore it, had ever returned. Thus
people, who have few objects of real interest to engage their thoughts,
conjure up for themselves imaginary ones.

La Motte sat musing. And what were the reasons, said he, at length
awaking from his reverie, they pretended to assign for believing the
person confined here was murdered?

They did not use a term so positive as that, replied Louis.

True, said La Motte, recollecting himself, they only said he came
unfairly to his end.

That is a nice distinction, said Adeline.

Why I could not well comprehend what these reasons were, resumed Louis;
the people indeed say, that the person who was brought here, was never
known to depart; but I do not find it certain that he ever arrived: that
there was strange privacy and mystery observed, while he was here, and
that the abbey has never since been inhabited by its owner. There seems,
however, to be nothing in all this that deserves to be remembered.--La
Motte raised his head, as if to reply, when the entrance of Madame
turned the discourse upon a new subject, and it was not resumed that
day.

Peter was now dispatched for provisions, while La Motte and Louis
retired to consider how far it was safe for them to continue at the
abbey. La Motte, notwithstanding the assurances lately given him, could
not but think that Peter's blunders and his son's inquiries might lead
to a discovery of his residence. He revolved this in his mind for some
time; but at length a thought struck him, that the latter of these
circumstances might considerably contribute to his security. If you,
said he to Louis, return to the inn at Auboine, from whence you were
directed here, and without seeming to intend giving intelligence, _do_
give the landlord an account of your having found the abbey uninhabited,
and then add, that you had discovered the residence of the person you
sought in some distant town, it would suppress any reports that may at
present exist, and prevent the belief of any in future. And if, after
all this, you can trust yourself for presence of mind and command of
countenance, so far as to describe some dreadful apparition, I think
these circumstances, together with the distance of the abbey and the
intricacies of the forest, could entitle me to consider this place as my
castle.

Louis agreed to all that his father had proposed, and on the following
day executed his commission with such success, that the tranquillity of
the abbey might be then said to have been entirely restored.

Thus ended this adventure, the only one that had occurred to disturb the
family during their residence in the forest. Adeline, removed from the
apprehension of those evils with which the late situation of La Motte
had threatened her, and from the depression which her interest in his
occasioned her, now experienced a more than usual complacency of mind.
She thought, too, that she observed in Madame La Motte a renewal of her
former kindness; and this circumstance awakened all her gratitude, and
imparted to her a pleasure as lively as it was innocent. The
satisfaction with which the presence of her son inspired Madame La
Motte, Adeline mistook for kindness to herself, and she exerted her
whole attention in an endeavour to become worthy of it.

But the joy which his unexpected arrival had given to La Motte quickly
began to evaporate, and the gloom of despondency again settled on his
countenance. He returned frequently to his haunt in the forest--the same
mysterious sadness tinctured his manner, and revived the anxiety of
Madame La Motte, who was resolved to acquaint her son with this subject
of distress, and solicit his assistance to penetrate its source.

Her jealousy of Adeline, however, she could not communicate, though it
again tormented her, and taught her to misconstrue with wonderful
ingenuity every look and word of La Motte, and often to mistake the
artless expressions of Adeline's gratitude and regard for those of
warmer tenderness. Adeline had formerly accustomed herself to long walks
in the forest, and the design Madame had formed of watching her steps,
had been frustrated by the late circumstances, and was now entirely
overcome by her sense of its difficulty and danger. To employ Peter in
the affair, would be to acquaint him with her fears; and to follow her
herself, would most probably betray her scheme, by making Adeline aware
of her jealousy. Being thus restrained by pride and delicacy, she was
obliged to endure the pangs of uncertainty concerning the greatest part
of her suspicions.

To Louis, however, she related the mysterious change in his father's
temper. He listened to her account with very earnest attention, and the
surprise and concern impressed upon his countenance spoke how much his
heart was interested. He was, however, involved in equal perplexity with
herself upon this subject, and readily undertook to observe the motions
of La Motte, believing his interference likely to be of equal service,
both to his father and his mother. He saw, in some degree, the
suspicions of his mother; but as he thought she wished to disguise her
feelings, he suffered her to believe that she succeeded.

He now inquired concerning Adeline; and listened to her little history,
of which his mother gave a brief relation, with great apparent interest.
So much pity did he express for her condition, and so much indignation
at the unnatural conduct of her father, that the apprehensions which
Madame La Motte began to form, of his having discovered her jealousy,
yielded to those of a different kind. She perceived that the beauty of
Adeline had already fascinated his imagination, and she feared that her
amiable manners would soon impress his heart. Had her first fondness for
Adeline continued, she would still have looked with displeasure upon
their attachment, as an obstacle to the promotion and the fortune she
hoped to see one day enjoyed by her son. On these she rested all her
future hopes of prosperity, and regarded the matrimonial alliance which
he might form as the only means of extricating his family from their
present difficulties. She therefore touched lightly upon Adeline's
merit, joined coolly with Louis, in compassionating her misfortunes, and
with her censure of the father's conduct mixed an implied suspicion of
that of Adeline's. The means she employed to repress the passions of her
son had a contrary effect. The indifference which she repressed towards
Adeline, increased his pity for her destitute condition; and the
tenderness with which she affected to judge the father, heightened his
honest indignation at his character.

As he quitted Madame La Motte, he saw his father cross the lawn and
enter the deep shade of the forest on the left. He judged this to be a
good opportunity of commencing his plan, and quitting the abbey, slowly
followed at a distance. La Motte continued to walk straight forward, and
seemed so deeply wrapt in thought, that he looked neither to the right
nor left, and scarcely lifted his head from the ground. Louis had
followed him near half a mile, when he saw him suddenly strike into an
avenue of the forest, which took a different direction from the way he
had hitherto gone. He quickened his steps that he might not lose sight
of him, but, having reached the avenue, found the trees so thickly
interwoven that La Motte was already hid from his view.

He continued, however, to pursue the way before him: it conducted him
through the most gloomy part of the forest he had yet seen, till at
length it terminated in an obscure recess, over-arched with high trees,
whose interwoven branches secluded the direct rays of the sun, and
admitted only a sort of solemn twilight. Louis looked around in search
of La Motte, but he was no where to be seen. While he stood surveying
the place, and considering what further should be done, he observed,
through the gloom, an object at some distance, but the deep shadow that
fell around prevented his distinguishing what it was.

In advancing, he perceived the ruins of a small building, which, from
the traces that remained, appeared to have been a tomb. As he gazed upon
it, Here, said he, are probably deposited the ashes of some ancient
monk, once an inhabitant of the abbey; perhaps, of the founder, who,
after having spent a life of abstinence and prayer, sought in heaven the
reward of his forbearance upon earth. Peace be to his soul! but did he
think a life of mere negative virtue deserved an eternal reward?
Mistaken man! reason, had you trusted to its dictates, would have
informed you, that the active virtues, the adherence to the golden rule,
Do as you would be done unto, could alone deserve the favour of a Deity
whose glory is benevolence.

He remained with his eyes fixed upon the spot, and presently saw a
figure arise under the arch of the sepulchre. It started, as if on
perceiving him, and immediately disappeared. Louis, though unused to
fear, felt at that moment an uneasy sensation, but it almost immediately
struck him that this was La Motte himself. He advanced to the ruin and
called him. No answer was returned; and he repeated the call, but all
was yet still as the grave. He then went up to the archway and
endeavoured to examine the place where he had disappeared, but the
shadowy obscurity rendered the attempt fruitless. He observed, however,
a little to the right, an entrance to the ruin, and advanced some steps
down a kind of dark passage, when, recollecting that this place might be
the haunt of banditti, his danger alarmed him, and he retreated with
precipitation.

He walked towards the abbey by the way he came; and finding no person
followed him, and believing himself again in safety, his former surmise
returned, and he thought it was La Motte he had seen. He mused upon this
strange possibility, and endeavoured to assign a reason for so
mysterious a conduct, but in vain. Notwithstanding this, his belief of
it strengthened, and he entered the abbey under as full a conviction as
the circumstances would admit of, that it was his father who had
appeared in the sepulchre. On entering what was now used as a parlour,
he was much surprised to find him quietly seated there with Madame La
Motte and Adeline, and conversing as if he had been returned some time.

He took the first opportunity of acquainting his mother with his late
adventure, and of inquiring how long La Motte had been returned before
him; when, learning that it was near half an hour, his surprise
increased, and he knew not what to conclude.

Meanwhile, a perception of the growing partiality of Louis co-operated
with the canker of suspicion to destroy in Madame La Motte that
affection which pity and esteem had formerly excited for Adeline. Her
unkindness was now too obvious to escape the notice of her to whom it
was directed, and, being noticed, it occasioned an anguish which Adeline
found it very difficult to endure. With the warmth and candour of youth,
she sought an explanation of this change of behaviour, and an
opportunity of exculpating herself from any intention of provoking it.
But this Madame La Motte artfully evaded; while at the same time she
threw out hints that involved Adeline in deeper perplexity, and served
to make her present affliction more intolerable.

I have lost that affection, she would say, which was my all. It was my
only comfort--yet I have lost it--and this without even knowing my
offence. But I am thankful that I have not merited unkindness, and,
though she has abandoned _me_, I shall always love _her_.

Thus distressed, she would frequently leave the parlour, and, retiring
to her chamber, would yield to a despondency which she had never known
till now.

One morning, being unable to sleep, she arose at a very early hour. The
faint light of day now trembled through the clouds, and gradually
spreading from the horizon, announced the rising sun. Every feature of
the landscape was slowly unveiled, moist with the dews of night and
brightening with the dawn, till at length the sun appeared and shed the
full flood of day. The beauty of the hour invited her to walk, and she
went forth into the forest to taste the sweets of morning. The carols of
new-waked birds saluted her as she passed, and the fresh gale came
scented with the breath of flowers, whose tints glowed more vivid
through the dew drops that hung on their leaves.

She wandered on without noticing the distance, and, following the
windings of the river, came to a dewy glade, whose woods, sweeping down
to the very edge of the water, formed a scene so sweetly romantic, that
she sealed herself at the foot of a tree, to contemplate its beauty.
These images insensibly soothed her sorrow, and inspired her with that
soft and pleasing melancholy so dear to the feeling mind. For some time
she sat lost in a reverie, while the flowers that grew on the banks
beside her seemed to smile in new life, and drew from her a comparison
with her own condition. She mused and sighed, and then, in a voice whose
charming melody was modulated by the tenderness of her heart, she sung
the following words:


SONNET,

_TO THE LILY._

Soft silken flower! that in the dewy vale
Unfold'st thy modest beauties to the morn,
And breath'st thy fragrance on her wandering gale,
O'er earth's green hills and shadowy valley borne.

When day has closed his dazzling eye,
And dying gales sink soft away;
When eve steals down the western sky,
And mountains, woods, and vales decay.

Thy tender cups, that graceful swell,
Droop sad beneath her chilly dew;
Thy odours seek their silken cell,
And twilight veils their languid hue.

But soon fair flower! the morn shall rise,
And rear again thy pensive head;
Again unveil thy snowy dyes,
Again thy velvet foliage spread.

Sweet child of Spring! like thee, in sorrow's shade,
Full oft I mourn in tears, and droop forlorn:
And O! like thine, may light _my_ glooms pervade,
And Sorrow fly before Joy's living morn!


A distant echo lengthened out her tones, and she sat listening to the
soft response, till repeating the last stanza of the sonnet she was
answered by a voice almost as tender, and less distant. She looked round
in surprise, and saw a young man in a hunter's dress leaning against a
tree, and gazing on her with that deep attention which marks an
enraptured mind.

A thousand apprehensions shot athwart her busy thought; and she now
first remembered her distance from the abbey. She rose in haste to be
gone, when the stranger respectfully advanced; but, observing her timid
looks and retiring steps, he paused. She pursued her way towards the
abbey; and though many reasons made her anxious to know whether she was
followed, delicacy forbade her to look back. When she reached the abbey,
finding the family was not yet assembled to breakfast, she retired to
her chamber, where her whole thoughts were employed in conjectures
concerning the stranger. Believing that she was interested on this point
no further than as it concerned the safety of La Motte, she indulged
without scruple the remembrance of that dignified air and manner which
so much distinguished the youth she had seen. After revolving the
circumstance more deeply, she believed it impossible that a person of
his appearance should be engaged in a stratagem to betray a
fellow-creature; and though she was destitute of a single circumstance
that might assist her surmises of who he was, or what was his business
in an unfrequented forest, she rejected, unconsciously, every suspicion
injurious to his character. Upon further deliberation, therefore, she
resolved not to mention this little circumstance to La Motte; well
knowing, that though his danger might be imaginary, his apprehensions
would be real, and would renew all the sufferings and perplexity from
which he was but just released. She resolved, however, to refrain, for
some time walking in the forest.

When she came down to breakfast, she observed Madame La Motte to be more
than usually reserved. La Motte entered the room soon after her, and
made some trifling observations on the weather; and, having endeavoured
to support an effort at cheerfulness, sunk into his usual melancholy.
Adeline watched the countenance of Madame with anxiety; and when there
appeared in it a gleam of kindness, it was as sunshine to her soul: but
she very seldom suffered Adeline thus to flatter herself. Her
conversation was restrained, and often pointed at something more than
could be understood. The entrance of Louis was a very seasonable relief
to Adeline, who almost feared to trust her voice with a sentence, lest
its trembling accents should betray her uneasiness.

This charming morning drew you early from your chamber? said Louis,
addressing Adeline. You had, no doubt, a pleasant companion too? said
Madame La Motte, a solitary walk is seldom agreeable.

I was alone, Madam, replied Adeline.

Indeed! your own thoughts must be highly pleasing then.

Alas! returned Adeline, a tear spite of her efforts starting to her eye,
there are now few subjects of pleasure left for them.

That is very surprising, pursued Madame La Motte.

Is it, indeed, surprising, Madam, for those who have lost their last
friend to be unhappy?

Madame La Motte's conscience acknowledged the rebuke, and she blushed.

Well, resumed she, after a short pause, that is not your situation,
Adeline, looking earnestly at La Motte. Adeline, whose innocence
protected her from suspicion, did not regard this circumstance; but,
smiling through her tears, said, she rejoiced to hear her say so. During
this conversation, La Motte had remained absorbed in his own thoughts;
and Louis, unable to guess at what it pointed, looked alternately at his
mother and Adeline for an explanation. The latter he regarded with an
expression so full of tender compassion, that it revealed at once to
Madame La Motte the sentiments of his soul; and she immediately replied
to the last words of Adeline with a very serious air: A friend is only
estimable when our conduct deserves one; the friendship that survives
the merit of its object is a disgrace, instead of an honour, to both
parties.

The manner and emphasis with which she delivered these words, again
alarmed Adeline, who mildly said, she hoped she should never deserve
such censure. Madame was silent; but Adeline was so much shocked by what
had already passed, that tears sprung from her eyes, and she hid her
face with her handkerchief.

Louis now rose with some emotion; and La Motte, roused from his reverie,
inquired what was the matter: but before he could receive an answer he
seemed to have forgotten that he had asked the question. Adeline may
give you her own account, said Madame La Motte. I have not deserved
this, said Adeline rising; but since my presence is displeasing, I will
retire.

She moved towards the door; when Louis, who was pacing the room in
apparent agitation, gently took her hand, saying, Here is some unhappy
mistake--and would have led her to the seat: but her spirits were too
much depressed to endure longer restraint; and, withdrawing her hand,
Suffer me to go, said she; if there is any mistake, I am unable to
explain it. Saying this, she quitted the room. Louis followed her with
his eyes to the door; when turning to his mother, Surely, Madam, said
he, you are to blame: my life on it she deserves your warmest
tenderness.

You are very eloquent in her cause, Sir, said Madame, may I presume to
ask what interested you thus in her favour.

Her own amiable manners, rejoined Louis, which no one can observe
without esteeming them.

But you may presume too much on your own observations; it is possible
these amiable manners may deceive you.

Your pardon Madam; I may, without presumption, affirm they cannot
deceive me.

You have, no doubt, good reasons for this assertion, and I perceive, by
your admiration of this artless _innocence_, she has succeeded in her
design of entrapping your heart.

Without designing it, she has won my admiration, which would not have
been the case, had she been capable of the conduct you mention.

Madame La Motte was going to reply, but was prevented by her husband,
who, again roused from his reverie, inquired into the cause of dispute.
Away with this ridiculous behaviour, said he in a voice of displeasure;
Adeline has omitted some household duty, I suppose; and an offence so
heinous deserves severe punishment, no doubt: but let me be no more
disturbed with your petty quarrels; if you must be tyrannical, Madam,
indulge your humour in private.

Saying this, he abruptly quitted the room; and Louis immediately
following, Madame was left to her own unpleasant reflections. Her
ill-humour proceeded from the usual cause. She had heard of Adeline's
walk; and La Motte having gone forth into the forest at an early hour,
her imagination, heated by the broodings of jealousy, suggested that
they had appointed a meeting. This was confirmed to her by the entrance
of Adeline, quickly followed by La Motte; and her perceptions thus
jaundiced by passion, neither the presence of her son, nor her usual
attention to good manners, had been able to restrain her emotions. The
behaviour of Adeline in the late scene she considered as a refined piece
of art, and the indifference of La Motte as affected. So true is it
that:


...... Trifles, light as air,
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of Holy Writ;


and so ingenious was she 'to twist the true cause the wrong way.'

Adeline had retired to her chamber to weep. When her first agitations
were subsided, she took an ample view of her conduct; and perceiving
nothing of which she could accuse herself, she became more satisfied,
deriving her best comfort from the integrity of her intentions. In the
moment of accusation, innocence may sometimes be oppressed with the
punishment due only to guilt; but reflection dissolves the illusion of
terror, and brings to the aching bosom the consolations of virtue.

When La Motte quitted the room, he had gone into the forest; which Louis
observing, he followed and joined him, with an intention of touching
upon the subject of his melancholy. It is a fine morning, Sir, said
Louis; if you will give me leave, I will walk with you. La Motte, though
dissatisfied, did not object; and after they had proceeded some way, he
changed the course of his walk, striking into a path contrary to that
which Louis had observed him take on the foregoing day.

Louis remarked that the avenue they had quitted was more shady, and
therefore more pleasant. La Motte not seeming to notice this remark, It
leads to a singular spot, continued he, which I discovered yesterday. La
Motte raised his head: Louis proceeded to describe the tomb, and the
adventure he had met with. During this relation, La Motte regarded him
with attention, while his own countenance suffered various changes. When
he had concluded, You were very daring, said La Motte, to examine that
place, particularly when you ventured down the passage: I would advise
you to be more cautious how you penetrate the depths of this forest. I
myself have not ventured beyond a certain boundary and am therefore
uninformed what inhabitants it may harbour. Your account has alarmed me,
continued he; for if banditti are in the neighbourhood, I am not safe
from their depredations:--'tis true, I have but little to lose, except
my life.

And the lives of your family, rejoined Louis.--Of course, said La Motte.

It would be well to have more certainty upon that head, rejoined Louis;
I am considering how we may obtain it.

'Tis useless to consider that, said La Motte; the inquiry itself brings
danger with it; your life would perhaps be paid for the indulgence of
your curiosity; our only chance of safety is by endeavouring to remain
undiscovered. Let us move towards the abbey.

Louis knew not what to think, but said no more upon the subject. La
Motte soon after relapsed into a fit of musing; and his son now took
occasion to lament that depression of spirits which he had lately
observed in him. Rather lament the cause of it, said La Motte with a
sigh. That I do most sincerely, whatever it may be. May I venture to
inquire, Sir, what is this cause?

Are then my misfortunes so little known to you, rejoined La Motte, as to
make that question necessary? Am I not driven from my home, from my
friends, and almost from my country? And shall it be asked why I am
afflicted? Louis felt the justice of this reproof, and was a moment
silent. That you are afflicted, Sir, does not excite my surprise,
resumed he; it would indeed be strange, were you not.

What then does excite your surprise?

The air of cheerfulness you wore when I first came hither.

You lately lamented that I was afflicted, said La Motte, and now seem
not very well pleased that I once was cheerful. What is the meaning of
this?

You much mistake me, said his son; nothing could give me so much
satisfaction as to see that cheerfulness renewed; the same cause of
sorrow existed at that time, yet you was then cheerful.

That I was then cheerful, said La Motte, you might, without flattery,
have attributed to yourself; your presence revived me, and I was
relieved at the same time from a load of apprehensions.

Why then, as the same cause exists, are you not still cheerful?

And why do you not recollect that it is your father you thus speak to?

I do, Sir, and nothing but anxiety for my father could have urged me
thus far: it is with inexpressible concern I perceive you have some
secret cause of uneasiness; reveal it, Sir, to those who claim a share
in all your affliction, and suffer them, by participation to soften its
severity. Louis looked up, and observed the countenance of his father
pale as death: his lips trembled while he spoke. Your penetration,
however, you may rely upon it, has, in the present instance, deceived
you: I have no subject of distress, but what you are already acquainted
with, and I desire this conversation may never be renewed.

If it is your desire, of course I obey, said Louis; but, pardon me, Sir,
if--

I will _not_ pardon you, Sir, interrupted La Motte; let the discourse
end here. Saying this, he quickened his steps; and Louis, not daring to
pursue, walked quietly on till he reached the abbey.

Adeline passed the greatest part of the day alone in her chamber, where,
having examined her conduct, she endeavoured to fortify her heart
against the unmerited displeasure of Madame La Motte. This was a task
more difficult than that of self-acquittance. She loved her, and had
relied on her friendship, which, notwithstanding the conduct of Madame,
still appeared valuable to her. It was true, she had not deserved to
lose it; but Madame was so averse to explanation, that there was little
probability of recovering it, however ill-founded might be the cause of
her dislike. At length she reasoned, or rather perhaps persuaded herself
into tolerable composure; for to resign a real good with contentment is
less an effort of reason than of temper.

For many hours she busied herself upon a piece of work which she had
undertaken for Madame La Motte; and this she did without the least
intention of conciliating her favour, but because she felt there was
something in thus repaying unkindness, which was suitable to her own
temper, her sentiments, and her pride. Self-love _may_ be the centre
round which the human affections move; for whatever motive conduces to
self-gratification may be resolved into self-love; yet some of these
affections are in their nature so refined, that though we cannot deny
their origin, they almost deserve the name of virtue. Of this species
was that of Adeline.

In this employment, and in reading, Adeline passed as much of the day as
possible. From books, indeed, she had constantly derived her chief
information and amusement: those belonging to La Motte were few, but
well chosen; and Adeline could find pleasure in reading them more than
once. When her mind was discomposed by the behaviour of Madame La Motte,
or by a retrospection of her early misfortunes, a book was the opiate
that lulled it to repose. La Motte had several of the best English
poets, a language which Adeline had learned in the convent; their
beauties, therefore, she was capable of tasting, and they often inspired
her with enthusiastic delight.

At the decline of day she quitted her chamber to enjoy the sweet evening
hour, but strayed no further than an avenue near the abbey, which
fronted the west. She read a little; but finding it impossible any
longer to abstract her attention from the scene around; she closed the
book, and yielded to the sweet complacent melancholy which the hour
inspired. The air was still; the sun sinking below the distant hill,
spread a purple glow over the landscape, and touched the forest glades
with softer light. A dewy freshness was diffused upon the air. As the
sun descended, the dusk came silently on, and the scene assumed a solemn
grandeur. As she mused, she recollected and repeated the following
stanzas:


NIGHT.

Now Evening fades! her pensive step retires,
And Night leads on the dews and shadowy hours:
Her awful pomp of planetary fires,
And all her train of visionary powers.

_These_ paint with fleeting shapes the dream of sleep,
_These_ swell the waking soul with pleasing dread;
_These_ through the glooms in forms terrific sweep,
And rouse the thrilling horrors of the dead!

Queen of the solemn thought--mysterious Night!
Whose step is darkness, and whose voice is fear!
Thy shades I welcome with severe delight,
And hail thy hollow gales, that sigh so drear!

When wrapt in clouds, and riding in the blast,
Thou roll'st the storm along the sounding shore,
I love to watch the whelming billows cast
On rocks below, and listen to the roar.

Thy milder terrors, Night, I frequent woo
Thy silent lightnings, and thy meteors' glare,
Thy northern fires, bright with ensanguine hue,
That light in heaven's high vault the fervid air.

But chief I love thee, when thy hold car
Sheds through the fleecy clouds a trembling gleam,
And shows the misty mountain from afar,
The nearer forest, and the valley's stream:

And nameless objects in the vale below,
That, floating dimly to the musing eye,
Assume, at Fancy's touch, fantastic show,
And raise her sweet romantic visions high.

Then let me stand amidst thy glooms profound,
On some wide woody steep, and hear the breeze
That swells in mournful melody around,
And faintly dies upon the distant trees.

What melancholy charm steals o'er the mind!
What hallow'd tears the rising rapture greet!
While many a viewless spirit in the wind
Sighs to the lonely hour in accents sweet!

Ah! who the dear illusions pleased would yield,
Which Fancy wakes from silence and from shades,
For all the sober forms of Truth reveal'd,
For all the scenes that Day's bright eye pervades!


On her return to the abbey she was joined by Louis, who, after some
conversation, said, I am much grieved by the scene to which I was
witness this morning, and have longed for an opportunity of telling you
so. My mother's behaviour is too mysterious to be accounted for, but it
is not difficult to perceive she labours under some mistake. What I have
to request is, that whenever I can be of service to you, you will
command me.

Adeline thanked him for this friendly offer, which she felt more
sensibly than she chose to express. I am unconscious, said she, of any
offence that may have deserved Madame La Motte's displeasure, and am
therefore totally unable to account for it. I have repeatedly sought an
explanation, which she has as anxiously avoided; it is better,
therefore, to press the subject no farther. At the same time, Sir,
suffer me to assure you, I have a just sense of your goodness. Louis
sighed, and was silent. At length, I wish you would permit me, resumed
he, to speak with my mother upon this subject; I am sure I could
convince her of her error.

By no means, replied Adeline: Madame La Motte's displeasure has given me
inexpressible concern; but to compel her to an explanation, would only
increase this displeasure, instead of removing it. Let me beg of you not
to attempt it.

I submit to your judgment, said Louis, but, for once, it is with
reluctance. I should esteem myself most happy if I could be of service
to you. He spoke this with an accent so tender, that Adeline, for the
first time, perceived the sentiments of his heart. A mind more fraught
with vanity than hers would have taught her long ago to regard the
attentions of Louis as the result of something more than well-bred
gallantry. She did not appear to notice his last words, but remained
silent, and involuntarily quickened her pace. Louis said no more, but
seemed sunk in thought; and this silence remained uninterrupted till
they entered the abbey.




CHAPTER VI


Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mockery, hence!

MACBETH.


Near a month elapsed without any remarkable occurrence: the melancholy
of La Motte suffered little abatement; and the behaviour of Madame to
Adeline, though somewhat softened, was still far from kind. Louis by
numberless little attentions testified his growing affection for
Adeline, who continued to treat them as passing civilities.

It happened, one stormy night, as they were preparing for rest, that
they were alarmed by the trampling of horses near the abbey. The sound
of several voices succeeded, and a loud knocking at the great gate of
the hall soon after confirmed the alarm. La Motte had little doubt that
the officers of justice had at length discovered his retreat, and the
perturbation of fear almost confounded his senses: he, however, ordered
the lights to be extinguished, and a profound silence to be observed,
unwilling to neglect even the slightest possibility of security. There
was a chance, he thought, that the persons might suppose the place
uninhabited, and believe they had mistaken the object of their search.
His orders were scarcely obeyed, when the knocking was renewed, and with
increased violence. La Motte now repaired to a small grated window in
the portal of the gate, that he might observe the number and appearance
of the strangers.

The darkness of the night baffled his purpose, he could only perceive a
group of men on horseback; but listening attentively, he distinguished
part of their discourse. Several of the men contended that they had
mistaken the place; till a person, who, from his authoritative voice,
appeared to be their leader, affirmed that the lights had issued from
this spot, and he was positive there were persons within. Having said
this, he again knocked loudly at the gate, and was answered only by
hollow echoes. La Motte's heart trembled at the sound, and he was unable
to move.

After waiting some time, the strangers seemed as if in consultation; but
their discourse was conducted in such a low tone of voice, that La Motte
was unable to distinguish its purport. They withdrew from the gate, as
if to depart; but he presently thought he heard them amongst the trees
on the other side of the fabric, and soon became convinced they had not
left the abbey. A few minutes held La Motte in a state of torturing
suspense; he quitted the grate, where Louis now stationed himself, for
that part of the edifice which overlooked the spot where he supposed
them to be waiting.

The storm was now loud, and the hollow blasts which rushed among the
trees prevented his distinguishing any other sound. Once, in the pauses
of the wind, he thought he heard distinct voices; but he was not long
left to conjecture, for the renewed knocking at the gate again appalled
him; and regardless of the terrors of Madame La Motte and Adeline, he
ran to try his last chance of concealment by means of the trap-door.

Soon after, the violence of the assailants seeming to increase with
every gust of the tempest, the gate, which was old and decayed, burst
from its hinges, and admitted them to the hall. At the moment of their
entrance, a scream from Madame La Motte, who stood at the door of an
adjoining apartment, confirmed the suspicions of the principal stranger,
who continued to advance as fast as the darkness would permit him.

Adeline had fainted, and Madame La Motte was calling loudly for
assistance, when Peter entered with lights, and discovered the hall
filled with men, and his young mistress senseless upon the floor. A
chevalier now advanced, and, soliciting pardon of Madame for the
rudeness of his conduct, was attempting an apology, when, perceiving
Adeline, he hastened to raise her from the ground; but Louis, who now
returned, caught her in his arms, and desired the stranger not to
interfere.

The person to whom he spoke this, wore the star of one of the first
orders in France, and had an air of dignity which declared him to be of
superior rank. He appeared to be about forty, but perhaps the spirit and
fire of his countenance made the impression of time upon his features
less perceptible. His softened aspect and insinuating manners, while,
regardless of himself, he seemed attentive only to the condition of
Adeline, gradually dissipated the apprehensions of Madame La Motte, and
subdued the sudden resentment of Louis. Upon Adeline, who was yet
insensible, he gazed with an eager admiration, which seemed to absorb
all the faculties of his mind. She was indeed an object not to be
contemplated with indifference.

Her beauty, touched with the languid delicacy of illness, gained from
sentiment what it lost in bloom. The negligence of her dress, loosened
for the purpose of freer respiration, discovered those glowing charms,
which her auburn tresses, that fell in profusion over her bosom, shaded,
but could not conceal.

There now entered another stranger, a young chevalier, who having spoke
hastily to the elder, joined the general group that surrounded Adeline.
He was of a person in which elegance was happily blended with strength,
and had a countenance animated, but not haughty; noble, yet expressive
of peculiar sweetness. What rendered it at present more interesting, was
the compassion, he seemed to feel for Adeline, who now revived and saw
him, the first object that met her eyes, bending over her in silent
anxiety.

On perceiving him, a blush of quick surprise passed over her cheek, for
she knew him to be the stranger she had seen in the forest. Her
countenance instantly changed to the paleness of terror when she
observed the room crowded with people. Louis now supported her into
another apartment, where the two chevaliers, who followed her, again
apologized for the alarm they had occasioned. The elder, turning to
Madame La Motte, said, You are, no doubt, Madam, ignorant that I am the
proprietor of this abbey. She started. Be not alarmed, Madam, you are
safe and welcome. This ruinous spot has been long abandoned by me, and
if it has afforded you a shelter I am happy. Madame La Motte expressed
her gratitude for this condescension, and Louis declared his sense of
the politeness of the Marquis de Montalt, for that was the name of the
noble stranger.

My chief residence, said the Marquis, is in a distant province, but I
have a chateau near the borders of the forest, and in returning from an
excursion I have been benighted and lost my way. A light which gleamed
through the trees attracted me hither; and such was the darkness
without, that I did not know it proceeded from the abbey till I came to
the door. The noble deportment of the strangers, the splendour of their
apparel, and above all, this speech dissipated every remaining doubt of
Madame's, and she was giving orders for refreshments to be set before
them, when La Motte, who had listened, and was now convinced he had
nothing to fear, entered the apartment.

He advanced towards the Marquis with a complacent air; but as he would
have spoke, the words of welcome faltered on his lips, his limbs
trembled, and a ghastly paleness overspread his countenance.

The Marquis was little less agitated, and in the first moment of
surprise put his hand upon his sword; but recollecting himself, he
withdrew it, and endeavoured to obtain a command of features. A pause of
agonizing silence ensued. La Motte made some motion towards the door,
but his agitated frame refused to support him, and he sunk into a chair,
silent and exhausted. The horror of his countenance, together with his
whole behaviour, excited the utmost surprise in Madame, whose eyes
inquired of the Marquis more than he thought proper to answer: his look
increased instead of explaining the mystery, and expressed a mixture of
emotions which she could not analyze. Meanwhile she endeavoured to
soothe and revive her husband; but he repressed her efforts, and,
averting his face, covered it with his hands.

The Marquis seeming to recover his presence of mind, stepped to the door
of the hall where his people were assembled, when La Motte, starting
from his seat with a frantic air, called on him to return. The Marquis
looked back and stopped: but still hesitating whether to proceed, the
supplications of Adeline, who was now returned, added to those of La
Motte, determined him, and he sat down. I request of you, my Lord, said
La Motte, that we may converse for a few moments by ourselves.

The request is bold, and the indulgence perhaps dangerous, said the
Marquis: it is more also than I will grant. You can have nothing to say
with which your family are not acquainted--speak your purpose and be
brief. La Motte's complexion varied to every sentence of this speech.
Impossible, my Lord, said he; my lips shall close for ever, ere they
pronounced before another human being the words reserved for you alone.
I entreat--I supplicate of you a few moments' private discourse. As he
pronounced these words, tears swelled into his eyes; and the Marquis,
softened by his distress, consented, though with evident emotion and
reluctance, to his request.

La Motte took a light and led the Marquis to a small room in a remote
part of the edifice, where they remained near an hour. Madame, alarmed
by the length of their absence, went in quest of them: as she drew near,
a curiosity in such circumstances perhaps not unjustifiable, prompted
her to listen. La Motte just then exclaimed--The phrensy of
despair!--some words followed, delivered in a low tone, which she could
not understand. I have suffered more than I can express, continued he;
the same image has pursued me in my midnight dream and in my daily
wanderings. There is no punishment, short of death, which I would not
have endured to regain the state of mind with which I entered this
forest. I again address myself to your compassion.

A loud gust of wind that burst along the passage where Madame La Motte
stood, overpowered his voice and that of the Marquis, who spoke in
reply: but she soon after distinguished these words,--To-morrow, my
Lord, if you return to these ruins, I will lead you to the spot.

That is scarcely necessary, and may be dangerous, said the Marquis. From
you, my Lord, I can excuse these doubts, resumed La Motte; but I will
swear whatever you shall propose. Yes, continued he, whatever may be the
consequence, I will swear to submit to your decree! The rising tempest
again drowned the sound of their voices, and Madame La Motte vainly
endeavoured to hear those words upon which probably hung the explanation
of this mysterious conduct. They now moved towards the door, and she
retreated with precipitation to the apartment where she had left Adeline
with Louis and the young chevalier.

Hither the Marquis and La Motte soon followed, the first haughty and
cool, the latter somewhat more composed than before, though the
impression of horror was not yet faded from his countenance. The Marquis
passed on to the hall where his retinue awaited; the storm was not yet
subsided, but he seemed impatient to be gone, and ordered his people to
be in readiness. La Motte observed a sullen silence, frequently pacing
the room with hasty steps, and sometimes lost in reverie. Meanwhile the
Marquis, seating himself by Adeline, directed to her his whole
attention, except when sudden fits of absence came over his mind and
suspended him in silence: at these times the young chevalier addressed
Adeline, who with diffidence and some agitation shrunk from the
observance of both.

The Marquis had been near two hours at the abbey, and the tempest still
continuing, Madame La Motte offered him a bed. A look from her husband
made her tremble for the consequence. Her offer was however politely
declined, the Marquis being evidently as impatient to be gone, as his
tenant appeared distressed by his presence. He often returned to the
hall, and from the gates raised a look of impatience to the clouds.
Nothing was to be seen through the darkness of night--nothing heard but
the howlings of the storm.

The morning dawned before he departed. As he was preparing to leave the
abbey, La Motte again drew him aside, and held him for a few moments in
close conversation. His impassioned gestures, which Madame La Motte
observed from a remote part of the room, added to her curiosity a degree
of wild apprehension, derived from the obscurity of the subject. Her
endeavour to distinguish the corresponding words was baffled by the low
voice in which they were uttered.

The Marquis and his retinue at length departed; and La Motte, having
himself fastened the gates, silently and dejectedly withdrew to his
chamber. The moment they were alone, Madame seized the opportunity of
entreating her husband to explain the scene she had witnessed. Ask me no
questions, said La Motte sternly, for I will answer none. I have already
forbidden your speaking to me on this subject.

What subject? said his wife. La Motte seemed to recollect himself--No
matter--I was mistaken--I thought you had repeated these questions
before.

Ah! said Madame La Motte, it is then as I suspected; your former
melancholy and the distress of this night have the same cause.

And why should you either suspect or inquire? Am I always to be
persecuted with conjectures?

Pardon me, I meant not to persecute you; but my anxiety for your welfare
will not suffer me to rest under this dreadful uncertainty. Let me claim
the privilege of a wife, and share the affliction which oppresses you.
Deny me not.--La Motte interrupted her, Whatever may be the cause of the
emotions which you have witnessed, I swear that I will not now reveal
it. A time may come when I shall no longer judge concealment necessary;
till then be silent, and desist from importunity; above all, forbear to
remark to any one what you may have seen uncommon in me, bury your
surmise in your own bosom, as you would avoid my curse and my
destruction. The determined air with which he spoke this, while his
countenance was overspread with a livid hue, made his wife shudder; and
she forbore all reply.

Madame La Motte retired to bed, but not to rest. She ruminated on the
past occurrence; and her surprise and curiosity concerning the words and
behaviour of her husband were but more strongly stimulated by
reflection. One truth, however, appeared: she could not doubt but the
mysterious conduct of La Motte, which had for so many months oppressed
her with anxiety, and the late scene with the Marquis, originated from
the same cause. This belief, which seemed to prove how unjustly she had
suspected Adeline, brought with it a pang of self-accusation. She looked
forward to the morrow, which would lead the Marquis again to the abbey,
with impatience. Wearied nature at length resumed her rights, and
yielded a short oblivion of care.

At a late hour the next day the family assembled to breakfast. Each
individual of the party appeared silent and abstracted; but very
different was the aspect of their features, and still more the
complexion of their thoughts. La Motte seemed agitated by impatient
fear, yet the sullenness of despair overspread his countenance; a
certain wildness in his eye at times expressed the sudden start of
horror, and again his features would sink into the gloom of despondency.

Madame La Motte seemed harassed with anxiety; she watched every turn of
her husband's countenance, and impatiently awaited the arrival of the
Marquis. Louis was composed and thoughtful. Adeline seemed to feel her
full share of uneasiness; she had observed the behaviour of La Motte the
preceding night with much surprise, and the happy confidence she had
hitherto reposed in him was shaken. She feared also, lest the exigency
of his circumstances should precipitate him again into the world, and
that he would be either unable or unwilling to afford her a shelter
beneath his roof.

During breakfast La Motte frequently rose to the window, from whence he
cast many an anxious look. His wife understood too well the cause of his
impatience, and endeavoured to repress her own. In these intervals Louis
attempted by whispers to obtain some information from his father; but La
Motte always returned to the table, where the presence of Adeline
prevented further discourse.

After breakfast, as he walked upon the lawn, Louis would have joined
him, but La Motte peremptorily declared he intended to be alone; and
soon after, the Marquis having not yet arrived, proceeded to a greater
distance from the abbey.

Adeline retired into their usual working room with Madame La Motte, who
affected an air of cheerfulness and even of kindness. Feeling the
necessity of offering some reason for the striking agitation of La
Motte, and of preventing the surprise which the unexpected appearance of
the Marquis would occasion Adeline, if she was left to connect it with
his behaviour of the preceding night, she mentioned that the Marquis and
La Motte had long been known to each other, and that this unexpected
meeting, after an absence of many years, and under circumstances so
altered and humiliating on the part of the latter, had occasioned him
much painful emotion. This had been heightened by a consciousness that
the Marquis had formerly misinterpreted some circumstances in his
conduct towards him, which had caused a suspension of their intimacy.

This account did not bring conviction to the mind of Adeline, for it
seemed inadequate to the degree of emotion which the Marquis and La
Motte had mutually betrayed. Her surprise was excited, and her curiosity
awakened by the words, which were meant to delude them both. But she
forbore to express her thoughts.

Madame proceeding with her plan, said, the Marquis was now expected, and
she hoped whatever differences remained would be perfectly adjusted.
Adeline blushed, and endeavouring to reply, her lips faltered. Conscious
of this agitation, and of the observance of Madame La Motte, her
confusion increased, and her endeavours to suppress served only to
heighten it. Still she tried to renew the discourse, and still she found
it impossible to collect her thoughts. Shocked lest Madame should
apprehend the sentiment which had till this moment been concealed almost
from herself, her colour fled, she fixed her eyes on the ground, and for
some time found it difficult to respire. Madame La Motte inquired if she
was ill; when Adeline, glad of the excuse, withdrew to the indulgence of
her own thoughts, which were now wholly engrossed by the expectation of
seeing again the young chevalier who had accompanied the Marquis.

As she looked from her room, she saw the Marquis on horseback, with
several attendants, advancing at a distance, and she hastened to apprize
Madame La Motte of his approach. In a short time, he arrived at the
gates, and Madame and Louis went out to receive him, La Motte being not
yet returned. He entered the hall, followed by the young chevalier, and
accosting Madame with a sort of stately politeness, inquired for La
Motte, whom Louis now went to seek.

The Marquis remained for a few minutes silent, and then asked of Madame
La Motte how her fair daughter did? Madame understood it was Adeline he
meant; and having answered his inquiry, and slightly said that she was
not related to them, Adeline, upon some indication of the Marquis's
wish, was sent for. She entered the room with a modest blush and a timid
air, which seemed to engage all his attention. His compliments she
received with a sweet grace; but when the young chevalier approached,
the warmth of his manner rendered hers involuntarily more reserved, and
she scarcely dared to raise her eyes from the ground, lest they should
encounter his.

La Motte now entered and apologized for his absence, which the Marquis
noticed only by a slight inclination of his head, expressing at the same
time by his looks both distrust and pride. They immediately quitted the
abbey together, and the Marquis beckoned his attendants to follow at a
distance. La Motte forbad his son to accompany him, but Louis observed
he took the way into the thickest part of the forest. He was lost in a
chaos of conjecture concerning this affair, but curiosity and anxiety
for his father induced him to follow at some distance.

In the mean time the young stranger, whom the Marquis addressed by the
name of Theodore, remained at the abbey with Madame La Motte and
Adeline. The former, with all her address, could scarcely conceal her
agitation during this interval. She moved involuntary to the door
whenever she heard a footstep, and several times she went to the hall
door, in order to look into the forest, but as often returned, checked
by disappointment; no person appeared. Theodore seemed to address as
much of his attention to Adeline as politeness would allow him to
withdraw from Madame La Motte. His manners so gentle, yet dignified,
insensibly subdued her timidity, and banished her reserve. Her
conversation no longer suffered a painful constraint, but gradually
disclosed the beauties of her mind, and seemed to produce a mutual
confidence. A similarity of sentiment soon appeared; and Theodore, by
the impatient pleasure which animated his countenance, seemed frequently
to anticipate the thought of Adeline.

To them the absence of the Marquis was short, though long to Madame La
Motte, whose countenance brightened when she heard the trampling of
horses at the gate.

The Marquis appeared but for a moment, and passed on with La Motte to a
private room, where they remained for some time in conference;
immediately after which he departed. Theodore took leave of
Adeline--who, as well as La Motte and Madame, attended them to the
gates--with an expression of tender regret, and often, as he went,
looked back upon the abbey, till the intervening branches entirely
excluded it from his view.

The transient glow of pleasure diffused over the cheek of Adeline
disappeared with the young stranger, and she sighed as she turned into
the hall. The image of Theodore pursued her to her chamber; she
recollected with exactness every particular of his late
conversation--his sentiments so congenial with her own--his manners so
engaging--his countenance so animated--so ingenious and so noble, in
which manly dignity was blended with the sweetness of benevolence;
these, and every other grace, she recollected, and a soft melancholy
stole upon her heart. I shall see him no more, said she. A sigh that
followed, told her more of her heart than she wished to know. She
blushed, and sighed again; and then suddenly recollecting herself, she
endeavoured to divert her thoughts to a different subject. La Motte's
connection with the Marquis for sometime engaged her attention; but,
unable to develop the mystery that attended it, she sought a refuge from
her own reflections in the more pleasing ones to be derived from books.

During this time, Louis, shocked and surprised at the extreme distress
which his father had manifested upon the first appearance of the
Marquis, addressed him upon the subject. He had no doubt that the
Marquis was intimately concerned in the event which made it necessary
for La Motte to leave Paris, and he spoke his thoughts without disguise,
lamenting at the same time the unlucky chance, which had brought him to
seek refuge in a place, of all others, the least capable of affording
it--the estate of his enemy. La Motte did not contradict this opinion of
his son's, and joined in lamenting the evil fate which had conducted him
thither.

The term of Louis's absence from his regiment was now nearly expired,
and he took occasion to express his sorrow that he must soon be obliged
to leave his father in circumstances so dangerous as the present. I
should leave you, Sir, with less pain, continued he, was I sure I knew
the full extent of your misfortunes; at present I am left to conjecture
evils which perhaps do not exist. Relieve me, Sir, from this state of
painful uncertainty, and suffer me to prove myself worthy of your
confidence.

I have already answered you on this subject, said La Motte, and forbad
you to renew it: I am now obliged to tell you, I care not how soon you
depart, if I am to be subjected to these inquiries. La Motte walked
abruptly away, and left his son to doubt and concern.

The arrival of the Marquis had dissipated the jealous fears of Madame La
Motte, and she awoke to a sense of her cruelty towards Adeline. When she
considered her orphan state--the uniform affection which had appeared in
her behaviour--the mildness and patience with which she had borne her
injurious treatment, she was shocked, and took an early opportunity of
renewing her former kindness. But she could not explain this seeming
inconsistency of conduct, without betraying her late suspicions, which
she now blushed to remember, nor could she apologize for her former
behaviour, without giving this explanation.

She contented herself, therefore, with expressing in her manner the
regard which was thus revived. Adeline was at first surprised, but she
felt too much pleasure at the change to be scrupulous in inquiring its
cause.

But notwithstanding the satisfaction which Adeline received from the
revival of Madame La Motte's kindness, her thoughts frequently recurred
to the peculiar and forlorn circumstances of her condition. She could
not help feeling less confidence than she had formerly done in the
friendship of Madame La Motte, whose character now appeared less amiable
than her imagination had represented it, and seemed strongly tinctured
with caprice. Her thoughts often dwelt upon the strange introduction of
the Marquis at the abbey, and on the mutual emotions and apparent
dislike of La Motte and himself; and under these circumstances, it
equally excited her surprise that La Motte should choose, and that the
Marquis should permit him, to remain in his territory.

Her mind returned the oftener, perhaps, to this subject, because it was
connected with Theodore; but it returned unconscious of the idea which
attracted it. She attributed the interest she felt in the affair to her
anxiety for the welfare of La Motte, and for her own future destination,
which was now so deeply involved in his. Sometimes, indeed, she caught
herself busy in conjecture as to the degree of relationship in which
Theodore stood to the Marquis; but she immediately checked her thoughts,
and severely blamed herself for having suffered them to stray to an
object which she perceived was too dangerous to her peace.




CHAPTER VII


Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.


A few days after the occurrence related in the preceding chapter, as
Adeline was alone in her chamber, she was roused from a reverie by a
trampling of horses near the gate; and on looking from the casement she
saw the Marquis de Montalt enter the abbey. This circumstance surprised
her, and an emotion, whose cause she did not trouble herself to inquire
for, made her instantly retreat from the window. The same cause,
however, led her thither again as hastily; but the object of her search
did not appear, and she was in no haste to retire.

As she stood musing and disappointed, the Marquis came out with La
Motte, and immediately looking up, saw Adeline and bowed. She returned
his compliment respectfully, and withdrew from the window, vexed at
having been seen there. They went into the forest, but the Marquis's
attendants did not, as before, follow them thither. When they returned,
which was not till after a considerable time, the Marquis immediately
mounted his horse and rode away.

For the remainder of the day La Motte appeared gloomy and silent, and
was frequently lost in thought. Adeline observed him with particular
attention and concern: she perceived that he was always more melancholy
after an interview with the Marquis, and was now surprised to hear that
the latter had appointed to dine the next day at the abbey.

When La Motte mentioned this, he added some high eulogiums on the
character of the Marquis, and particularly praised his generosity and
nobleness of soul. At this instant, Adeline recollected the anecdotes
she had formerly heard concerning the abbey, and they threw a shadow
over the brightness of that excellence which La Motte now celebrated.
The account, however, did not appear to deserve much credit; a part of
it, as far as a negative will admit of demonstration, having been
already proved false; for it had been reported that the abbey was
haunted, and no supernatural appearance had ever been observed by the
present inhabitants.

Adeline, however, ventured to inquire whether it was the present Marquis
of whom those injurious reports had been raised? La Motte answered her
with a smile of ridicule: Stories of ghosts and hobgoblins have always
been admired and cherished by the vulgar, said he: I am inclined to rely
upon my own experience, at least as much as upon the accounts of these
peasants; if you have seen any thing to corroborate these accounts, pray
inform me of it, that I may establish my faith.

You mistake me, Sir, said she, it was not concerning supernatural agency
that I would inquire; I alluded to a different part of the report, which
hinted that some person had been confined here by order of the Marquis,
who was said to have died unfairly; this was alleged as a reason for the
Marquis's having abandoned the abbey.

All the mere coinage of idleness, said La Motte; a romantic tale to
excite wonder: to see the Marquis is alone sufficient to refute this;
and if we credit half the number of those stories that spring from the
same source, we prove ourselves little superior to the simpletons who
invent them. Your good sense, Adeline, I think, will teach you the merit
of disbelief.

Adeline blushed and was silent; but La Motte's defence of the Marquis
appeared much warmer and more diffuse than was consistent with his own
disposition, or required by the occasion: his former conversation with
Louis occurred to her, and she was the more surprised at what passed at
present.

She looked forward to the morrow with a mixture of pain and pleasure:
the expectation of seeing again the young chevalier occupying her
thoughts, and agitating them with a various emotion:--now she feared his
presence, and now she doubted whether he would come. At length she
observed this, and blushed to find how much he engaged her attention.
The morrow arrived--the Marquis came--but he came alone; and the
sunshine of Adeline's mind was clouded, though she was able to wear her
usual air of cheerfulness. The Marquis was polite, affable, and
attentive: to manners the most easy and elegant, was added the last
refinement of polished life. His conversation was lively, amusing,
sometimes even witty, and discovered great knowledge of the world; or,
what is often mistaken for it, an acquaintance with the higher circles,
and with the topics of the day.

Here La Motte was also qualified to converse with him, and they entered
into a discussion of the characters and manners of the age with great
spirit and some humour. Madame La Motte had not seen her husband so
cheerful since they left Paris, and sometimes she could almost fancy she
was there. Adeline listened, till the cheerfulness which she had at
first only assumed became real. The address of the Marquis was so
insinuating and affable, that her reserve insensibly gave way before it,
and her natural vivacity resumed its long-lost empire.

At parting, the Marquis told La Motte he rejoiced at having found so
agreeable a neighbour. La Motte bowed. I shall sometimes visit you,
continued he, and I lament that I cannot at present invite Madame La
Motte and her fair friend to my chateau; but it is undergoing some
repairs, which make it but an uncomfortable residence.

[Illustration 03]

The vivacity of La Motte disappeared with his guest, and he soon
relapsed into fits of silence and abstraction. The Marquis is a very
agreeable man, said Madame La Motte. Very agreeable, replied he. And
seems to have an excellent heart, she resumed. An excellent one, said La
Motte.

You seem discomposed, my dear; what has disturbed you?

Not in the least--I was only thinking, that with such agreeable talents
and such an excellent heart, it was a pity the Marquis should--

What? my dear, said Madame with impatience. That the Marquis
should--should suffer this abbey to fall into ruins, replied La Motte.

Is that all? said Madame with disappointment.--That is all, upon my
honour, said La Motte, and left the room.

Adeline's spirits, no longer supported by the animated conversation of
the Marquis, sunk into languor, and when he departed she walked
pensively into the forest. She followed a little romantic path that
wound along the margin of the stream and was overhung with deep shades.
The tranquillity of the scenes which autumn now touched with her
sweetest tints, softened her mind to a tender kind of melancholy; and
she suffered a tear, which she knew not wherefore had stolen into her
eye, to tremble there unchecked. She came to a little lonely recess
formed by high trees; the wind sighed mournfully among the branches, and
as it waved their lofty heads scattered their leaves to the ground. She
seated herself on a bank beneath, and indulged the melancholy
reflections that pressed on her mind.

O! could I dive into futurity and behold the events which await me! said
she; I should perhaps, by constant contemplation, be enabled to meet
them with fortitude. An orphan in this wide world--thrown upon the
friendship of strangers for comfort, and upon their bounty for the very
means of existence, what but evil have I to expect? Alas, my father! how
could you thus abandon your child--how leave her to the storms of
life--to sink, perhaps, beneath them? alas, I have no friend!

She was interrupted by a rustling among the fallen leaves; she turned
her head, and perceiving the Marquis's young friend, arose to depart.
Pardon this intrusion, said he, your voice attracted me hither, and your
words detained me: my offence, however, brings with it its own
punishment; having learned your sorrows--how can I help feeling them
myself? would that my sympathy or my suffering could rescue you from
them!--He hesitated.--Would that I could deserve the title of your
friend, and be thought worthy of it by yourself!

The confusion of Adeline's thoughts could scarcely permit her to reply;
she trembled, and gently withdrew her hand, which he had taken while he
spoke. You have perhaps heard, Sir, more than is true: I am indeed not
happy; but a moment of dejection has made me unjust, and I am less
unfortunate than I have represented. When I said I had no friend, I was
ungrateful to the kindness of Monsieur and Madame La Motte, who have
been more than friends--have been as parents to me.

If so, I honour them, cried Theodore with warmth; and if I did not feel
it to be presumption, I would ask why you are unhappy?--But--he paused.
Adeline, raising her eyes, saw him gazing upon her with intense and
eager anxiety, and her looks were again fixed upon the ground. I have
pained you, said Theodore, by an improper request. Can you forgive me,
and also when I add, that it was an interest in your welfare which urged
my inquiry?

Forgiveness, Sir, it is unnecessary to ask; I am certainly obliged by
the compassion you express. But the evening is cold, if you please we
will walk towards the abbey. As they moved on, Theodore was for some
time silent. At length, It was but lately that I solicited your pardon,
said he, and I shall now perhaps have need of it again; but you will do
me the justice to believe that I have a strong and indeed a pressing
reason to inquire how nearly you are related to Monsieur La Motte.

We are not at all related, said Adeline; but the service he has done me
I can never repay, and I hope my gratitude will teach me never to forget
it.

Indeed! said Theodore, surprised: and may I ask how long you have known
him?

Rather, Sir, let me ask why these questions should be necessary.

You are just, said he, with an air of self-condemnation, my conduct has
deserved this reproof; I should have been more explicit. He looked as if
his mind was labouring with something which he was unwilling to express.
But you know not how delicately I am circumstanced, continued he; yet I
will aver that my questions are prompted by the tenderest interest in
your happiness--and even by my fears for your safety. Adeline started.
I fear you are deceived, said he, I fear there's danger near you.

Adeline stopped, and looking earnestly at him, begged he would explain
himself. She suspected that some mischief threatened La Motte; and
Theodore continuing silent, she repeated her request. If La Motte is
concerned in this danger, said she, let me entreat you to acquaint him
with it immediately; he has but too many misfortunes to apprehend.

Excellent Adeline! cried Theodore, that heart must be adamant that would
injure you. How shall I hint what I fear is too true, and how forbear to
warn you of your danger without--He was interrupted by a step among the
trees, and presently after saw La Motte cross into the path they were
in. Adeline felt confused at being thus seen with the chevalier, and was
hastening to join La Motte; but Theodore detained her, and entreated a
moment's attention. There is now no time to explain myself, said he; yet
what I would say is of the utmost consequence to _yourself_.

Promise, therefore, to meet me in some part of the forest at about this
time to-morrow evening; you will then, I hope, be convinced that my
conduct is directed neither by common circumstances nor common regard.
Adeline shuddered at the idea of making an appointment; she hesitated,
and at length entreated Theodore not to delay till to-morrow an
explanation which appeared to be so important, but to follow La Motte
and inform him of his danger immediately. It is not with La Motte I
would speak, replied Theodore; I know of no danger that threatens
him--but he approaches, be quick, lovely Adeline, and promise to meet
me.

I do promise, said Adeline, with a faltering voice; I will come to the
spot where you found me this evening, an hour earlier to-morrow. Saying
this, she withdrew her trembling hand, which Theodore had pressed to his
lips in token of acknowledgement, and he immediately disappeared.

La Motte now approached Adeline, who, fearing that he had seen Theodore,
was in some confusion. Whither is Louis gone so fast? said La Motte. She
rejoiced to find his mistake, and suffered him to remain in it. They
walked pensively towards the abbey, where Adeline, too much occupied by
her own thoughts to bear company, retired to her chamber. She ruminated
upon the words of Theodore; and the more she considered them, the more
she was perplexed. Sometimes she blamed herself for having made an
appointment, doubting whether he had not solicited it for the purpose of
pleading a passion; and now delicacy checked this thought, and made her
vexed that she had presumed upon having inspired one. She recollected
the serious earnestness of his voice and manner when he entreated her to
meet him; and as they convinced her of the importance of the subject,
she shuddered at a danger which she could not comprehend, looking
forward to the morrow with anxious impatience.

Sometimes too a remembrance of the tender interest he had expressed for
her welfare, and of his correspondent look and air, would steal across
her memory, awakening a pleasing emotion and a latent hope that she was
not indifferent to him. From reflections like these she was roused by a
summons to supper:--the repast was a melancholy one, it being the last
evening of Louis's stay at the abbey. Adeline, who esteemed him,
regretted his departure, while his eyes were often bent on her with a
look which seemed to express that he was about to leave the object of
his affection. She endeavoured by her cheerfulness to reanimate the
whole party, and especially Madame La Motte, who frequently shed tears.
We shall soon meet again, said Adeline, I trust in happier
circumstances. La Motte sighed. The countenance of Louis brightened at
her words. Do you wish it? said he with peculiar emphasis. Most
certainly I do, she replied: can you doubt my regard for my best
friends?

I cannot doubt any thing that is good of you, said he.

You forget you have left Paris, said La Motte to his son, while a faint
smile crossed his face; such a compliment would there be in character
with the place--in these solitary woods it is quite _outre_.

The language of admiration is not always that of compliment, Sir, said
Louis. Adeline, willing to change the discourse, asked to what part of
France he was going. He replied that his regiment was now at Peronne,
and he should go immediately thither. After some mention of indifferent
subjects, the family withdrew for the night to their several chambers.

The approaching departure of her son occupied the thoughts of Madame La
Motte, and she appeared at breakfast with eyes swollen with weeping. The
pale countenance of Louis seemed to indicate that he had rested no
better than his mother. When breakfast was over, Adeline retired for a
while, that she might not interrupt by her presence their last
conversation. As she walked on the lawn before the abbey, she returned
in thought to the occurrence of yesterday evening, and her impatience
for the appointed interview increased. She was soon joined by Louis. It
was unkind of you to leave us, said he, in the last moments of my stay.
Could I hope that you would sometimes remember me when I am far away, I
should depart with less sorrow. He then expressed his concern at leaving
her: and though he had hitherto armed himself with resolution to forbear
a direct avowal of an attachment, which must be fruitless, his heart now
yielded to the force of passion, and he told what Adeline every moment
feared to hear.

This declaration, said Adeline, endeavouring to overcome the agitation
it excited, gives me inexpressible concern.

O, say not so! interrupted Louis, but give me some slender hope to
support me in the miseries of absence. Say that you do not hate
me--Say--

That I do most readily say, replied Adeline in a tremulous voice;
if it will give you pleasure to be assured of my esteem and
friendship--receive this assurance:--as the son of my best benefactors,
you are entitled to----

Name not benefits, said Louis, your merits outrun them all: and suffer
me to hope for a sentiment less cool than that of friendship, as well as
to believe that I do not owe your approbation of me to the actions of
others. I have long borne my passion in silence, because I foresaw the
difficulties that would attend it; nay, I have even dared to endeavour
to overcome it: I have dared to believe it possible--forgive the
supposition, that I could forget you--and----

You distress me, interrupted Adeline; this is a conversation which I
ought not to hear. I am above disguise, and therefore assure you that,
though your virtues will always command my esteem, you have nothing to
hope from my love. Were it even otherwise, our circumstances would
effectually decide for us. If you are really my friend, you will rejoice
that I am spared this struggle between affection and prudence. Let me
hope, also, that time will teach you to reduce love within the limits of
friendship.

Never, cried Louis vehemently: were this possible, my passion would be
unworthy of its object. While he spoke, Adeline's favourite fawn came
bounding towards her. This circumstance affected Louis even to tears.
This little animal, said he, after a short pause, first conducted me to
you: it was witness to that happy moment when I first saw you surrounded
by attractions too powerful for my heart; that moment is now fresh in my
memory, and the creature comes even to witness this sad one of my
departure. Grief interrupted his utterance.

When he recovered his voice, he said, Adeline! when you look upon your
little favourite and caress it, remember the unhappy Louis, who will
then be far--far from you. Do not deny me the poor consolation of
believing this!

I shall not require such a monitor to remind me of you, said Adeline
with a smile; your excellent parents and your own merits have sufficient
claim upon my remembrance. Could I see your natural good sense resume
its influence over passion, my satisfaction would equal my esteem for
you.

Do not hope it, said Louis, nor will I wish it; for passion here is
virtue. As he spoke he saw La Motte turning round an angle of the abbey.
The moments are precious, said he, I am interrupted. O! Adeline,
farewell! and say that you will sometimes think of me.

Farewell, said Adeline, who was affected by his distress--farewell! and
peace attend you. I will think of you with the affection of a
sister.--He sighed deeply and pressed her hand; when La Motte, winding
round another projection of the ruin, again appeared. Adeline left them
together, and withdrew to her chamber, oppressed by the scene. Louis's
passion and her esteem were too sincere not to inspire her with a strong
degree of pity for his unhappy attachment. She remained in her chamber
till he had quitted the abbey, unwilling to subject him or herself to
the pain of a formal parting.

As evening and the hour of appointment drew nigh, Adeline's impatience
increased; yet when the time arrived, her resolution failed, and she
faltered from her purpose. There was something of indelicacy and
dissimulation in an _appointed_ interview on her part, that shocked her.
She recollected the tenderness of Theodore's manner, and several little
circumstances which seemed to indicate that his heart was not
unconcerned in the event. Again she was inclined to doubt whether he had
not obtained her consent to this meeting upon some groundless suspicion;
and she almost determined not to go: yet it was possible Theodore's
assertion might be sincere, and her danger real; the chance of this made
her delicate scruples appear ridiculous; she wondered that she had for a
moment suffered them to weigh against so serious an interest, and
blaming herself for the delay they had occasioned, hastened to the place
of appointment.

The little path which led to this spot, was silent and solitary, and
when she reached the recess Theodore had not arrived. A transient pride
made her unwilling he should find that she was more punctual to his
appointment than himself; and she turned from the recess into a track
which wound among the trees to the right. Having walked some way without
seeing any person or hearing a footstep, she returned; but he was not
come, and she again left the place. A second time she came back, and
Theodore was still absent. Recollecting the time at which she had
quitted the abbey, she grew uneasy, and calculated that the hour
appointed was now much exceeded. She was offended and perplexed; but she
seated herself on the turf, and was resolved to wait the event. After
remaining here till the fall of twilight in fruitless expectation, her
pride became more alarmed; she feared that he had discovered something
of the partiality he had inspired; and believing that he now treated her
with purposed neglect, she quitted the place with disgust and
self-accusation.

When these emotions subsided, and reason resumed its influence, she
blushed for what she termed this childish effervescence of self-love.
She recollected, as if for the first time, these words of Theodore: I
fear you are deceived, and that some danger is near you. Her judgment
now acquitted the offender, and she saw only the friend. The import of
these words, whose truth she no longer doubted, again alarmed her. Why
did he trouble himself to come from the chateau, on purpose to hint her
danger, if he did not wish to preserve her? And if he wished to preserve
her, what but necessity could have withheld him from the appointment?

These reflections decided her at once. She resolved to repair on the
following day at the same hour to the recess, whither the interest which
she believed him to take in her fate would no doubt conduct him in the
hope of meeting her. That some evil hovered over her she could not
disbelieve, but what it might be she was unable to guess. Monsieur and
Madame La Motte were her friends, and who else, removed as she now
thought herself, beyond the reach of her father, could injure her? But
why did Theodore say she was deceived? She found it impossible to
extricate herself from the labyrinth of conjecture, but endeavoured to
command her anxiety till the following evening. In the mean time she
engaged herself in efforts to amuse Madame La Motte, who required some
relief after the departure of her son.

Thus oppressed by her own cares and interested by those of Madame La
Motte, Adeline retired to rest. She soon lost her recollection: but it
was only to fall into harassed slumbers, such as but too often haunt the
couch of the unhappy. At length her perturbed fancy suggested the
following dream.

She thought she was in a large old chamber belonging to the abbey, more
ancient and desolate, though in part furnished, than any she had yet
seen. It was strongly barricadoed, yet no person appeared. While she
stood musing and surveying the apartment, she heard a low voice call
her; and looking towards the place whence it came, she perceived by the
dim light of a lamp a figure stretched on a bed that lay on the floor.
The Voice called again; and approaching the bed, she distinctly saw the
features of a man who appeared to be dying. A ghastly paleness
overspread his countenance, yet there was an expression of mildness and
dignity in it, which strongly interested her.

While she looked on him his features changed, and seemed convulsed in
the agonies of death. The spectacle shocked her, and she started back;
but he suddenly stretched forth his hand, and seizing hers, grasped it
with violence: she struggled in terror to disengage herself; and again
looking on his face, saw a man who appeared to be about thirty, with the
same features, but in full health, and of a most benign countenance. He
smiled tenderly upon her, and moved his lips as if to speak, when the
floor of the chamber suddenly opened and he sunk from her view. The
effort she made to save herself from following awoke her.--This dream
had so strongly impressed her fancy, that it was some time before she
could overcome the terror it occasioned, or even be perfectly convinced
she was in her own apartment. At length, however, she composed herself
to sleep; again she fell into a dream.

She thought she was bewildered in some winding passages of the abbey;
that it was almost dark, and that she wandered about a considerable time
without being able to find a door. Suddenly she heard a bell toll from
above, and soon after a confusion of distant voices. She redoubled her
efforts to extricate herself. Presently all was still; and at length
wearied with the search, she sat down on a step that crossed the
passage. She had not been long here when she saw a light glimmer at a
distance on the walls; but a turn in the passage, which was very long,
prevented her seeing from what it proceeded. It continued to glimmer
faintly for some time and then grew stronger, when she saw a man enter
the passage habited in a long black cloak like those usually worn by
attendants at funerals, and bearing a torch. He called to her to follow
him, and led her through a long passage to the foot of a staircase. Here
she feared to proceed, and was running back, when the man suddenly
turned to pursue her, and with the terror which this occasioned she
awoke.

Shocked by these visions, and more so by their seeming connection, which
now struck her, she endeavoured to continue awake, lest their terrific
images should again haunt her mind: after some time, however, her
harassed spirits again sunk into slumber, though not to repose.

She now thought herself in a large old gallery, and saw at one end of it
a chamber door standing a little open and a light within: she went
towards it, and perceived the man she had before seen, standing at the
door and beckoning her towards him. With the inconsistency so common in
dreams, she no longer endeavoured to avoid him, but advancing, followed
him into a suit of very ancient apartments hung with black and lighted
up as if for a funeral. Still he led her on, till she found herself in
the same chamber she remembered to have seen in her former dream: a
coffin covered with a pall stood at the further end of the room; some
lights and several persons surrounded it, who appeared to be in great
distress.

Suddenly she thought these persons were all gone, and that she was left
alone; that she went up to the coffin, and while she gazed upon it, she
heard a voice speak, as if from within, but saw nobody. The man she had
before seen, soon after stood by the coffin, and lifting the pall, she
saw beneath it a dead person, whom she thought to be the dying chevalier
she had seen in her former dream; his features were sunk in death, but
they were yet serene. While she looked at him, a stream of blood gushed
from his side, and descending to the floor the whole chamber was
overflowed; at the same time some words were uttered in a voice she
heard before; but the horror of the scene so entirely overcame her, that
she started and awoke.

When she had recovered her recollection, she raised herself in the bed,
to be convinced it was a dream she had witnessed; and the agitation of
her spirits was so great, that she feared to be alone, and almost
determined to call Annette. The features of the deceased person, and the
chamber where he lay, were strongly impressed upon her memory, and she
still thought she heard the voice and saw the countenance which her
dream represented. The longer she considered these dreams, the more she
was surprised; they were so very terrible, returned so often, and seemed
to be so connected with each other, that she could scarcely think them
accidental; yet why they should be supernatural, she could not tell. She
slept no more that night.




CHAPTER VIII


...... When these prodigies
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say,
_These are their reasons; they are natural_;
For I believe they are portentous things.

JULIUS CÆSAR.


When Adeline appeared at breakfast, her harassed and languid countenance
struck Madame La Motte, who inquired if she was ill. Adeline, forcing a
smile upon her features, said she had not rested well, for that she had
had very disturbed dreams: she was about to describe them, but a strong
and involuntary impulse prevented her. At the same time La Motte
ridiculed her concern so unmercifully, that she was almost ashamed to
have mentioned it, and tried to overcome the remembrance of its cause.

After breakfast, she endeavoured to employ her thoughts by conversing
with Madame La Motte; but they were really engaged by the incidents of
the last two days, the circumstance of her dreams, and her conjectures
concerning the information to be communicated to her by Theodore. They
had thus sat for some time, when a sound of voices arose from the great
gate of the abbey; and on going to the casement, Adeline saw the Marquis
and his attendants on the lawn below. The portal of the abbey concealed
several people from her view, and among these it was possible might be
Theodore, who had not yet appeared: she continued to look for him with
great anxiety, till the Marquis entered the hall with La Motte and some
other persons, soon after which Madame went to receive him, and Adeline
retired to her own apartment.

A message from La Motte, however, soon called her to join the party,
where she vainly hoped to find Theodore. The Marquis arose as she
approached, and, having paid her some general compliments, the
conversation took a very lively turn. Adeline, finding it impossible to
counterfeit cheerfulness while her heart was sinking with anxiety and
disappointment, took little part in it: Theodore was not once named. She
would have asked concerning him, had it been possible to inquire with
propriety; but she was obliged to content herself with hoping, first,
that he would arrive before dinner, and then before the departure of the
Marquis.

Thus the day passed in expectation and disappointment. The evening was
now approaching, and she was condemned to remain in the presence of the
Marquis, apparently listening to a conversation which, in truth, she
scarcely heard, while the opportunity was perhaps escaping that would
decide her fate. She was suddenly relieved from this state of torture,
and thrown into one, if possible, still more distressing.

The Marquis inquired for Louis, and being informed of his departure,
mentioned that Theodore Peyrou had that morning set out for his regiment
in a distant province. He lamented the loss he should sustain by his
absence; and expressed some very flattering praise of his talents. The
shock of this intelligence overpowered the long-agitated spirits of
Adeline: the blood forsook her cheeks, and a sudden faintness came over
her, from which she recovered only to a consciousness of having
discovered her emotion, and the danger of relapsing into a second fit.

She retired to her chamber, where being once more alone, her oppressed
heart found relief from tears, in which she freely indulged. Ideas
crowded so fast upon her mind, that it was long ere she could arrange
them so as to produce any thing like reasoning. She endeavoured to
account for the abrupt departure of Theodore. Is it possible, said she,
that he should take an interest in my welfare, and yet leave me exposed
to the full force of a danger which he himself foresaw? Or am I to
believe that he has trifled with my simplicity for an idle frolic, and
has now left me to the wondering apprehension he has raised? Impossible!
a countenance so noble, and a manner so amiable, could never disguise a
heart capable of forming so despicable a design. No!--whatever is
reserved for me, let me not relinquish the pleasure of believing that he
is worthy of my esteem.

She was awakened from thoughts like these by a peal of distant thunder,
and now perceived that the gloominess of evening was deepened by the
coming storm; it rolled onward, and soon after the lightning began to
flash along the chamber. Adeline was superior to the affectation of
fear, and was not apt to be terrified; but she now felt it unpleasant to
be alone, and hoping that the Marquis might have left the abby, she went
down to the sitting-room: but the threatening aspect of the heavens had
hitherto detained him, and now the evening tempest made him rejoice that
he had not quitted a shelter. The storm continued, and night came on. La
Motte pressed his guest to take a bed at the abbey, and he at length
consented; a circumstance which threw Madame La Motte into some
perplexity as to the accommodation to be afforded him. After some time
she arranged the affair to her satisfaction; resigning her own apartment
to the Marquis, and that of Louis to two of his superior attendants;
Adeline, it was further settled, should give up her room to Monsieur and
Madame La Motte, and to remove to an inner chamber, where a small bed,
usually occupied by Annette, was placed for her.

At supper the Marquis was less gay than usual; he frequently addressed
Adeline, and his look and manner seemed to express the tender interest
which her indisposition, for she still appeared pale and languid, had
excited. Adeline, as usual, made an effort to forget her anxiety and
appear happy: but the veil of assumed cheerfulness was too thin to
conceal the features of sorrow; and her feeble smiles only added a
peculiar softness to her air. The Marquis conversed with her on a
variety of subjects, and displayed an elegant mind. The observations of
Adeline, which, when called upon, she gave with reluctant modesty, in
words at once simple and forceful, seemed to excite his admiration,
which he sometimes betrayed by an inadvertent expression.

Adeline retired early to her room, which adjoined on one side to Madame
La Motte's, and on the other to the closet formerly mentioned. It was
spacious and lofty, and what little furniture it contained was falling
to decay; but perhaps the present tone of her spirits might contribute
more than these circumstances to give that air of melancholy which
seemed to reign in it. She was unwilling to go to bed, lest the dreams
that had lately pursued her should return; and determined to sit up till
she found herself oppressed by sleep, when it was probable her rest
would be profound. She placed the light on a small table, and taking a
book, continued to read for above an hour, till her mind refused any
longer to abstract itself from its own cares, and she sat for some time
leaning pensively on her arm.

The wind was high, and as it whistled through the desolate apartment,
and shook the feeble doors, she often started, and sometimes even
thought she heard sighs between the pauses of the gust; but she checked
these illusions, which the hour of the night and her own melancholy
imagination conspired to raise. As she sat musing, her eyes fixed on the
opposite wall, she perceived the arras, with which the room was hung,
wave backwards and forwards; she continued to observe it for some
minutes, and then rose to examine it further. It was moved by the wind;
and she blushed at the momentary fear it had excited; but she observed
that the tapestry was more strongly agitated in one particular place
than elsewhere, and a noise that seemed something more than that of the
wind issued thence. The old bedstead, which La Motte had found in this
apartment, had been removed to accommodate Adeline, and it was behind
the place where this had stood, that the wind seemed to rush with
particular force: curiosity prompted her to examine still further; she
felt about the tapestry, and perceiving the wall behind shake under her
hand, she lifted the arras, and discovered a small door, whose loosened
hinges admitted the wind, and occasioned the noise she had heard.

The door was held only by a bolt, having undrawn which, and brought the
light, she descended by a few steps into another chamber; she instantly
remembered her dreams. The chamber was not much like that in which she
had seen the dying chevalier, and afterwards the bier; but it gave her a
confused remembrance of one through which she had passed. Holding up the
light to examine it more fully, she was convinced by its structure that
it was part of the ancient foundation. A shattered casement, placed high
from the floor, seemed to be the only opening to admit light. She
observed a door on the opposite side of the apartment; and after some
moments of hesitation gained courage, and determined to pursue the
inquiry. A mystery seems to hang over these chambers, said she, which it
is perhaps my lot to develop; I will at least see to what that door
leads.

She stepped forward, and having unclosed it, proceeded with faltering
steps along a suite of apartments, resembling the first in style and
condition, and terminating in one exactly like that where her dream had
represented the dying person; the remembrance struck so forcibly upon
her imagination, that she was in danger of fainting; and looking round
the room, almost expected to see the phantom of her dream.

Unable to quit the place, she sat down on some old lumber to recover
herself, while her spirits were nearly overcome by a superstitious
dread, such as she had never felt before. She wondered to what part of
the abbey these chambers belonged, and that they had so long escaped
detection. The casements were all too high to afford any information
from without. When she was sufficiently composed to consider the
direction of the rooms and the situation of the abbey, there appeared
not a doubt that they formed an interior part of the original building.

As these reflections passed over her mind, a sudden gleam of moonlight
fell upon some object without the casement. Being now sufficiently
composed to wish to pursue the inquiry, and believing this object might
afford her some means of learning the situation of these rooms, she
combated her remaining terrors; and in order to distinguish it more
clearly, removed the light to an outer chamber; but before she could
return, a heavy cloud was driven over the face of the moon, and all
without was perfectly dark; she stood for some moments waiting a
returning gleam, but the obscurity continued. As she went softly back
for the light, her foot stumbled over something on the floor; and while
she stooped to examine it, the moon again shone, so that she could
distinguish through the casement, the eastern towers of the abbey. This
discovery confirmed her former conjectures concerning the interior
situation of these apartments. The obscurity of the place prevented her
discovering what it was that had impeded her steps, but having brought
the light forward, she perceived on the floor an old dagger: with a
trembling hand she took it up, and upon a closer view perceived that it
was spotted and stained with rust.

Shocked and surprised, she looked round the room for some object that
might confirm or destroy the dreadful suspicion which now rushed upon
her mind; but she saw only a great chair with broken arms, that stood in
one corner of the room, and a table in a condition equally shattered,
except that in another part lay a confused heap of things, which
appeared to be old lumber. She went up to it, and perceived a broken
bedstead, with some decayed remnants of furniture, covered with dust and
cobwebs, and which seemed indeed as if they had not been moved for many
years. Desirous, however, of examining further, she attempted to raise
what appeared to have been part of the bedstead; but it slipped from her
hand, and, rolling to the floor, brought with it some of the remaining
lumber. Adeline started aside and saved herself; and when the noise it
made had ceased, she heard a small rustling sound, and as she was about
to leave the chamber, saw something falling gently among the lumber.

It was a small roll of paper, tied with a string, and covered with dust.
Adeline took it up, and on opening it perceived a hand writing. She
attempted to read it, but the part of the manuscript she looked at was
so much obliterated, that she found this difficult, though what few
words were legible impressed her with curiosity and terror, and induced
her to return with it immediately to her chamber.

Having reached her own room, she fastened the private door, and let the
arras fall over it as before. It was now midnight. The stillness of the
hour, interrupted only at intervals by the hollow sighings of the blast,
heightened the solemnity of Adeline's feelings. She wished she was not
alone, and before she proceeded to look into the manuscript, listened
whether Madame La Motte was yet in her chamber:--not the least sound was
heard, and she gently opened the door. The profound silence within
almost convinced her that no person was there; but willing to be further
satisfied, she brought the light and found the room empty. The lateness
of the hour made her wonder that Madame La Motte was not in her chamber,
and she proceeded to the top of the tower stairs, to hearken if any
person was stirring.

She heard the sound of voices from below, and, amongst the rest, that of
La Motte speaking in his usual tone. Being now satisfied that all was
well, she turned towards her room, when she heard the Marquis pronounce
her name with very unusual emphasis. She paused. I adore her, pursued
he, and by Heaven--He was interrupted by La Motte, my Lord, remember
your promise.

I do, replied the Marquis, and I will abide by it. But we trifle.
To-morrow I will declare myself, and I shall then know both what to hope
and how to act. Adeline trembled so excessively, that she could scarcely
support herself: she wished to return to her chamber; yet she was too
much interested in the words she had heard, not to be anxious to have
them more fully explained. There was an interval of silence, after which
they conversed in a lower tone. Adeline remembered the hints of
Theodore, and determined, if possible, to be relieved from the terrible
suspense she now suffered. She stole softly down a few steps, that she
might catch the accents of the speakers, but they were so low that she
could only now and then distinguish a few words. Her father, say you?
said the Marquis. Yes, my Lord, her father. I am well informed of what I
say. Adeline shuddered at the mention of her father, a new terror seized
her, and with increasing eagerness she endeavoured to distinguish their
words, but for some time found this to be impossible. Here is no time to
be lost, said the Marquis, to-morrow then.--She heard La Motte rise, and
believing it was to leave the room, she hurried up the steps, and having
reached her chamber, sunk almost lifeless in a chair.

It was her father only of whom she thought. She doubted not that he had
pursued and discovered her retreat; and though this conduct appeared
very inconsistent with his former behaviour in abandoning her to
strangers, her fears suggested that it would terminate in some new
cruelty. She did not hesitate to pronounce this the danger of which
Theodore had warned her; but it was impossible to surmise how he had
gained his knowledge of it, or how he had become sufficiently acquainted
with her story, except through La Motte, her apparent friend and
protector, whom she was thus, though unwillingly, led to suspect of
treachery. Why, indeed, should La Motte conceal from her only his
knowledge of her father's intention, unless he designed to deliver her
into his hands? Yet it was long ere she could bring herself to believe
this conclusion possible. To discover depravity in those whom we have
loved, is one of the most exquisite tortures to a virtuous mind, and the
conviction is often rejected before it is finally admitted.

The words of Theodore, which told her he was fearful she was deceived,
confirmed this most painful apprehension of La Motte, with another yet
more distressing, that Madame La Motte was also united against her. This
thought, for a moment, subdued terror and left her only grief; she wept
bitterly. Is this human nature? cried she. Am I doomed to find every
body deceitful? An unexpected discovery of vice in those whom we have
admired, inclines us to extend our censure of the individual to the
species; we henceforth contemn appearances, and too hastily conclude
that no person is to be trusted.

Adeline determined to throw herself at the feet of La Motte on the
following morning, and implore his pity and protection. Her mind was now
too much agitated by her own interests to permit her to examine the
manuscripts, and she sat musing in her chair till she heard the steps of
Madame La Motte, when she retired to bed. La Motte soon after came up to
his chamber; and Adeline, the mild, persecuted Adeline, who had now
passed two days of torturing anxiety, and one night of terrific visions,
endeavoured to compose her mind to sleep. In the present state of her
spirits she quickly caught alarm, and she had scarcely fallen into a
slumber when she was roused by a loud and uncommon noise. She listened,
and thought the sound came from the apartments below, but in a few
minutes there was a hasty knocking at the door of La Motte's chamber.

La Motte, who had just fallen asleep, was not easily to be roused; but
the knocking increased with such violence, that Adeline, extremely
terrified, arose and went to the door that opened from her chamber into
his, with a design to call him. She was stopped by the voice of the
Marquis, which she now clearly distinguished at the door. He called to
La Motte to rise immediately; and Madame La Motte endeavoured at the
same time to rouse her husband, who at length awoke in much alarm, and
soon after joining the Marquis, they went down stairs together. Adeline
now dressed herself, as well as her trembling hands would permit, and
went into the adjoining chamber, where she found Madame La Motte
extremely surprised and terrified.

The Marquis in the mean time told La Motte, with great agitation, that
he recollected having appointed some persons to meet him upon business
of importance early in the morning, and it was therefore necessary for
him to set off for his chateau immediately. As he said this, and desired
that his servants might be called, La Motte could not help observing the
ashy paleness of his countenance, or expressing some apprehension that
his Lordship was ill. The Marquis assured him he was perfectly well, but
desired that he might set out immediately. Peter was now ordered to call
the other servants, and the Marquis having refused to take any
refreshment, bade La Motte a hasty adieu, and as soon as his people were
ready left the abbey.

La Motte returned to his chamber, musing on the abrupt departure of his
guest, whose emotion appeared much too strong to proceed from the cause
assigned. He appeased the anxiety of Madame La Motte, and at the same
time excited her surprise by acquainting her with the occasion of the
late disturbance. Adeline, who had retired from the chamber on the
approach of La Motte, looked out from her window on hearing the
trampling of horses. It was the Marquis and his people, who just then
passed at a little distance. Unable to distinguish who the persons were,
she was alarmed at observing such a party about the abbey at that hour,
and calling to inform La Motte of the circumstance, was made acquainted
with what had passed.

At length she retired to her bed, and her slumbers were this night
undisturbed by dreams.

When she arose in the morning, she observed La Motte walking alone in
the avenue below, and she hastened to seize the opportunity which now
offered of pleading her cause. She approached him with faltering steps,
while the paleness and timidity of her countenance discovered the
disorder of her mind. Her first words, without entering upon any
explanation, implored his compassion. La Motte stopped, and looking
earnestly in her face, inquired whether any part of his conduct towards
her merited the suspicion which her request implied. Adeline for a
moment blushed that she had doubted his integrity, but the words she had
overheard returned to her memory.

Your behaviour, Sir, said she, I acknowledge to have been kind and
generous, beyond what I had a right to expect, but--and she paused. She
knew not how to mention what she blushed to believe. La Motte continued
to gaze on her in silent expectation, and at length desired her to
proceed and explain her meaning. She entreated that he would protect her
from her father. La Motte looked surprised and confused. Your father!
said he. Yes, Sir, replied Adeline; I am not ignorant that he has
discovered my retreat: I have every thing to dread from a parent who has
treated me with such cruelty as you was witness of; and I again implore
that you will save me from his hands.

La Motte stood fixed in thought, and Adeline continued her endeavours to
interest his pity. What reason have you to suppose, or rather how have
you learned, that your father pursues you? The question confused
Adeline, who blushed to acknowledge that she had overheard his
discourse, and disdained to invent or utter a falsity: at length she
confessed the truth. The countenance of La Motte instantly changed to a
savage fierceness, and, sharply rebuking her for a conduct to which she
had been rather tempted by chance than prompted by design, he inquired
what she had overheard that could so much alarm her. She faithfully
repeated the substance of the incoherent sentences that had met her
ear;--while she spoke, he regarded her with a fixed attention. And was
this all you heard? Is it from these few words that you draw such a
positive conclusion? Examine them, and you will find they do not justify
it.

She now perceived, what the fervour of her fears had not permitted her
to observe before, that the words, unconnectedly as she heard them,
imported little, and that her imagination had filled up the void in the
sentences, so as to suggest the evil apprehended. Notwithstanding this,
her fears were little abated. Your apprehensions are, doubtless, now
removed, resumed La Motte; but to give you a proof of the sincerity
which you have ventured to question, I will tell you they were just. You
seem alarmed, and with reason. Your father has discovered your
residence, and has already demanded you. It is true, that from a motive
of compassion I have refused to resign you, but I have neither authority
to withhold nor means to defend you. When he comes to enforce his
demand, you will perceive this. Prepare yourself, therefore, for the
evil, which you see is inevitable.

Adeline for some time could speak only by her tears. At length, with a
fortitude which despair had roused, she said, I resign myself to the
will of Heaven! La Motte gazed on her in silence, and a strong emotion
appeared in his countenance. He forbore, however, to renew the
discourse, and withdrew to the abbey, leaving Adeline in the avenue,
absorbed in grief.

A summons to breakfast hastened her to the parlour, where she passed the
morning in conversation with Madame La Motte, to whom she told all her
apprehensions, and expressed all her sorrow. Pity and superficial
consolation were all that Madame La Motte could offer, though apparently
much affected by Adeline's discourse. Thus the hours passed heavily
away, while the anxiety of Adeline continued to increase, and the moment
of her fate seemed fast approaching. Dinner was scarcely over, when
Adeline was surprised to see the Marquis arrive. He entered the room
with his usual ease, and apologizing for the disturbance he had
occasioned on the preceding night, repeated what he had before told La
Motte.

The remembrance of the conversation she had overheard at first gave
Adeline some confusion, and withdrew her mind from a sense of the evils
to be apprehended from her father. The Marquis, who was, as usual,
attentive to Adeline, seemed affected by her apparent indisposition, and
expressed much concern for that dejection of spirits which,
notwithstanding every effort, her manner betrayed. When Madame La Motte
withdrew, Adeline would have followed her; but the Marquis entreated a
few moments' attention, and led her back to her seat. La Motte
immediately disappeared.

Adeline knew too well what would be the purport of the Marquis's
discourse, and his words soon increased the confusion which her fears
had occasioned. While he was declaring the ardour of his passion in such
terms as but too often make vehemence pass for sincerity, Adeline, to
whom this declaration, if honourable, was distressing, and if
dishonourable, was shocking, interrupted him and thanked him for the
offer of a distinction which, with a modest but determined air, she said
she must refuse. She rose to withdraw. Stay, too lovely Adeline! said
he, and if compassion for my sufferings will not interest you in my
favour, allow a consideration of your own dangers to do so. Monsieur La
Motte has informed me of your misfortunes, and of the evil that now
threatens you; accept from me the protection which he cannot afford.

Adeline continued to move towards the door, when the Marquis threw
himself at her feet, and seizing her hand, impressed it with kisses. She
struggled to disengage herself. Hear me, charming Adeline! hear me,
cried the Marquis; I exist but for you. Listen to my entreaties, and my
fortune shall be yours. Do not drive me to despair by ill-judged rigour,
or, because--

My Lord, interrupted Adeline with an air of ineffable dignity, and still
affecting to believe his proposal honourable, I am sensible of the
generosity of your conduct, and also flattered by the distinction you
offer me; I will therefore say something more than is necessary to a
bare expression of the denial which I must continue to give. _I can not_
bestow my heart. _You can not_ obtain more than my esteem, to which,
indeed, nothing can so much contribute as a forbearance from any similar
offers in future.

She again attempted to go, but the Marquis prevented her; and, after
some hesitation, again urged his suit, though in terms that would no
longer allow her to misunderstand him. Tears swelled into her eyes, but
she endeavoured to check them; and with a look in which grief and
indignation seemed to struggle for pre-eminence, she said, My Lord, this
is unworthy of reply; let me pass.

For a moment he was awed by the dignity of her manner, and he threw
himself at her feet to implore forgiveness. But she waved her hand in
silence, and hurried from the room. When she reached her chamber she
locked the door, and, sinking into a chair, yielded to the sorrow that
pressed at her heart. And it was not the least of her sorrow to suspect
that La Motte was unworthy of her confidence; for it was almost
impossible that he could be ignorant of the real designs of the Marquis.
Madame La Motte, she believed, was imposed upon by a specious pretence
of honourable attachment; and thus was she spared the pang which a doubt
of her integrity would have added.

She threw a trembling glance upon the prospect around her. On one side
was her father, whose cruelty had already been but too plainly
manifested; and on the other, the Marquis pursuing her with insult and
vicious passion. She resolved to acquaint Madame La Motte with the
purport of the late conversation; and, in the hope of her protection and
sympathy, she wiped away her tears, and was leaving the room just as
Madame La Motte entered it. While Adeline related what had passed, her
friend wept, and appeared to suffer great agitation. She endeavoured to
comfort her, and promised to use her influence in persuading La Motte to
prohibit the addressee of the Marquis. You know, my dear, added Madame,
that our present circumstances oblige us to preserve terms with the
Marquis, and you will therefore suffer as little resentment to appear in
your manner towards him as possible; conduct yourself with your usual
ease in his presence, and I doubt not this affair will pass over without
subjecting you to further solicitation.

Ah, Madam! said Adeline, how hard is the task you assign me! I entreat
you that I may never more be subjected to the humiliation of being in
his presence,--that, whenever he visits the abbey, I may be suffered to
remain in my chamber.

This, said Madame La Motte, I would most readily consent to, would our
situation permit it. But you well know our asylum in this abbey depends
upon the good-will of the Marquis, which we must not wantonly lose; and
surely such a conduct as you propose would endanger this. Let us use
milder measures, and we shall preserve his friendship without subjecting
you to any serious evil. Appear with your usual complaisance: the task
is not so difficult as you imagine.

Adeline sighed. I obey you, Madam, said she; it is my duty to do so: but
I may be pardoned for saying--it is with extreme reluctance. Madame La
Motte promised to go immediately to her husband; and Adeline departed,
though not convinced of her safety, yet somewhat more at ease.

She soon after saw the Marquis depart; and as there now appeared to be
no obstacle to the return of Madame La Motte, she expected her with
extreme impatience. After thus waiting near an hour in her chamber, she
was at length summoned to the parlour, and there found Monsieur La Motte
alone. He arose upon her entrance, and for some minutes paced the room
in silence. He then seated himself, and addressed her: What you have
mentioned to Madame La Motte, said he, would give me much concern, did I
consider the behaviour of the Marquis in a light so serious as she does.
I know that young ladies are apt to misconstrue the unmeaning gallantry
of fashionable manners; and you, Adeline, can never be too cautious in
distinguishing between a levity of this kind and a more serious address.

Adeline was surprised and offended that La Motte should think so lightly
both of her understanding and disposition as his speech implied. Is it
possible, Sir, said she, that you have been apprized of the Marquis's
conduct?

It is very possible, and very certain, replied La Motte with some
asperity; and very possible, also, that I may see this affair with a
judgment less discoloured by prejudice than you do. But, however, I
shall not dispute this point; I shall only request that, since you are
acquainted with the emergency of my circumstances, you will conform to
them, and not, by an ill-timed resentment, expose me to the enmity of
the Marquis. He is now my friend, and it is necessary to my safety that
he should continue such; but if I suffer any part of my family to treat
him with rudeness, I must expect to see him my enemy. You may surely
treat him with complaisance. Adeline thought the term _rudeness_ a harsh
one as La Motte applied it, but she forbore from any expression of
displeasure. I could have wished, Sir, said she, for the privilege of
retiring whenever the Marquis appeared; but since you believe this
conduct would affect your interest, I ought to submit.

This prudence and good-will delights me, said La Motte; and since you
wish to serve me, know that you cannot more effectually do it than by
treating the Marquis as a friend. The word _friend_, as it stood
connected with the Marquis, sounded dissonantly to Adeline's ear; she
hesitated, and looked at La Motte. As _your_ friend, Sir, said she, I
will endeavour to--treat him as mine, she would have said, but she found
it impossible to finish the sentence. She entreated his protection from
the power of her father.

What protection I can afford is yours, said La Motte; but you know how
destitute I am both of the right and the means of resisting him, and
also how much I require protection myself. Since he has discovered your
retreat, he is probably not ignorant of the circumstances which detain
me here; and if I oppose him, he may betray me to the officers of the
law, as the surest method of obtaining possession of you. We are
encompassed with dangers, continued La Motte; would I could see any
method of extricating ourselves!

Quit this abbey, said Adeline, and seek an asylum in Switzerland or
Germany; you will then be freed from further obligation to the Marquis,
and from the persecution you dread. Pardon me for thus offering advice,
which is certainly in some degree prompted by a sense of my own safety,
but which, at the same time, seems to afford the only means of ensuring
yours.

Your plan is reasonable, said La Motte, had I money to execute it. As it
is, I must be contented to remain here as little known as possible, and
defend myself by making those who know me my friends. Chiefly I must
endeavour to preserve the favour of the Marquis: he may do much, should
your father even pursue desperate measures. But why do I talk thus? your
father may ere this have commenced these measures, and the effects of
his vengeance may now be hanging over my head. My regard for you,
Adeline, has exposed me to this; had I resigned you to his will, I
should have remained secure.

Adeline was so much affected by this instance of La Motte's kindness,
which she could not doubt, that she was unable to express her sense of
it. When she could speak, she uttered her gratitude in the most lively
terms.--Are you sincere in these expressions? said La Motte.

Is it possible I can be less than sincere? replied Adeline, weeping at
the idea of ingratitude.--Sentiments are easily pronounced, said La
Motte, though they may have no connection with the heart; I believe them
to be sincere so far only as they influence our actions.

What mean you, Sir? said Adeline with surprise.

I mean to inquire whether, if an opportunity should ever offer of thus
proving your gratitude, you would adhere to your sentiments?

Name one that I shall refuse, said Adeline with energy.

If, for instance, the Marquis should hereafter avow a serious passion
for you, and offer you his hand, would no petty resentment, no lurking
prepossession for some more happy lover prompt you to refuse it?

Adeline blushed, and fixed her eyes on the ground. You have, indeed,
Sir, named the only means I should reject of evincing my sincerity. The
Marquis I can never love, nor, to speak sincerely, ever esteem. I
confess the peace of one's whole life is too much to sacrifice even to
gratitude.--La Motte looked displeased. 'Tis as I thought, said he;
these delicate sentiments make a fine appearance in speech, and render
the person who utters them infinitely amiable; but bring them to the
test of action, and they dissolve into air, leaving only the wreck of
vanity behind.

This unjust sarcasm brought tears to her eyes. Since your safety, Sir,
depends upon my conduct, said she, resign me to my father: I am willing
to return to him, since my stay here must involve you in new misfortune:
let me not prove myself unworthy of the protection I have hitherto
experienced, by preferring my own welfare to yours. When I am gone, you
will have no reason to apprehend the Marquis's displeasure, which you
may probably incur if I stay here; for I feel it impossible that I could
even consent to receive his addresses, however honourable were his
views.

La Motte seemed hurt and alarmed. This must not be, said he; let us not
harass ourselves by stating _possible_ evils, and then, to avoid them,
fly to those which are _certain_. No, Adeline, though you are ready to
sacrifice yourself to my safety, I will not suffer you to do so;--I will
not yield you to your father but upon compulsion. Be satisfied,
therefore, upon this point. The only return I ask, is a civil deportment
towards the Marquis.

I will endeavour to obey you, Sir, said Adeline.--Madame La Motte now
entered the room, and this conversation ceased. Adeline passed the
evening in melancholy thoughts, and retired as soon as possible to her
chamber, eager to seek in sleep a refuge from sorrow.




CHAPTER IX


Full many a melancholy night
He watch'd the slow return of light,
And sought the powers of sleep;
To spread a momentary calm
O'er his sad couch, and in the balm
Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.

WARTON.


The MS. found by Adeline the preceding night had several times occurred
to her recollection in the course of the day; but she had then been
either too much interested by the events of the moment, or too
apprehensive of interruption, to attempt a perusal of it. She now took
it from the drawer in which it had been deposited, and, intending only
to look cursorily over the few first pages, sat down with it by her
bed-side.

She opened it with an eagerness of inquiry which the discoloured and
almost obliterated ink but slowly gratified. The first words on the page
were entirely lost, but those that appeared to commence the narrative
were as follows:

O! ye, whoever ye are, whom chance or misfortune may hereafter conduct
to this spot--to you I speak--to you reveal the story of my wrongs, and
ask you to avenge them. Vain hope! yet it imparts some comfort to
believe it possible that what I now write may one day meet the eye of a
fellow-creature; that the words which tell my sufferings may one day
draw pity from the feeling heart.

Yet stay your tears--your pity now is useless: lone since have the pangs
of misery ceased; the voice of complaining is passed away. It is
weakness to wish for compassion which cannot be felt till I shall sink
in the repose of death, and taste, I hope, the happiness of eternity!

Know, then, that on the night of the twelfth of October, in the year
1642, I was arrested on the road to Caux,--and on the very spot where a
column is erected to the memory of the immortal Henry,--by four
ruffians, who, after disabling my servant, bore me through wilds and
woods to this abbey. Their demeanour was not that of common banditti,
and I soon perceived they were employed by a superior power to
perpetrate some dreadful purpose. Entreaties and bribes were vainly
offered them to discover their employer and abandon their design; they
would not reveal even the least circumstance of their intentions.

But when, after a long journey, they arrived at this edifice, their base
employer was at once revealed, and his horrid scheme but too well
understood. What a moment was that! All the thunders of heaven seemed
launched at this defenceless head! O! fortitude! nerve my heart to----

Adeline's light was now expiring in the socket, and the paleness of the
ink, so feebly shone upon, baffled her efforts to discriminate the
letters: it was impossible to procure a light from below, without
discovering that she was yet up; a circumstance which would excite
surprise, and lead to explanations such as she did not wish to enter
upon. Thus compelled to suspend the inquiry, which so many attendant
circumstances had rendered awfully interesting, she retired to her
humble bed.

What she had read of the MS. awakened a dreadful interest in the fate of
the writer, and called up terrific images to her mind. In these
apartments!--said she; and she shuddered and closed her eyes. At length
she heard Madame La Motte enter her chamber, and the phantoms of fear
beginning to dissipate, left her to repose.

In the morning she was awakened by Madame La Motte, and found to her
disappointment that she had slept so much beyond her usual time as to be
unable to renew the perusal of the MS.--La Motte appeared uncommonly
gloomy, and Madame wore an air of melancholy, which Adeline attributed
to the concern she felt for her. Breakfast was scarcely over, when the
sound of horses' feet announced the arrival of a stranger; and Adeline
from the oriel recess of the hall saw the Marquis alight. She retreated
with precipitation, and, forgetting the request of La Motte, was
hastening to her chamber: but the Marquis was already in the hall; and
seeing her leaving it, turned to La Motte with a look of inquiry. La
Motte called her back, and by a frown too intelligent reminded her of
her promise. She summoned all her spirits to her aid, but advanced,
notwithstanding, in visible emotion; while the Marquis addressed her as
usual, the same easy gaiety playing upon his countenance and directing
his manner.

Adeline was surprised and shocked at this careless confidence; which,
however, by awakening her pride, communicated to her an air of dignity
that abashed him. He spoke with hesitation, and frequently appeared
abstracted from the subject of discourse. At length arising, he begged
Adeline would favour him with a few moments' conversation. Monsieur and
Madame La Motte were now leaving the room, when Adeline, turning to the
Marquis, told him she would not hear any conversation except in the
presence of her friends. But she said it in vain, for they were gone;
and La Motte, as he withdrew, expressed by his looks how much an attempt
to follow would displease him.

She sat for some time in silence and trembling expectation. I am
sensible, said the Marquis at length, that the conduct to which the
ardour of my passion lately betrayed me, has injured me in your opinion,
and that you will not easily restore me to your esteem; but I trust the
offer which I now make you, both of my _title_ and fortune, will
sufficiently prove the sincerity of my attachment, and atone for the
transgression which love only prompted.

After this specimen of common-place verbosity, which the Marquis seemed
to consider as a prelude to triumph, he attempted to impress a kiss upon
the hand of Adeline, who, withdrawing it hastily, said, You are already,
my Lord, acquainted with my sentiments upon this subject, and it is
almost unnecessary for me now to repeat that I cannot accept the honour
you offer me.

Explain yourself, lovely Adeline! I am ignorant that till now I ever
made you this offer.

Most true, Sir, said Adeline; and you do well to remind me of this,
since, after having heard your former proposal, I cannot listen for a
moment to any other. She rose to quit the room. Stay, Madam, said the
Marquis, with a look in which offended pride struggled to conceal
itself; do not suffer an extravagant resentment to operate against your
true interests; recollect the dangers that surround you, and consider
the value of an offer which may afford you at least an honourable
asylum.

My misfortunes, my Lord, whatever they are, I have never obtruded upon
you; you will, therefore, excuse my observing, that your present mention
of them conveys a much greater appearance of insult than compassion. The
Marquis, though with evident confusion, was going to reply; but Adeline
would not be detained, and retired to her chamber. Destitute as she was,
her heart revolted from the proposal of the Marquis, and she determined
never to accept it. To her dislike of his general disposition, and the
aversion excited by his late offer, was added, indeed, the influence of
a prior attachment, and of a remembrance which she found it impossible
to erase from her heart.

The Marquis staid to dine, and in consideration of La Motte, Adeline
appeared at table, where the former gazed upon her with such frequent
and silent earnestness, that her distress became insupportable; and when
the cloth was drawn, she instantly retired. Madame La Motte soon
followed, and it was not till evening that she had an opportunity of
returning to the MS. When Monsieur and Madame La Motte were in their
chamber, and all was still, she drew forth the narrative, and trimming
her lamp, sat down to read as follows:

The ruffians unbound me from my horse, and led me through the hall up
the spiral staircase of the abbey: resistance was useless; but I looked
around in the hope of seeing some person less obdurate than the men who
brought me hither; some one who might be sensible to pity, and capable
at least of civil treatment. I looked in vain; no person appeared: and
this circumstance confirmed my worst apprehensions. The secrecy of the
business foretold a horrible conclusion. Having passed some chambers,
they stopped in one hung with old tapestry. I inquired why we did not go
on, and was told I should soon know.

At that moment I expected to see the instrument of death uplifted, and
silently recommended myself to God. But death was not then designed for
me; they raised the arras, and discovered a door, which they then
opened. Seizing my arms, they led me through a suite of dismal chambers
beyond. Having reached the furthest of these, they again stopped: the
horrid gloom of the place seemed congenial to murder, and inspired
deadly thoughts. Again I looked round for the instrument of destruction,
and again I was respited. I supplicated to know what was designed me; it
was now unnecessary to ask who was the author of the design. They were
silent to my question, but at length told me this chamber was my prison.
Having said this, and set down a jug of water, they left the room, and I
heard the door barred upon me.

O sound of despair! O moment of unutterable anguish! The pang of death
itself is surely not superior to that I then suffered. Shut out from
day, from friends, from life--for _such I must foretell it_--in the
prime of my years, in the height of my transgressions, and left to
imagine horrors more terrible than any, perhaps, which certainty could
give--I sink beneath the--

Here several pages of the manuscript were decayed with damp, and totally
illegible. With much difficulty Adeline made out the following lines:

Three days have now passed in solitude and silence: the horrors of death
are ever before my eyes, let me endeavour to prepare for the dreadful
change! When I awake in the morning I think I shall not live to see
another night; and when night returns, that I must never more unclose my
eyes on morning. Why am I brought hither--why confined thus
rigorously--but for death! Yet what action of my life has deserved this
at the hand of a fellow-creature?--Of----

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

O my children! O friends far distant! I shall never see you more--never
more receive the parting look of kindness--never bestow a parting
blessing!--Ye know not my wretched state--alas! ye cannot know it by
human means. Ye believe me happy, or ye would fly to my relief. I know
that what I now write cannot avail me, yet there is comfort in pouring
forth my griefs; and I bless that man, less savage than his fellows, who
has supplied me these means of recording them. Alas! he knows full well,
that from this indulgence he has nothing to fear. My pen can call no
friends to succour me, nor reveal my danger ere it is too late. O! ye,
who may hereafter read what I now write, give a tear to my sufferings: I
have wept often for the distresses of my fellow-creatures!

Adeline paused. Here the wretched writer appealed directly to her heart;
he spoke in the energy of truth, and, by a strong illusion of fancy, it
seemed as if his past suffering were at this moment present. She was for
some time unable to proceed, and sat in musing sorrow. In these very
apartments, said she, this poor sufferer was confined--here he--Adeline
started, and thought she heard a sound; but the stillness of the night
was undisturbed.--In these very chambers, said she, these lines were
written--these lines, from which he then derived a comfort in believing
they would hereafter be read by some pitying eye: this time is now come.
Your miseries, O injured being! are lamented where they were endured.
_Here_, where you suffered, I weep for your sufferings!

Her imagination was now strongly impressed, and to her distempered
senses the suggestions of a bewildered mind appeared with the force of
reality. Again she started and listened, and thought she heard _Here_
distinctly repeated by a whisper immediately behind her. The terror of
the thought, however, was but momentary, she knew it could not be;
convinced that her fancy had deceived her, she took up the MS. and again
began to read.

For what am I reserved? Why this delay? If I am to die--why not quickly?
Three weeks have I now passed within these walls, during which time no
look of pity has softened my afflictions; no voice, save my own, has met
my ear. The countenances of the ruffians who attend me are stern and
inflexible, and their silence is obstinate. This stillness is dreadful!
O! ye, who have known what it is to live in the depths of solitude, who
have passed your dreary days without one sound to cheer you; ye, and ye
only, can tell what now I feel; and ye may know how much I would endure
to hear the accents of a human voice.

O dire extremity! O state of living death! What dreadful stillness! All
around me is dead; and do I really exist, or am I but a statue? Is this
a vision? Are these things real? Alas, I am bewildered!--this death-like
and perpetual silence--this dismal chamber--the dread of further
sufferings have disturbed my fancy. O for some friendly breast to lay my
weary head on! some cordial accents to revive my soul!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I write by stealth. He who furnished me with the means, I fear, has
suffered for some symptoms of pity he may have discovered for me; I have
not seen him for several days: perhaps he is inclined to help me, and
for that reason is forbid to come. O that hope! but how vain! Never more
must I quit these walls while life remains. Another day is gone, and yet
I live; at this time to-morrow night my sufferings may be sealed in
death. I will continue my journal nightly, till the hand that writes
shall be stopped by death: when the journal ceases, the reader will know
I am no more. Perhaps these are the last lines I shall ever write.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Adeline paused, while her tears fell fast. Unhappy man! she exclaimed:
and was here no pitying soul to save thee! Great God! thy ways are
wonderful! While she sat musing, her fancy, which now wandered in the
regions of terror, gradually subdued reason. There was a glass before
her upon the table, and she feared to raise her looks towards it, lest
some other face than her own should meet her eyes: other dreadful ideas
and strange images of fantastic thought now crossed her mind.

A hollow sigh seemed to pass near her. Holy Virgin, protect me! cried
she, and threw a fearful glance round the room;--this is surely
something more than fancy. Her fears so far overcame her, that she was
several times upon the point of calling up a part of the family; but,
unwillingness to disturb them, and a dread of ridicule, withheld her.
She was also afraid to move, and almost to breathe. As she listened to
the wind, that murmured at the casement of her lonely chamber, she again
thought she heard a sigh. Her imagination refused any longer the control
of reason, and, turning her eyes, a figure, whose exact form she could
not distinguish, appeared to pass along an obscure part of the chamber:
a dreadful chillness came over her, and she sat fixed in her chair. At
length a deep sigh somewhat relieved her oppressed spirits, and her
senses seemed to return.

All remaining quiet, after some time she began to question whether her
fancy had not deceived her, and she so far conquered her terror as to
desist from calling Madame La Motte: her mind was, however, so much
disturbed, that she did not venture to trust herself that night again
with the MS.; but having spent some time in prayer, and in endeavouring
to compose her spirits, she retired to bed.

When she awoke in the morning, the cheerful sun-beams played upon the
casements, and dispelled the illusions of darkness: her mind soothed and
invigorated by sleep, rejected the mystic and turbulent promptings of
imagination. She arose refreshed and thankful; but upon going down to
breakfast, this transient gleam of peace fled upon the appearance of the
Marquis, whose frequent visits at the abbey, after what had passed, not
only displeased, but alarmed her. She saw that he was determined to
persevere in addressing her: and the boldness and insensibility of this
conduct, while it excited her indignation, increased her disgust. In
pity to La Motte, she endeavoured to conceal these emotions, though she
now thought that he required too much from her complaisance, and began
seriously to consider how she might avoid the necessity of continuing
it. The Marquis behaved to her with the most respectful attention; but
Adeline was silent and reserved, and seized the first opportunity of
withdrawing.

As she passed up the spiral staircase, Peter entered the hall below, and
seeing Adeline, he stopped and looked earnestly at her: she did not
observe him, but he called her softly, and she then saw him make a
signal, as if he had something to communicate. In the next instant, La
Motte opened the door of the vaulted room, and Peter hastily
disappeared. She proceeded to her chamber, ruminating upon this signal,
and the cautious manner in which Peter had given it.

But her thoughts soon returned to their wonted subjects. Three days were
now passed, and she heard no intelligence of her father; she began to
hope that he had relented from the violent measures hinted at by La
Motte, and that he meant to pursue a milder plan: but when she
considered his character, this appeared improbable, and she relapsed
into her former fears. Her residence at the abbey was now become
painful, from the perseverance of the Marquis and the conduct which La
Motte obliged her to adopt; yet she could not think without dread of
quitting it to return to her father.

The image of Theodore often intruded upon her busy thoughts, and brought
with it a pang which his strange departure occasioned. She had a
confused notion that his fate was somehow connected with her own; and
her struggles to prevent the remembrance of him served only to show how
much her heart was his.

To divert her thoughts from these subjects, and gratify the curiosity so
strongly excited on the preceding night, she now took up the MS. but was
hindered from opening it by the entrance of Madame La Motte, who came to
tell her the Marquis was gone. They passed their morning together in
work and general conversation; La Motte not appearing till dinner, when
he said little, and Adeline less. She asked him, however, if he had
heard from her father? I have not heard from him, said La Motte; but
there is good reason, as I am informed by the Marquis, to believe he is
not far off.

Adeline was shocked, yet she was able to reply with becoming firmness. I
have already, Sir, involved you too much in my distress, and now see
that resistance will destroy you, without serving me; I am therefore
contented to return to my father, and thus spare you further calamity.

This is a rash determination, replied La Motte; and if you pursue it, I
fear you will severely repent. I speak to you as a friend, Adeline, and
desire you will endeavour to listen to me without prejudice. The
Marquis, I find, has offered you his hand. I know not which circumstance
most excites my surprise, that a man of his rank and consequence should
solicit a marriage with a person without fortune or ostensible
connexions, or that a person so circumstanced should even for a moment
reject the advantages just offered her. You weep, Adeline; let me hope
that you are convinced of the absurdity of this conduct, and will no
longer trifle with your good fortune. The kindness I have shown you must
convince you of my regard, and that I have no motive for offering you
this advice but your advantage. It is necessary, however, to say, that
should your father not insist upon your removal, I know not how long my
circumstances may enable me to afford even the humble pittance you
receive here. Still you are silent.

The anguish which this speech excited, suppressed her utterance, and she
continued to weep. At length she said, Suffer me, Sir, to go back to my
father; I should indeed make an ill return for the kindness you mention,
could I wish to stay after what you now tell me; and to accept the
Marquis, I feel to be impossible. The remembrance of Theodore arose to
her mind, and she wept aloud.

La Motte sat for some time musing. Strange infatuation! said he; is it
possible that you can persist in this heroism of romance, and prefer a
father so inhuman as yours, to the Marquis de Montalt! a destiny so full
of danger, to a life of splendour and delight!

Pardon me, said Adeline; a marriage with the Marquis would be splendid,
but never happy. His character excites my aversion, and I entreat, Sir,
that he may no more be mentioned.




CHAPTER X


Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness.

LEAR.


The conversation related in the last chapter was interrupted by the
entrance of Peter, who, as he left the room, looked significantly at
Adeline, and almost beckoned. She was anxious to know what he meant, and
soon after went into the hall, where she found him loitering. The moment
he saw her, he made a sign of silence, and beckoned her into the recess.
Well, Peter, what is it you would say? said Adeline.

Hush, Ma'mselle; for heaven's sake speak lower; if we should be
overheard, we are all blown up.--Adeline begged him to explain what he
meant Yes, Ma'mselle, that is what I have wanted all day long: I have
watched and watched for an opportunity, and looked and looked till I was
afraid my master himself would see me; but all would not do, you would
not understand.

Adeline entreated he would be quick. Yes Ma'm, but I'm so afraid we
shall be seen; but I would do much to serve such a good young lady, for
I could not bear to think of what threatened you, without telling you of
it.

For God's sake, said Adeline, speak quickly, or we shall be interrupted.

Well then;--but you must first promise by the Holy Virgin never to say
it was I that told you; my master would--

I do, I do, said Adeline.

Well, then--on Monday evening as I--hark! did not I hear a step? do,
Ma'mselle, just step this way to the cloisters: I would not for the
world we should be seen: I'll go out at the hall door, and you can go
through the passage. I would not for the world we should be
seen.--Adeline was much alarmed by Peter's words, and hurried to the
cloisters. He quickly appeared, and, looking cautiously round, resumed
his discourse. As I was saying, Ma'mselle, Monday night, when the
Marquis slept here, you know he sat up very late, and I can guess,
perhaps, the reason of that. Strange things came out, but it is not my
business to tell all I think.

Pray do speak to the purpose, said Adeline impatiently; what is this
danger which you say threatens me? Be quick, or we shall be observed.

Danger enough, Ma'mselle, replied Peter, if you knew all; and when you
do, what will it signify? for you can't help yourself. But that's
neither here nor there; I was resolved to tell you, though I may repent
it.

Or rather, you are resolved not to tell me, said Adeline; for you have
made no progress towards it. But what do you mean? You was speaking of
the Marquis.

Hush, Ma'am, not so loud. The Marquis, as I said, sat up very late, and
my master sat up with him. One of his men went to bed in the oak room,
and the other staid to undress his lord. So as we were sitting together.
Lord have mercy! it made my hair stand on end! I tremble yet. So as we
were sitting together--but as sure as I live, yonder is my master: I
caught a glimpse of him between the trees; if he sees me it is all over
with us. I'll tell you another time. So saying, he hurried into the
abbey, leaving Adeline in a state of alarm, curiosity, and vexation. She
walked out into the forest ruminating upon Peter's words, and
endeavouring to guess to what they alluded: there Madame La Motte joined
her, and they conversed on various topics till they reached the abbey.

Adeline watched in vain through that day for an opportunity of speaking
with Peter. While he waited at supper, she occasionally observed his
countenance with great anxiety, hoping it might afford her some degree
of intelligence on the subject of her fears. When she retired, Madame La
Motte accompanied her to her chamber, and continued to converse with her
for a considerable time, so that she had no means of obtaining an
interview with Peter.--Madame La Motte appeared to labour under some
great affliction; and when Adeline, noticing this, entreated to know the
cause of her dejection, tears started into her eyes, and she abruptly
left the room.

This behaviour of Madame La Motte concurred with Peter's discourse to
alarm Adeline, who sat pensively upon her bed, giving up to reflection,
till she was roused by the sound of a clock, which stood in the room
below, and which now struck twelve. She was preparing for rest, when she
recollected the MS. and was unable to conclude the night without reading
it. The first words she could distinguish were the following:

Again I return to this poor consolation--again I have been permitted to
see another day. It is now midnight! My solitary lamp burns beside me;
the time is awful, but to me the silence of noon is as the silence of
midnight; a deeper gloom is all in which they differ. The still,
unvarying hours are numbered only by my sufferings; Great God! when
shall I be released:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

But whence this strange confinement? I have never injured him. If death
is designed me, why this delay; and for what but death am I brought
hither? This abbey--alas!--Here the MS. was again illegible, and for
several pages Adeline could only make out disjointed sentences.

O bitter draught! when, when shall I have rest? O my friends! will none
of ye fly to aid me; will none of ye avenge my sufferings? Ah! when it
is too late--when I am gone for ever, ye will endeavour to avenge them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Once more is night returned to me. Another day has passed in solitude
and misery. I have climbed to the casement, thinking the view of nature
would refresh my soul, and somewhat enable me to support these
afflictions. Alas! even this small comfort is denied me, the windows
open towards other parts of this abbey, and admit only a portion of that
day which I must never more fully behold. Last night! last night! O
scene of horror!

Adeline shuddered. She feared to read the coming sentence, yet curiosity
prompted her to proceed. Still she paused: an unaccountable dread came
over her. Some horrid deed has been done here, said she; the reports of
the peasants are true: murder has been committed. The idea thrilled her
with horror. She recollected the dagger which had impeded her steps in
the secret chamber, and this circumstance served to confirm her most
terrible conjectures. She wished to examine it, but it lay in one of
these chambers, and she feared to go in quest of it.

Wretched, wretched victim! she exclaimed, could no friend rescue thee
from destruction! O that I had been near! Yet what could I have done to
save thee? Alas! nothing. I forget that even now, perhaps, I am, like
thee, abandoned to dangers from which I have no friend to succour me.
Too surely I guess the author of thy miseries! She stopped, and thought
she heard a sigh, such as on the preceding night had passed along the
chamber. Her blood was chilled, and she sat motionless. The lonely
situation of her room, remote from the rest of the family, (for she was
now in her old apartment, from which Madame La Motte had removed,) who
were almost beyond call, struck so forcibly upon her imagination, that
she with difficulty preserved herself from fainting. She sat for a
considerable time, and all was still. When she was somewhat recovered,
her first design was to alarm the family; but further reflection again
withheld her.

She endeavoured to compose her spirits, and addressed a short prayer to
that Being, who had hitherto protected her in every danger. While she
was thus employed, her mind gradually became elevated and reassured; a
sublime complacency filled her heart, and she sat down once more to
pursue the narrative.

Several lines that immediately followed, were obliterated.--

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He had told me I should not be permitted to live long, not more than
three days, and bade me choose whether I would die by poison or the
sword. O the agonies of that moment! Great God! thou seest my
sufferings! I often viewed, with a momentary hope of escaping, the high
grated windows of my prison--all things within the compass of
possibility I was resolved to try, and with an eager desperation I
climbed towards the casements, but my foot slipped, and falling back to
the floor, I was stunned by the blow. On recovering, the first sounds I
heard, were the steps of a person entering my prison. A recollection of
the past returned, and deplorable was my condition. I shuddered at what
was to come. The same man approached; he looked at me at first with
pity, but his countenance soon recovered its natural ferocity. Yet he
did not then come to execute the purposes of his employer: I am reserved
to another day--Great God, thy will be done!

Adeline could not go on. All the circumstances that seemed to
corroborate the fate of this unhappy man, crowded upon her mind the
reports concerning the abbey--the dreams which had forerun her discovery
of the private apartments--the singular manner in which she had found
the MS--and the apparition, which she now believed she had really seen.
She blamed herself for not having yet mentioned the discovery of the
manuscript and chambers to La Motte, and resolved to delay the
disclosure no longer than the following morning. The immediate cares
that had occupied her mind, and a fear of losing the manuscript before
she had read it, had hitherto kept her silent.

Such a combination of circumstances, she believed, could only be
produced by some supernatural power, operating for the retribution of
the guilty. These reflections filled her mind with a degree of awe,
which the loneliness of the large old chamber in which she sat, and the
hour of the night, soon heightened into terror. She had never been
superstitious, but circumstances so uncommon had hitherto conspired in
this affair, that she could not believe them accidental. Her
imagination, wrought upon by these reflections, again became sensible to
every impression; she feared to look round, lest she should again see
some dreadful phantom, and she almost fancied she heard voices swell in
the storm which now shook the fabric.

Still she tried to command her feelings so as to avoid disturbing the
family; but they became so painful, that even the dread of La Motte's
ridicule had hardly power to prevent her quitting the chamber. Her mind
was now in such a state, that she found it impossible to pursue the
story in the MS. though, to avoid the tortures of suspense, she had
attempted it. She laid it down again, and tried to argue herself into
composure. What have I to fear? said she; I am at least innocent, and I
shall not be punished for the crime of another.

The violent gust of wind that now rushed through the whole suite of
apartments, shook the door that led from her late bedchamber to the
private rooms so forcibly, that Adeline, unable to remain longer in
doubt, ran to see from whence the noise issued. The arras which
concealed the door was violently agitated, and she stood for a moment
observing it in indescribable terror; till believing it was swayed by
the wind, she made a sudden effort to overcome her feelings, and was
stooping to raise it. At that instant she thought she heard a voice. She
stopped and listened, but every thing was still; yet apprehension so far
overcame her, that she had no power either to examine or to leave the
chamber.

In a few moments the voice returned: she was now convinced she had not
been deceived, for, though low, she heard it distinctly, and was almost
sure it repeated her own name. So much was her fancy affected, that she
even thought it was the same voice she had heard in her dreams. This
conviction entirely subdued the small remains of her courage, and
sinking into a chair she lost all recollection.

How long she remained in this state she knew not; but when she
recovered, she exerted all her strength, and reached the winding
staircase, where she called aloud. No one heard her; and she hastened,
as fast as her feebleness would permit, to the chamber of Madame La
Motte. She tapped gently at the door, and was answered by Madame, who
was alarmed at being awakened at so unusual an hour, and believed that
some danger threatened her husband. When she understood that it was
Adeline, and that she was unwell, she quickly came to her relief. The
terror that was yet visible in Adeline's countenance excited her
inquiries, and the occasion of it was explained to her.

Madame was so much discomposed by the relation, that she called La Motte
from his bed, who, more angry at being disturbed than interested for the
agitation he witnessed, reproved Adeline for suffering her fancies to
overcome her reason. She now mentioned the discovery she had made of the
inner chamber and the manuscript, circumstances which roused the
attention of La Motte so much, that he desired to see the MS. and
resolved to go immediately to the apartments described by Adeline.

Madame La Motte endeavoured to dissuade him from his purpose; but La
Motte, with whom opposition had always an effect contrary to the one
designed, and who wished to throw further ridicule upon the terrors of
Adeline, persisted in his intention. He called to Peter to attend with a
light, and insisted that Madame La Motte and Adeline should accompany
him. Madame La Motte desired to be excused, and Adeline at first
declared she could not go; but he would be obeyed.

They ascended the tower, and entered the first chambers together, for
each of the party was reluctant to be the last; in the second chamber
all was quiet and in order. Adeline presented the MS. and pointed to the
arras which concealed the door. La Motte lifted the arras, and opened
the door; but Madame La Motte and Adeline entreated to go no
further--again he called to them to follow. All was quiet in the first
chamber: he expressed his surprise that the rooms should so long have
remained undiscovered, and was proceeding to the second, but suddenly
stopped. We will defer our examination till to-morrow, said he, the
damps of these apartments are unwholesome at any time; but they strike
one more sensibly at night. I am chilled. Peter, remember to throw open
the windows early in the morning, that the air may circulate.

Lord bless your honour, said Peter, don't you see I can't reach them;
besides, I don't believe they are made to open; see what strong iron
bars there are; the room looks for all the world like a prison: I
suppose this is the place the people meant, when they said nobody that
had been in ever came out. La Motte, who during this speech had been
looking attentively at the high windows, which if he had seen them at
first he had certainly not observed, now interrupted the eloquence of
Peter, and bade him carry the light before them. They all willingly
quitted these chambers, and returned to the room below, where a fire was
lighted, and the party remained together for some time.

La Motte for reasons best known to himself, attempted to ridicule the
discovery and fears of Adeline, till she with a seriousness that checked
him, entreated he would desist. He was silent; and soon after, Adeline,
encouraged by the return of daylight, ventured to her chamber, and for
some hours experienced the blessing of undisturbed repose.

On the following day, Adeline's first care was to obtain an interview
with Peter, whom she had some hopes of seeing as she went downstairs:
he, however, did not appear; and she proceeded to the sitting-room,
where she found La Motte apparently much disturbed. Adeline asked him if
he had looked at the MS. I have run my eye over it, said he, but it is
so much obscured by time that it can scarcely be deciphered. It appears
to exhibit a strange romantic story; and I do not wonder that after you
had suffered its terrors to impress your imagination, you fancied you
saw spectres and heard wondrous noises.

Adeline thought La Motte did not choose to be convinced, and she
therefore forbore reply. During breakfast she often looked at Peter (who
waited) with anxious inquiry; and from his countenance was still more
assured that he had something of importance to communicate. In the hope
of some conversation with him, she left the room as soon as possible,
and repaired to her favourite avenue, where she had not long remained
when he appeared.

God bless you! Ma'mselle, said he, I'm sorry I frighted you so last
night.

Frighted me, said Adeline; how was you concerned in that?

He then informed her that when he thought Monsieur and Madame La Motte
were asleep, he had stolen to her chamber door, with an intention of
giving her the sequel of what he had begun in the morning; that he had
called several times as loudly as he dared; but receiving no answer, he
believed she was asleep, or did not choose to speak with him, and he had
therefore left the door. This account of the voice she had heard,
relieved Adeline's spirits; she was even surprised that she did not know
it, till remembering the perturbation of her mind for some time
preceding, this surprise disappeared.

She entreated Peter to be brief in explaining the danger with which she
was threatened. If you'll let me go on my own way, Ma'am, you'll soon
know it; but if you hurry me, and ask me questions here and there, out
of their places, I don't know what I am saying.

Be it so, said Adeline; only, remember that we may be observed.

Yes. Ma'mselle, I'm as much afraid of that as you are, for I believe I
should be almost as ill off; however, that is neither here nor there,
but I'm sure if you stay in this old abbey another night it will be
worse for you; for, as I said before, I know all about it.

What mean you, Peter?

Why, about this scheme that's going on.

What then, is my father----?--Your father! interrupted Peter; Lord bless
you, that is all fudge, to frighten you: your father, _nor nobody_ else
has ever sent after you; I dare say he knows no more of you than the
Pope does--not he. Adeline looked displeased. You trifle, said she; if
you have any thing to tell, say it quickly; I am in haste.

Bless you, young lady, I meant no harm, I hope you're not angry; but I'm
sure you can't deny that your father is cruel. But as I was saying, the
Marquis de Montalt likes you; and he and my master (Peter looked round)
have been laying their heads together about you. Adeline turned pale;
she comprehended a part of the truth, and eagerly entreated him to
proceed.

They have been laying their heads together about you. This is what
Jaques the Marquis's man tells me: Says he, Peter, you little know what
is going on: I could tell all if I chose it; but it is not for those who
are trusted to tell again. I warrant now your master is close enough
with you. Upon which I was piqued, and resolved to make him believe I
could be trusted as well as he. Perhaps not says I; perhaps I know as
much as you, though I do not choose to brag on't; and I winked.--Do you
so? says he, then you are closer than I thought for. She is a fine girl,
says he,--meaning you Ma'mselle; but she is nothing but a poor foundling
after all, so it does not much signify. I had a mind to know further
what he meant--so I did not knock him down. By seeming to know as much
as he, I at last made him discover all; and he told me--but you look
pale, Ma'mselle, are you ill?

No, said Adeline in a tremulous accent, and scarcely able to support
herself; pray proceed.

And he told me that the Marquis had been courting you a good while, but
you would not listen to him, and had even pretended he would marry you,
and all would not do. As for marriage, says I, I suppose she knows the
Marchioness is alive; and I'm sure she is not one for his turn upon
other terms.

The Marchioness is really living then! said Adeline.

O yes, Ma'mselle! we all know that, and I thought you had known it
too.--We shall see that, replies Jaques; at least, I believe that our
master will outwit her.--I stared; I could not help it.--Aye, says he,
you know your master has agreed to give her up to my Lord.

Good God! what will become of me? exclaimed Adeline.

Aye, Ma'mselle, I am sorry for you; but hear me out. When Jaques said
this, I quite forgot myself: I'll never believe it, said I, I'll never
believe my master would be guilty of such a base action; he'll not give
her up, or I'm no Christian.--Oh! said, Jaques, for that matter, I
thought you'd known all, else I should not have said a word about it.
However, you may soon satisfy yourself by going to the parlour door, as
I have done; they're in consultation about it now, I dare say.

You need not repeat any more of this conversation, said Adeline; but
tell me the result of what you heard from the parlour.

Why, Ma'mselle, when he said this, I took him at his word, and went to
the door, where, sure enough, I heard my master and the Marquis talking
about you. They said a great deal which I could make nothing of; but, at
last, I heard the Marquis say, You know the terms; on these terms only
will I consent to bury the past in ob--ob--oblivion----that was the
word. Monsieur La Motte then told the Marquis, if he would return to the
abbey upon such a night, meaning this very night, Ma'mselle, every thing
should be prepared according to his wishes;--Adeline shall then be
yours, my Lord, said he--you are already acquainted with her chamber.

At these words Adeline clasped her hands, and raised her eyes to heaven
in silent despair.--Peter went on. When I heard this, I could not doubt
what Jaques had said.--Well, said he, what do you think of it now?--Why,
that my master's a rascal, says I.--It's well you don't think mine one
too, says he.--Why, as for that matter, says I----Adeline, interrupting
him, inquired if he had heard any thing further. Just then, said Peter,
we heard Madame La Motte come out from another room, and so we made
haste back to the kitchen.

She was not present at this conversation then? said Adeline. No,
Ma'mselle; but my master has told her of it, I warrant. Adeline was
almost as much shocked by this apparent perfidy of Madame La Motte, as
by a knowledge of the destruction that threatened her. After musing a
few moments in extreme agitation, Peter, said she, you have a good
heart, and feel a just indignation at your master's treachery--will you
assist me to escape?

Ah, Ma'mselle! said he, how can I assist you? besides, where can we go?
I have no friends about here, no more than yourself.

O! replied Adeline in extreme emotion, we fly from enemies; strangers
may prove friends: assist me but to escape from this forest, and you
will claim my eternal gratitude; I have no fears beyond it.

Why as for this forest, replied Peter, I am weary of it myself; though
when we first came I thought it would be fine living here, at least, I
thought it was very different from any life I had ever lived before. But
these ghosts that haunt the abbey--I am no more a coward than other men,
but I don't like them; and then there is so many strange reports abroad;
and my master--I thought I could have served him to the end of the
world, but now I care not how soon I leave him, for his behaviour to
you, Ma'mselle.

You consent then to assist me in escaping? said Adeline with eagerness.

Why as to that, Ma'mselle, I would willingly, if I knew where to go. To
be sure I have a sister lives in Savoy, but that is a great way off; and
I have saved a little money out of my wages, but that won't carry us
such a long journey.

Regard not that, said Adeline; if I was once beyond this forest, I would
then endeavour to take care of myself, and repay you for your kindness.

O! as for that, Madam----Well, well, Peter, let us consider how we may
escape. This night--say you this night--the Marquis is to return? Yes,
Ma'mselle, to-night about dark. I have just thought of a scheme:--my
master's horses are grazing in the forest; we may take one of them, and
send it back from the first stage: but how shall we avoid being seen?
besides if we go off in the daylight, he will soon pursue and overtake
us; and if you stay till night, the Marquis will be come, and then there
is no chance. If they miss us both at the same time too, they'll guess
how it is, and set off directly. Could not you contrive to go first, and
wait for me till the hurly-burly's over? Then, while they're searching
in the place under ground for you, I can slip away, and we should be out
of their reach before they thought of pursuing us.

[Illustration 04]

Adeline agreed to the truth of all this, and was somewhat surprised at
Peter's sagacity. She inquired if he knew of any place in the
neighbourhood of the abbey, where she could remain concealed, till he
came with a horse. Why yes, Madam, there is a place, now I think of it,
where you may be safe enough, for nobody goes near; but they say it's
haunted, and perhaps you would not like to go there. Adeline,
remembering the last night, was somewhat startled at this intelligence;
but a sense of her present danger pressed again upon her mind, and
overcame every other apprehension. Where is this place? said she; if it
will conceal me, I shall not hesitate to go.

It is an old tomb that stands in the thickest part of the forest, about
a quarter of a mile off the nearest way and almost a mile the other.
When my master used to hide himself so much in the forest, I have
followed him somewhere thereabouts, but I did not find out the tomb till
t'other day. However, that's neither here nor there; if you dare venture
to it, Ma'mselle, I'll show you the nearest way. So saying he pointed to
a winding path on the right. Adeline, having looked round without
perceiving any person near, directed Peter to lead her to the tomb: they
pursued the path, till turning into a gloomy romantic part of the
forest, almost impervious to the rays of the sun, they came to the spot
whither Louis had formerly traced his father.

The stillness and solemnity of the scene struck awe upon the heart of
Adeline, who paused and surveyed it for some time in silence. At length
Peter led her into the interior part of the ruin, to which they
descended by several steps. Some old abbot, said he, was formerly buried
here, as the Marquis's people say; and it's like enough that he belonged
to the abbey yonder. But I don't see why he should take it in his head
to walk; _he_ was not murdered, surely!

I hope not, said Adeline.

That's more than can be said for all that lies buried at the abbey
though, and----Adeline interrupted him: Hark! surely I hear a noise,
said she; Heaven protect us from discovery! They listened, but all was
still; and they went on. Peter opened a low door, and they entered upon
a dark passage, frequently obstructed by loose fragments of stone, and
along which they moved with caution. Whither are we going? said
Adeline.--I scarcely know myself, said Peter, for I never was so far
before, but the place seems quiet enough. Something obstructed his way;
it was a door which yielded to his hand, and discovered a kind of cell
obscurely seen by the twilight admitted through a grate above. A partial
gleam shot athwart the place, leaving the greatest part of it in shadow.

Adeline sighed as she surveyed it. This is a frightful spot, said she:
but if it will afford me a shelter, it is a palace. Remember, Peter,
that my peace and honour depend upon your faithfulness; be both discreet
and resolute. In the dusk of the evening, I can pass from the abbey with
least danger of being observed, and in this cell I will wait your
arrival. As soon as Monsieur and Madame La Motte are engaged in
searching the vaults, you will bring here a horse; three knocks upon the
tomb shall inform me of your arrival. For Heaven's sake be cautious, and
be punctual!

I will, Ma'mselle, let come what may.

They re-ascended to the forest; and Adeline fearful of observation,
directed Peter, to run first to the abbey, and invent some excuse for
his absence, if he had been missed. When she was again alone, she
yielded to a flood of tears, and indulged the excess of her distress.
She saw herself without friends, without relations, destitute, forlorn,
and abandoned to the worst of evils; betrayed by the very persons to
whose comfort she had so long administered, whom she had loved as her
protectors, and revered as her parents! These reflections touched her
heart with the most afflicting sensations, and the sense of her
immediate danger was for a while absorbed in the grief occasioned by a
discovery of such guilt in others.

At length she roused all her fortitude, and turning towards the abbey
endeavoured to await with patience the hour of evening, and to sustain
an appearance of composure in the presence of Monsieur and Madame La
Motte. For the present she wished to avoid seeing either of them,
doubting her ability to disguise her emotions: having reached the abbey,
she therefore passed on to her chamber. Here she endeavoured to direct
her attention to indifferent subjects, but in vain; the danger of her
situation, and the severe disappointment she had received in the
character of those whom she had so much esteemed and even loved, pressed
hard upon her thoughts. To a generous mind few circumstances are more
afflicting than a discovery of perfidy in those whom we have trusted,
even though it may fail of any absolute inconvenience to ourselves. The
behaviour of Madame La Motte in thus, by concealment, conspiring to her
destruction, particularly shocked her.

How has my imagination deceived me! said she; what a picture did it draw
of the goodness of the world! And must I then believe that every body is
cruel and deceitful? No--let me still be deceived, and still suffer,
rather than be condemned to a state of such wretched suspicion. She now
endeavoured to extenuate the conduct of Madame La Motte, by attributing
it to a fear of her husband. She dares not oppose his will, said she,
else she would warn me of my danger, and assist me to escape from it.
No--I will never believe her capable of conspiring my ruin; terror alone
keeps her silent.

Adeline was somewhat comforted by this thought. The benevolence of her
heart taught her, in this instance to sophisticate. She perceived not,
that by ascribing the conduct of Madame La Motte to terror, she only
softened the degree of her guilt, imputing it to a motive less depraved
but not less selfish. She remained in her chamber till summoned to
dinner, when, drying her tears, she descended with faltering steps and a
palpitating heart to the parlour. When she saw La Motte, in spite of all
her efforts she trembled and grew pale; she could not behold even with
apparent indifference the man who she knew had destined her to
destruction. He observed her emotion, and inquiring if she was ill, she
saw the danger to which her agitation exposed her. Fearful lest La Motte
should suspect its true cause, she rallied all her spirits, and with a
look of complacency answered she was well.

During dinner she preserved a degree of composure that effectually
concealed the varied anguish of her heart. When she looked at La Motte,
terror and indignation were her predominant feelings; but when she
regarded Madame La Motte, it was otherwise: gratitude for her former
tenderness had long been confirmed into affection, and her heart now
swelled with the bitterness of grief and disappointment. Madame La Motte
appeared depressed and said little. La Motte seemed anxious to prevent
thought, by assuming a fictitious and unnatural gaiety: he laughed and
talked, and threw off frequent bumpers of wine: it was the mirth of
desperation. Madame became alarmed, and would have restrained him; but
he persisted in his libations to Bacchus till reflection seemed to be
almost overcome.

Madame La Motte, fearful that in the carelessness of the present moment
he might betray himself, withdrew with Adeline to another room. Adeline
recollected the happy hours she once passed with her, when confidence
banished reserve, and sympathy and esteem dictated the sentiments of
friendship: now those hours were gone for ever; she could no longer
unbosom her griefs to Madame La Motte, no longer even esteem her. Yet,
notwithstanding all the danger to which she was exposed by the criminal
silence of the latter, she could not converse with her, consciously for
the last time, without feeling a degree of sorrow which wisdom may call
weakness, but to which benevolence will allow a softer name.

Madame La Motte in her conversation appeared to labour under an almost
equal oppression with Adeline: her thoughts were abstracted from the
subject of discourse, and there were long and frequent intervals of
silence. Adeline more than once caught her gazing with a look of
tenderness upon her, and saw her eyes fill with tears. By this
circumstance she was so much affected, that she was several times upon
the point of throwing herself at her feet, and imploring her pity and
protection. Cooler reflection showed her the extravagance and danger of
this conduct: she suppressed her emotions, but they at length compelled
her to withdraw from the presence of Madame La Motte.




CHAPTER XI


Thou! to whom the world unknown
With all its shadowy shapes is shown;
Who seest appall'd th' unreal scene,
While fancy lifts the veil between;
Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near!
I know thy hurry'd step, thy haggard eye
Like thee I start, like thee disorder'd fly!

COLLINS.


Adeline anxiously watched from her chamber window the sun set behind the
distant hills, and the time of her departure draw nigh: it set with
uncommon splendour, and threw a fiery gleam athwart the woods and upon
some scattered fragments of the ruins, which she could not gaze upon
with indifference. Never, probably, again shall I see the sun sink below
those hills, said she, or illumine this scene! Where shall I be when
next it sets--where this time to-morrow? sunk perhaps in misery! She
wept at the thought. A few hours, resumed Adeline, and the Marquis will
arrive--a few hours, and this abbey will be a scene of confusion and
tumult: every eye will be in search of me, every recess will be
explored. These reflections inspired her with new terror, and increased
her impatience to be gone.

Twilight gradually came on, and she now thought it sufficiently dark to
venture forth: but before she went, she kneeled down and addressed
herself to Heaven. She implored support and protection, and committed
herself to the care of the God of mercies. Having done this, she quitted
her chamber, and passed with cautious steps down the winding staircase.
No person appeared, and she proceeded through the door of the tower into
the forest. She looked around; the gloom of the evening obscured every
object.

With a trembling heart she sought the path pointed out by Peter, which
led to the tomb: having found it, she passed along forlorn and
terrified. Often did she start as the breeze shook the light leaves of
the trees, or as the bat flitted by gamboling in the twilight; and
often, as she looked back towards the abbey, thought she distinguished
amid the deepening gloom the figures of men. Having proceeded some way,
she suddenly heard the feet of horses, and soon after a sound of voices,
among which she distinguished that of the Marquis; they seemed to come
from the quarter she was approaching, and evidently advanced. Terror for
some minutes arrested her steps; she stood in a state of dreadful
hesitation: to proceed was to run into the hands of the Marquis; to
return was to fall into the power of La Motte.

After remaining for some time uncertain whither to fly, the sounds
suddenly took a different direction, and wheeled towards the abbey.
Adeline had a short cessation of terror; she now understood that the
Marquis had passed this spot only in his way to the abbey, and she
hastened to secrete herself in the ruin. At length, after much
difficulty, she reached it, the deep shades almost concealing it from
her search. She paused at the entrance, awed by the solemnity that
reigned within, and the utter darkness of the place; at length she
determined to watch without till Peter should arrive. If any person
approaches, said she, I can hear them before they can see me, and I can
then secrete myself in the cell.

She leaned against a fragment of the tomb in trembling expectation, and
as she listened, no sound broke the silence of the hour. The state of
her mind can only be imagined by considering that upon the present time
turned the crisis of her fate. They have now, thought she, discovered my
flight; even now they are seeking me in every part of the abbey. I hear
their dreadful voices call me; I see their eager looks. The power of
imagination almost overcame her. While she yet looked around, she saw
lights moving at a distance; sometimes they glimmered between the trees,
and sometimes they totally disappeared.

They seemed to be in a direction with the abbey; and she now remembered
that in the morning she had seen a part of the fabric through an opening
in the forest. She had therefore no doubt that the lights she saw
proceeded from people in search of her: who, she feared, not finding her
at the abbey, might direct their steps towards the tomb. Her place of
refuge now seemed too near her enemies to be safe, and she would have
fled to a more distant part of the forest, but recollected that Peter
would not know where to find her.

While these thoughts passed over her mind, she heard distant voices in
the wind, and was hastening to conceal herself in the cell, when she
observed the lights suddenly disappear. All was soon after hushed in
silence and darkness, yet she endeavoured to find the way to the cell.
She remembered the situation of the outward door and of the passage, and
having passed these, she unclosed the door of the cell. Within it was
utterly dark. She trembled violently, but entered; and having felt about
the walls, at length seated herself on a projection of stone.

She here again addressed herself to Heaven, and endeavoured to
reanimate her spirits till Peter should arrive. Above half an hour
elapsed in this gloomy recess, and no sound foretold his approach. Her
spirits sunk; she feared some part of their plan was discovered or
interrupted, and that he was detained by La Motte. This conviction
operated sometimes so strongly upon her fears, as to urge her to quit
the cell alone, and seek in flight her only chance of escape.

While this design was fluctuating in her mind, she distinguished through
the grate above a clattering of hoofs. The noise approached, and at
length stopped at the tomb. In the succeeding moment she heard three
strokes of a whip; her heart beat, and for some moments her agitation
was such, that she made no effort to quit the cell. The strokes were
repeated: she now roused her spirits, and stepping forward, ascended to
the forest. She called Peter; for the deep gloom would not permit her to
distinguish either man or horse. She was quickly answered, Hush!
Ma'mselle, our voices will betray us.

They mounted and rode off as fast as the darkness would permit.
Adeline's heart revived at every step they took. She inquired what had
passed at the abbey, and how he had contrived to get away. Speak softly,
Ma'mselle; you'll know all by and by, but I can't tell you now. He had
scarcely spoke ere they saw lights move along at a distance; and coming
now to a more open part of the forest, he set off on a full gallop, and
continued the pace till the horse could hold it no longer. They looked
back, and no lights appearing, Adeline's terror subsided. She inquired
again what had passed at the abbey when her flight was discovered. You
may speak without fear of being heard, said she, we are gone beyond
their reach, I hope.

Why, Ma'mselle, said he, you had not been gone long before the Marquis
arrived, and Monsieur La Motte then found out you was fled. Upon this a
great rout there was, and he talked a great deal with the Marquis.

Speak louder, said Adeline, I cannot hear you.

I will, Ma'mselle--

Oh! heavens! interrupted Adeline, What voice is this? It is not Peter's.
For God's sake tell me who you are, and whither I am going?

You'll know that soon enough, young lady, answered the stranger, for it
was indeed not Peter; I am taking you where my master ordered. Adeline,
not doubting he was the Marquis's servant, attempted to leap to the
ground; but the man, dismounting, bound her to the horse. One feeble ray
of hope at length beamed upon her mind; she endeavoured to soften the
man to pity, and pleaded with all the genuine eloquence of distress; but
he understood his interest too well to yield even for a moment to the
compassion which, in spite of himself, her artless supplication
inspired.

She now resigned herself to despair, and in passive silence submitted to
her fate. They continued thus to travel, till a storm of rain
accompanied by thunder and lightning drove them to the covert of a thick
grove. The man believed this a safe situation, and Adeline was now too
careless of life to attempt convincing him of his error. The storm was
violent and long, but as soon as it abated they set off on full gallop;
and having continued to travel for about two hours, they came to the
borders of the forest, and soon after to a high lonely wall, which
Adeline could just distinguish by the moonlight, which now streamed
through the parting clouds.

Here they stopped: the man dismounted, and having opened a small door in
the wall, he unbound Adeline, who shrieked, though involuntarily and in
vain, as he took her from the horse. The door opened upon a narrow
passage, dimly lighted by a lamp, which hung at the further end. He led
her on; they came to another door; it opened, and disclosed a
magnificent saloon splendidly illuminated, and fitted up in the most
airy and elegant taste.

The walls were painted in fresco, representing scenes from Ovid, and
hung above with silk, drawn up in festoons, and richly fringed. The
sofas were of a silk to suit the hangings. From the centre of the
ceiling, which exhibited a scene from the Armida of Tasso, descended a
silver lamp of Etruscan form; it diffused a blaze of light that,
reflected from large pier glasses, completely illuminated the saloon.
Busts of Horace, Ovid, Anacreon, Tibullus, and Petronius Arbiter,
adorned the recesses, and stands of flowers placed in Etruscan vases
breathed the most delicious perfume. In the middle of the apartment
stood a small table spread with a collation of fruits, ices, and
liqueurs. No person appeared. The whole seemed the works of enchantment,
and rather resembled the palace of a fairy than any thing of human
conformation.

Adeline was astonished, and inquired where she was; but the man refused
to answer her questions; and having desired her to take some
refreshment, left her. She walked to the windows, from which a gleam of
moonlight discovered to her an extensive garden, where groves and lawns,
and water glittering in the moonbeam, composed a scenery of varied and
romantic beauty. What can this mean! said she: Is this a charm to lure
me to destruction? She endeavoured, with a hope of escaping, to open the
windows, but they were all fastened; she next attempted several doors,
and found them also secured.

Perceiving all chance of escape was removed, she remained for some time
given up to sorrow and reflection; but was at length drawn from her
reverie by the notes of soft music, breathing such dulcet and entrancing
sounds as suspended grief and awaked the soul to tenderness and pensive
pleasure. Adeline listened in surprise, and insensibly became soothed
and interested; a tender melancholy stole upon her heart, and subdued
every harsher feeling: but the moment the strain ceased, the enchantment
dissolved, and she returned to a sense of her situation.

Again the music sounded--music such as charmeth sleep--and again she
gradually yielded to its sweet magic. A female voice, accompanied by a
lute, a hautboy, and a few other instruments, now gradually swelled into
a tone so exquisite as raised attention into ecstasy. It sunk by
degrees, and touched a few simple notes with pathetic softness, when the
measure was suddenly changed, and in a gay and airy melody Adeline
distinguished the following words:


SONG.

Life's a varied, bright illusion,
Joy and sorrow--light and shade;
Turn from sorrow's dark suffusion,
Catch the pleasures ere they fade.

Fancy paints with hues unreal,
Smile of bliss, and sorrow's mood;
If they both are but ideal,
Why reject the seeming good?

Hence! no more! 'tis Wisdom calls ye,
Bids ye court Time's present aid;
The future trust not--Hope enthralls ye,
"Catch the pleasures ere they fade."


The music ceased; but the sounds still vibrated on her imagination, and
she was sunk in the pleasing languor they had inspired, when the door
opened, and the Marquis de Montalt appeared. He approached the sofa
where Adeline sat, and addressed her, but she heard not his voice--she
had fainted. He endeavoured to recover her, and at length succeeded; but
when she unclosed her eyes, and again beheld him, she relapsed into a
state of insensibility; and having in vain tried various methods to
restore her, he was obliged to call assistance. Two young women entered;
and when she began to revive, he left them to prepare her for his
reappearance. When Adeline perceived that the Marquis was gone, and that
she was in the care of women, her spirits gradually returned; she looked
at her attendants, and was surprised to see so much elegance and beauty.

Some endeavour she made to interest their pity; but they seemed wholly
insensible to her distress, and began to talk of the Marquis in terms of
the highest admiration. They assured her it would be her own fault if
she was not happy, and advised her to appear so in his presence. It was
with the utmost difficulty that Adeline forbore to express the disdain
which was rising to her lips, and that she listened to their discourse
in silence. But she saw the inconvenience and fruitlessness of
opposition, and she commanded her feelings.

They were thus proceeding in their praises of the Marquis, when he
himself appeared; and waving his hand, they immediately quitted the
apartment. Adeline beheld him with a kind of mute despair while he
approached and took her hand, which she hastily withdrew; and turning
from him with a look of unutterable distress, burst into tears. He was
for some time silent, and appeared softened by her anguish: but again
approaching and addressing her in a gentle voice, he entreated her
pardon for the step which despair, and, as he called it, love had
prompted. She was too much absorbed in grief to reply, till he solicited
a return of his love; when her sorrow yielded to indignation, and she
reproached him with his conduct. He pleaded that he had long loved and
sought her upon honourable terms, and his offer of those terms he began
to repeat; but raising his eyes towards Adeline, he saw in her looks the
contempt which he was conscious he deserved.

For a moment he was confused, and seemed to understand both that his
plan was discovered and his person despised; but soon resuming his usual
command of feature, he again pressed his suit, and solicited her love.
A little reflection showed Adeline the danger of exasperating his pride
by an avowal of the contempt which his pretended offer of marriage
excited; and she thought it not improper, upon an occasion in which the
honour and peace of her life was concerned, to yield somewhat to the
policy of dissimulation. She saw that her only chance of escaping his
designs depended upon delaying them, and she now wished him to believe
her ignorant that the Marchioness was living, and that his offers were
delusive.

He observed her pause; and in the eagerness to turn her hesitation to
his advantage, renewed his proposal with increased vehemence--To-morrow
shall unite us, lovely Adeline; to-morrow you shall consent to become
the Marchioness de Montalt. You will then return my love and----

You must first deserve my esteem, my Lord.

I will--I do deserve it. Are you not now in my power, and do I not
forbear to take advantage of your situation? Do I not make you the most
honourable proposals?--Adeline shuddered: If you wish I should esteem
you, my Lord, endeavour, if possible, to make me forget by what means I
came into your power; if your views are indeed honourable, prove them so
by releasing me from my confinement.

Can you then wish, lovely Adeline, to fly from him who adores you?
replied the Marquis with a studied air of tenderness. Why will you exact
so severe a proof of my disinterestedness, a disinterestedness which is
not consistent with love? No, charming Adeline! let me at least have the
pleasure of beholding you till the bonds of the church shall remove
every obstacle to my love. To-morrow----

Adeline saw the danger to which she was now exposed, and interrupted
him. _Deserve_ my esteem, Sir, and then you will _obtain_ it: as a first
step towards which, liberate me from a confinement that obliges me to
look on you only with terror and aversion. How can I believe your
professions of love, while you show that you have no interest in my
happiness?--Thus did Adeline, to whom the arts and the practice of
dissimulation were hitherto equally unknown, condescend to make use of
them in disguising her indignation and contempt. But though these arts
were adopted only for the purpose of self-preservation, she used them
with reluctance, and almost with abhorrence; for her mind was habitually
impregnated with the love of virtue, in thought, word, and action; and
while her end in using them was certainly good, she scarcely thought
that end could justify the means.

The Marquis persisted in his sophistry. Can you doubt the reality of
that love, which to obtain you has urged me to risk your displeasure?
But have I not consulted your happiness, even in the very conduct which
you condemn? I have removed you from a solitary and desolate ruin to a
gay and splendid villa, where every luxury is at your command, and where
every person shall be obedient to your wishes.

My first wish is to go hence, said Adeline; I entreat, I conjure you, my
Lord, no longer to detain me. I am a friendless and wretched orphan,
exposed to many evils, and I fear abandoned to misfortune: I do not wish
to be rude; but allow me to say, that no misery can exceed that I shall
feel in remaining here, or indeed in being any where pursued by the
offers you make me. Adeline had now forgot her policy: tears prevented
her from proceeding, and she turned away her face to hide her emotion.

By Heaven! Adeline, you do me wrong, said the Marquis, rising from his
seat and seizing her hand; I love, I adore you; yet you doubt my
passion, and are insensible to my vows. Every pleasure possible to be
enjoyed within these walls you shall partake,--but beyond them you shall
not go. She disengaged her hand, and in silent anguish walked to a
distant part of the saloon: deep sighs burst from her heart, and almost
fainting she leaned on a window-frame for support.

The Marquis followed her: Why thus obstinately persist in refusing to be
happy? said he: recollect the proposal I have made you, and accept it
while it is yet in your power. To-morrow a priest shall join our
hands--Surely, being, as you are, in my power, it must be your interest
to consent to this? Adeline could answer only by tears; she despaired of
softening his heart to pity, and feared to exasperate his pride by
disdain. He now led her, and she suffered him, to a seat near the
banquet, at which he pressed her to partake of a variety of
confectionaries, particularly of some liqueurs of which he himself drank
freely: Adeline accepted only of a peach.

And now the Marquis, who interrupted her silence into a secret
compliance with his proposal, resumed all his gaiety and spirit, while
the long and ardent regards he bestowed on Adeline overcame her with
confusion and indignation. In the midst of the banquet, soft music again
sounded the most tender and impassioned airs; but its effect on Adeline
was now lost, her mind being too much embarrassed and distressed by the
presence of the Marquis to admit even the soothings of harmony. A song
was now heard, written with that sort of impotent art by which some
voluptuous poets believe they can at once conceal and recommend the
principles of vice. Adeline received it with contempt and displeasure;
and the Marquis perceiving its effect, presently made a sign for another
composition, which, adding the force of poetry to the charms of music,
might withdraw her mind from the present scene, and enchant it in sweet
delirium.


SONG OF A SPIRIT.

In the sightless air I dwell,
On the sloping sun-beams play;
Delve the cavern's inmost cell,
Where never yet did daylight stray.

Dive beneath the green sea waves,
And gambol in the briny deeps;
Skim every shore that Neptune laves,
From Lapland's plains to India's steeps.

Oft I mount with rapid force
Above the wide earth's shadowy zone;
Follow the day-star's flaming course
Through realms of space to thought unknown:

And listen oft celestial sounds
That swell the air unheard of men,
As I watch my nightly rounds
O'er woody steep and silent glen.

Under the shade of waving trees,
On the green bank of fountain clear,
At pensive eve I sit at ease,
While dying music murmurs near.

And oft on point of airy clift,
That hangs upon the western main,
I watch the gay tints passing swift,
And twilight veil the liquid plain.

Then, when the breeze has sunk away,
And ocean scarce is heard to lave,
For me the sea-nymphs softly play
Their dulcet shells beneath the wave.

Their dulcet shells! I hear them now,
Slow swells the strain upon mine ear
Now faintly falls--now warbles low,
Till rapture melts into a tear.

The ray that silvers o'er the dew,
And trembles through the leafy shade,
And tints the scene with softer hue,
Calls me to rove the lonely glade;

Or hie me to some ruin'd tower,
Faintly shewn by moonlight gleam,
Where the lone wanderer owns my power
In shadows dire that substance seem.

In thrilling sounds that murmur woe,
And pausing silence makes more dread;
In music breathing from below
Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead.

Unseen I move--unknown am fear'd!
Fancy's wildest dreams I weave;
And oft by bards my voice is heard
To die along the gales of eve.


When the voice ceased, a mournful strain, played with exquisite
expression, sounded from a distant horn; sometimes the notes floated on
the air in soft undulations--now they swelled into full and sweeping
melody, and now died faintly into silence, when again they rose and
trembled in sounds so sweetly tender, as drew tears from Adeline, and
exclamations of rapture from the Marquis: he threw his arm round her,
and would have pressed her towards him; but she liberated herself from
his embrace, and with a look, on which was impressed the firm dignity of
virtue, yet touched with sorrow, she awed him to forbearance. Conscious
of a superiority which he was ashamed to acknowledge, and endeavouring
to despise the influence which he could not resist, he stood for a
moment the slave of virtue, though the votary of vice. Soon, however, he
recovered his confidence, and began to plead his love; when Adeline, no
longer animated by the spirit she had lately shown, and sinking beneath
the languor and fatigue which the various and violent agitations of her
mind produced, entreated he would leave her to repose.

The paleness of her countenance and the tremulous tone of her voice were
too expressive to be misunderstood; and the Marquis, bidding her
remember to-morrow, with some hesitation withdrew. The moment she was
alone she yielded to the bursting anguish of her heart; and was so
absorbed in grief, that it was some time before she perceived she was in
the presence of the young women who had lately attended her, and had
entered the saloon soon after the Marquis quitted it; they came to
conduct her to her chamber. She followed them for some time in silence,
till, prompted by desperation, she again endeavoured to awaken their
compassion: but again the praises of the Marquis were repeated: and
perceiving that all attempts to interest them in her favour were in vain
she dismissed them. She secured the door through which they had
departed, and then, in the languid hope of discovering some means of
escape, she surveyed her chamber. The airy elegance with which it was
fitted up, and the luxurious accommodations with which it abounded,
seemed designed to fascinate the imagination and to seduce the heart.
The hangings were of straw-coloured silk, adorned with a variety of
landscapes and historical paintings, the subjects of which partook of
the voluptuous character of the owner; the chimney-piece, of Parian
marble, was ornamented with several reposing figures from the antique.
The bed was of silk, the colour of the hangings, richly fringed with
purple and silver, and the head made in form of a canopy. The steps
which were placed near the bed to assist in ascending it, were supported
by cupids apparently of solid silver. China vases filled with perfume
stood in several of the recesses, upon stands of the same structure as
the toilet, which was magnificent, and ornamented with a variety of
trinkets.

Adeline threw a transient look upon these various objects, and proceeded
to examine the windows, which descended to the floor and opened into
balconies towards the garden she had seen from the saloon. They were now
fastened, and her efforts to move them were ineffectual: at length she
gave up the attempt. A door next attracted her notice, which she found
was not fastened; it opened upon a dressing-closet, to which she
descended by a few steps: two windows appeared, she hastened towards
them; one refused to yield, but her heart beat with sudden joy when the
other opened to her touch.

In the transport of the moment, she forgot that its distance from the
ground might yet deny the escape she meditated. She returned to lock the
door of the closet, to prevent a surprise, which, however, was
unnecessary, that of the bed-room being already secured. She now looked
out from the window; the garden lay before her, and she perceived that
the window, which descended to the floor, was so near the ground, that
she might jump from it with ease: almost in the same moment she
perceived this, she sprang forward and alighted safely in an extensive
garden, resembling more an English pleasure ground, than a series of
French parterres.

Thence she had little doubt of escaping, either by some broken fence, or
low part of the wall; she tripped lightly along, for hope played round
her heart. The clouds of the late storm were now dispersed, and the
moonlight, which slept on the lawns and spangled the flowerets yet heavy
with rain drops, afforded her a distinct view of the surrounding
scenery; she followed the direction of the high wall that adjoined the
chateau, till it was concealed from her sight by a thick wilderness, so
entangled with boughs and obscured by darkness, that she feared to
enter, and turned aside into a walk on the right; it conducted her to
the margin of a lake overhung with lofty trees.

The moonbeams dancing upon the waters, that with gentle undulation
played along the shore, exhibited a scene of tranquil beauty, which
would have soothed a heart less agitated than was that of Adeline: she
sighed as she transiently surveyed it, and passed hastily on in search
of the garden wall, from which she had now strayed a considerable way.
After wandering for some time through alleys and over lawns, without
meeting with any thing like a boundary to the grounds, she again found
herself at the lake, and now traversed its border with the footsteps of
despair:--tears rolled down her cheeks. The scene around exhibited only
images of peace and delight; every object seemed to repose; not a breath
waved the foliage, not a sound stole through the air: it was in her
bosom only that tumult and distress prevailed. She still pursued the
windings of the shore, till an opening in the woods conducted her up a
gentle ascent: the path now wound along the side of a hill where the
gloom was so deep, that it was with some difficulty she found her way:
suddenly, however, the avenue opened to a lofty grove, and she perceived
a light issue from a recess at some distance.

She paused, and her first impulse was to retreat; but listening, and
hearing no sound, a faint hope beamed upon her mind, that the person to
whom the light belonged, might be won to favour her escape. She
advanced, with trembling and cautious steps, towards the recess, that
she might secretly observe the person, before she ventured to enter it.
Her emotion increased as she approached; and, having reached the bower,
she beheld, through an open window, the Marquis reclining on a sofa,
near which stood a table, covered with fruit and wine. He was alone, and
his countenance was flushed with drinking.

While she gazed, fixed to the spot by terror, he looked up towards the
casement; the light gleamed full upon her face, but she stayed not to
learn whether he had observed her, for, with the swiftness of sound, she
left the place and ran, without knowing whether she was pursued. Having
gone a considerable way, fatigue at length compelled her to stop, and
she threw herself upon the turf, almost fainting with fear and languor.
She knew, if the Marquis detected her in an attempt to escape, he would,
probably, burst the bounds which she had hitherto prescribed to himself,
and that she had the most dreadful evils to expect. The palpitations of
terror were so strong, that she could with difficulty breathe.

She watched and listened in trembling expectation, but no form met her
eye, no sound her ear; in this state she remained a considerable time.
She wept, and the tears she shed relieved her oppressed heart. O my
father! said she, why did you abandon your child? If you knew the
dangers to which you have exposed her, you would, surely, pity and
relieve her. Alas! shall I never find a friend! am I destined still to
trust and be deceived?--Peter too, could he be treacherous? She wept
again, and then returned to a sense of her present danger, and to a
consideration of the means of escaping it--but no means appeared.

To her imagination the grounds were boundless; she had wandered from
lawn to lawn, and from grove to grove, without perceiving any
termination to the place; the garden-wall she could not find, but she
resolved neither to return to the chateau, nor to relinquish her search.
As she was rising to depart, she perceived a shadow move along at some
distance: she stood still to observe it. It slowly advanced and then
disappeared; but presently she saw a person emerge from the gloom, and
approach the spot where she stood. She had no doubt that the Marquis had
observed her, and she ran with all possible speed to the shade of some
woods on the left. Footsteps pursued her, and she heard her name
repeated, while she in vain endeavoured to quicken her pace.

Suddenly the sound of pursuit turned, and sunk away in a different
direction: she paused to take breath; she looked around, and no person
appeared. She now proceeded slowly along the avenue, and had almost
reached its termination, when she saw the same figure emerge from the
woods and dart across the avenue: it instantly pursued her and
approached. A voice called her, but she was gone beyond its reach, for
she had sunk senseless upon the ground: it was long before she revived:
when she did, she found herself in the arms of a stranger, and made an
effort to disengage herself.

Fear nothing, lovely Adeline, said he, fear nothing: you are in the arms
of a friend, who will encounter any hazard for your sake; who will
protect you with his life. He pressed her gently to his heart. Have you
then forgot me? continued he. She looked earnestly at him, and was now
convinced that it was Theodore who spoke. Joy was her first emotion;
but, recollecting his former abrupt departure, at a time so critical to
her safety and that he was the friend of the Marquis, a thousand mingled
sensations struggled in her breast, and overwhelmed her with mistrust,
apprehension, and disappointment.

Theodore raised her from the ground, and while he yet supported her, let
us fly from this place, said he; a carriage waits to receive us; it
shall go wherever you direct, and convey you to your friends. This last
sentence touched her heart: Alas, I have no friends! said she, nor do I
know whither to go. Theodore gently pressed her hand between his, and,
in a voice of the softest compassion, said, _My_ friends then shall be
yours; suffer me to lead you to them. But I am in agony while you remain
in this place; let us hasten to quit it. Adeline was going to reply,
when voices were heard among the trees, and Theodore, supporting her
with his arm, hurried her along the avenue; they continued their flight
till Adeline, panting for breath, could go no further.

[Illustration 05]

Having paused a while, and heard no footsteps in pursuit, they renewed
their course: Theodore knew that they were now not far from the garden
wall; but he was also aware, that in the intermediate space several
paths wound from remote parts of the grounds into the walk he was to
pass, from whence the Marquis's people might issue and intercept him.
He, however, concealed his apprehensions from Adeline, and endeavoured
to soothe and support her spirits.

At length they reached the wall, and Theodore was leading her towards a
low part of it, near which stood the carriage, when again they heard
voices in the air. Adeline's spirits and strength were nearly exhausted,
but she made a last effort to proceed and she now saw the ladder at some
distance by which Theodore had descended to the garden. Exert yourself
yet a little longer, said he, and you will be in safety. He held the
ladder while she ascended; the top of the wall was broad and level, and
Adeline, having reached it, remained there till Theodore followed and
drew the ladder to the other side.

When they had descended, the carriage appeared in waiting, but without
the driver. Theodore feared to call, lest his voice should betray him;
he, therefore, put Adeline into the carriage, and went in search of the
postillion, whom he found asleep under a tree at some distance: having
awakened him, they returned to the vehicle, which soon drove furiously
away. Adeline did not yet dare to believe herself safe; but, after
proceeding a considerable time without interruption, joy burst upon her
heart, and she thanked her deliverer in terms of the warmest gratitude.
The sympathy expressed in the tone of his voice and manner, proved that
his happiness, on this occasion, almost equalled her own.

As reflection gradually stole upon her mind, anxiety superseded joy: in
the tumult of the late moments, she thought only of escape; but the
circumstances of her present situation now appeared to her, and she
became silent and pensive: she had no friends to whom she could fly, and
was going with a young chevalier, almost a stranger to her, she knew not
whither. She remembered how often she had been deceived and betrayed
where she trusted most, and her spirits sunk: she remembered also the
former attention which Theodore had shown her, and dreaded lest his
conduct might be prompted by a selfish passion. She saw this to be
possible, but she disdained to believe it probable, and felt that
nothing could give her greater pain than to doubt the integrity of
Theodore.

He interrupted her reverie, by recurring to her late situation at the
abbey. You would be much surprised, said he, and, I fear, offended that
I did not attend my appointment at the abbey, after the alarming hints
I had given you in our last interview. That circumstance has, perhaps,
injured me in your esteem, if, indeed, I was ever so happy as to possess
it: but my designs were overruled by those of the Marquis de Montalt;
and I think I may venture to assert, that my distress upon this occasion
was, at least, equal to your apprehensions.

Adeline said, she had been much alarmed by the hints he had given her,
and by his failing to afford further information concerning the subject
of her danger; and--She checked the sentence that hung upon her lips,
for she perceived that she was unwarily betraying the interest he held
in her heart. There were a few moments of silence, and neither party
seemed perfectly at ease. Theodore, at length, renewed the conversation:
Suffer me to acquaint you, said he, with the circumstances that withheld
me from the interview I solicited; I am anxious to exculpate myself.
Without waiting her reply, he proceeded to inform her, that the Marquis
had, by some inexplicable means, learned or suspected the subject of
their last conversation, and, perceiving his designs were in danger of
being counteracted, had taken effectual means to prevent her obtaining
further intelligence of them. Adeline immediately recollected that
Theodore and herself had been seen in the forest by La Motte, who had,
no doubt, suspected their growing intimacy, and had taken care to inform
the Marquis how likely he was to find a rival in his friend.

On the day following that on which I last saw you, said Theodore, the
Marquis, who is my colonel, commanded me to prepare to attend my
regiment, and appointed the following morning for my journey. This
sudden order gave me some surprise, but I was not long in doubt
concerning the motive for it: a servant of the Marquis, who had been
long attached to me, entered my room soon after I had left his lord, and
expressing concern at my abrupt departure, dropped some hints respecting
it, which excited my surprise. I inquired further, and was confirmed in
the suspicions I had for some time entertained of the Marquis's designs
upon you.

Jaques further informed me, that our late interview had been noticed and
communicated to the Marquis. His information had been obtained from a
fellow-servant, and it alarmed me so much, that I engaged him to send me
intelligence from time to time, concerning the proceedings of the
Marquis. I now looked forward to the evening which would bring me again
to your presence with increased impatience: but the ingenuity of the
Marquis effectually counteracted my endeavours and wishes; he had made
an engagement to pass the day at the villa of a nobleman some leagues
distant, and, notwithstanding all the excuses I could offer, I was
obliged to attend him. Thus compelled to obey, I passed a day of more
agitation and anxiety than I had ever before experienced. It was
midnight before we returned to the Marquis's chateau. I arose early in
the morning to commence my journey, and resolved to seek an interview
with you before I left the province.

When I entered the breakfast room, I was much surprised to find the
Marquis there already, who, commending the beauty of the morning,
declared his intention of accompanying me as far as Chineau. Thus
unexpectedly deprived of my last hope, my countenance, I believe,
expressed what I felt, for the scrutinizing eye of the Marquis instantly
changed from seeming carelessness to displeasure. The distance from
Chineau to the abbey was at least twelve leagues; yet I had once some
intention of returning from thence, when the Marquis should leave me,
till I recollected the very remote chance there would even then be of
seeing you alone, and also, that if I was observed by La Motte, it would
awaken all his suspicions, and caution him against any future plan I
might see it expedient to attempt; I therefore proceeded to join my
regiment.

Jaques sent me frequent accounts of the operations of the Marquis; but
his manner of relating them was so very confused, that they only served
to perplex and distress me. His last letter, however, alarmed me so
much, that my residence in quarters became intolerable; and, as I found
it impossible to obtain leave of absence, I secretly left the regiment,
and concealed myself in a cottage about a mile from the chateau, that I
might obtain the earliest intelligence of the Marquis's plans. Jaques
brought me daily information, and, at last, an account of the horrible
plot which was laid for the following night.

I saw little probability of warning you of your danger. If I ventured
near the abbey, La Motte might discover me, and frustrate every attempt
on my part to save you; yet I determined to encounter this risk for the
chance of seeing you, and towards evening I was preparing to set out for
the forest, when Jaques arrived, and informed me that you was to be
brought to the chateau. My plan was thus rendered less difficult. I
learned also, that the Marquis, by means of those refinements in luxury,
with which he is but too well acquainted, designed, now that his
apprehension of losing you was no more, to seduce you to his wishes, and
impose upon you by a fictitious marriage. Having obtained information
concerning the situation of the room allotted you, I ordered a chaise to
be in waiting, and with a design of scaling your window, and conducting
you thence, I entered the garden at midnight.

Theodore having ceased to speak:--I know not how words can express my
sense of the obligations I owe you, said Adeline, or my gratitude for
your generosity.

Ah! call it not generosity, he replied, it was love. He paused. Adeline
was silent. After some moments of expressive emotion, he resumed; But
pardon this abrupt declaration; yet why do I call it abrupt, since my
actions have already disclosed what my lips have never, till this
instant, ventured to acknowledge. He paused again. Adeline was still
silent. Yet do me the justice to believe, that I am sensible of the
impropriety of pleading my love at present, and have been surprised into
this confession. I promise also to forbear from a renewal of the
subject, till you are placed in a situation where you may freely accept,
or refuse, the sincere regards I offer you. If I could, however, now be
certain that I possess your esteem, it would relieve me from much
anxiety.

Adeline felt surprised that he should doubt her esteem for him, after
the signal and generous service he had rendered her; but she was not yet
acquainted with the timidity of love. Do you then, said she in a
tremulous voice, believe me ungrateful? It is impossible I can consider
your friendly interference in my behalf without esteeming you. Theodore
immediately took her hand and pressed it to his lips in silence. They
were both too much agitated to converse, and continued to travel for
some miles without exchanging a word.




CHAPTER XII


And hope enchanted smiled and waved her golden
hair,
And longer had she sung--but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.

ODE TO THE PASSIONS.


The dawn of morning now trembled through the clouds, when the travellers
stopped at a small town to change horses. Theodore entreated Adeline to
alight and take some refreshment, and to this she at length consented.
But the people of the inn were not yet up, and it was some time before
the knocking and the roaring of the postillion could rouse them.

Having taken some slight refreshment, Theodore and Adeline returned to
the carriage. The only subject upon which Theodore could have spoke with
interest, delicacy forbade him at this time to notice; and after
pointing out some beautiful scenery on the road, and making other
efforts to support a conversation, he relapsed into silence. His mind,
though still anxious, was now relieved from the apprehension that had
long oppressed it. When he first saw Adeline, her loveliness made a deep
impression on his heart: there was a sentiment in her beauty, which his
mind immediately acknowledged, and the effect of which, her manners and
conversation had afterwards confirmed. Her charms appeared to him like
those since so finely described by an English poet:


Oh! have you seen, bathed in the morning dew,
The budding rose its infant bloom display?
When first its virgin tints unfold to view.
It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day.

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,
Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek.
I gaz'd, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame,
Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak.


A knowledge of her destitute condition and of the dangers with which she
was environed, had awakened in his heart the tenderest touch of pity,
and assisted the change of admiration into love. The distress he
suffered, when compelled to leave her exposed to these dangers, without
being able to warn her of them, can only be imagined. During his
residence with his regiment, his mind was the constant prey of terrors,
which he saw no means of combating but by returning to the neighbourhood
of the abbey where he might obtain early intelligence of the Marquis's
schemes, and be ready to give his assistance to Adeline.

Leave of absence he could not request, without betraying his design
where most he dreaded it should be known; and at length with a generous
rashness, which though it defied law was impelled by virtue, he secretly
quitted his regiment. The progress of the Marquis's plan he had observed
with trembling anxiety, till the night that was to decide the fate of
Adeline and himself roused all his mind to action, and involved him in a
tumult of hope and fear, horror and expectation.

Never till the present hour had he ventured to believe she was in
safety. Now the distance they had gained from the chateau without
perceiving any pursuit, increased his best hopes. It was impossible he
could sit by the side of his beloved Adeline, and receive assurances of
her gratitude and esteem, without venturing to hope for her love. He
congratulated himself as her preserver, and anticipated scenes of
happiness when she should be under the protection of his family. The
clouds of misery and apprehension disappeared from his mind, and left it
to the sunshine of joy. When a shadow of fear would sometimes return, or
when he recollected with compunction the circumstances under which he
had left his regiment, stationed as it was upon the frontiers, and in a
time of war, he looked at Adeline, and her countenance with
instantaneous magic beamed peace upon his heart.

But Adeline had a subject of anxiety from which Theodore was exempt: the
prospect of her future days was involved in darkness and uncertainty.
Again she was going to claim the bounty of strangers--again going to
encounter the uncertainty of their kindness; exposed to the hardships of
dependance, or to the difficulty of earning a precarious livelihood.
These anticipations obscured the joy occasioned by her escape, and by
the affection which the conduct and avowal of Theodore had exhibited.
The delicacy of his behaviour, in forbearing to take advantage of her
present situation to plead his love, increased her esteem and flattered
her pride.

Adeline was lost in meditation upon subjects like these, when the
postillion stopped the carriage, and pointing to part of a road which
wound down the side of a hill they had passed, said there were several
horsemen in pursuit! Theodore immediately ordered him to proceed with
all possible speed, and to strike out of the great road into the first
obscure way that offered. The postillion cracked his whip in the air,
and set off as if he was flying for life. In the meanwhile Theodore
endeavoured to reanimate Adeline, who was sinking with terror, and who
now thought, if she could only escape from the Marquis, she could defy
the future.

Presently they struck into a by lane screened and overshadowed by thick
trees. Theodore again looked from the window, but the closing boughs
prevented his seeing far enough to determine whether the pursuit
continued. For his sake Adeline endeavoured to disguise her emotions.
This lane, said Theodore, will certainly lead to a town or village, and
then we have nothing to apprehend: for, though my single arm could not
defend you against the number of our pursuers, I nave no doubt of being
able to interest some of the inhabitants in our behalf.

Adeline appeared to be comforted by the hope this reflection suggested:
and Theodore again looked back: but the windings of the road closed his
view, and the rattling of the wheels overcame every other sound. At
length he called to the postillion to stop; and having listened
attentively without perceiving any sound of horses, he began to hope
they were now in safety. Do you know whither this road leads? said he.
The postillion answered that he did not, but he saw some houses through
the trees at a distance, and believed that it led to them. This was most
welcome intelligence to Theodore, who looked forward and perceived the
houses. The postillion set off. Fear nothing, my adored Adeline, said
he, you are now safe; I will part with you but with life. Adeline
sighed, not for herself only, but for the danger to which Theodore might
be exposed.

They had continued to travel in this manner for near half an hour, when
they arrived at a small village, and soon after stopped at an inn, the
best the place afforded. As Theodore lifted Adeline from the chaise, he
again entreated her to dismiss her apprehensions, and spoke with a
tenderness to which she could reply only by a smile that ill concealed
her anxiety. After ordering refreshments, he went out to speak with the
landlord; but had scarcely left the room when Adeline observed a party
of horsemen enter the inn yard, and she had no doubt these were the
persons from whom they fled. The faces of two of them only were turned
towards her, but she thought the figure of one of the others not unlike
that of the Marquis.

Her heart was chilled, and for some moments the powers of reason forsook
her. Her first design was to seek concealments but while she considered
the means, one of the horsemen looked up to the window near, which she
stood, and speaking to his companions they entered the inn. To quit the
room without being observed was impossible; to remain there, alone and
unprotected as she was, would almost be equally dangerous. She paced the
room in an agony of terror, often secretly calling on Theodore, and
often wondering he did not return. These were moments of indescribable
suffering. A loud and tumultuous sound of voices now arose from a
distant part of the house, and she soon, distinguished the words of the
disputants. I arrest you in the king's name, said one; and bid you, at
your peril, attempt to go from hence, except under a guard.

The next minute Adeline heard the voice of Theodore in reply. I do not
mean to dispute the king's orders, said he, and give you my word of
honour not to go without you; but first unhand me, that I may return to
that room; I have a friend there whom I wish to speak with. To this
proposal they at first objected, considering it merely as an excuse to
obtain an opportunity of escaping; but after much altercation and
entreaty his request was granted. He sprang forward towards the room
where Adeline remained; and while a sergeant and corporal followed him
to the door, the two soldiers went out into the yard of the inn to watch
the windows of the apartment.

With an eager hand he unclosed the door; but Adeline hastened not to
meet him, for she had fainted almost at the beginning of the dispute.
Theodore called loudly for assistance; and the mistress of the inn soon
appeared with her stock of remedies, which were administered in vain to
Adeline, who remained insensible, and by breathing alone gave signs of
her existence. The distress of Theodore was in the mean time heightened
by the appearance of the officers, who, laughing at the discovery of his
pretended friend, declared they could wait no longer. Saying this, they
would have forced him from the inanimate form of Adeline, over whom he
hung in unutterable anguish, when fiercely turning upon them he drew his
sword, and swore no power on earth should force him away before the lady
recovered.

The men, enraged by the action and the determined air of Theodore,
exclaimed, Do you oppose the king's orders? and advanced to seize him:
but he presented the point of his sword, and bade them at their peril
approach. One of them immediately drew. Theodore kept his guard, but did
not advance. I demand only to wait here till the lady recovers, said
he;--you understand the alternative. The man already exasperated by the
opposition of Theodore, regarded the latter part of his speech as a
threat, and became determined not to give up the point: he pressed
forward; and while his comrade called the men from the yard, Theodore
wounded him slightly in the shoulder, and received himself the stroke of
a sabre on his head.

The blood gushed furiously from the wound: Theodore, staggering to a
chair, sunk into it, just as the remainder of the party entered the
room; and Adeline unclosed her eyes to see him ghastly pale, and covered
with blood. She uttered an involuntary scream, and exclaiming, They have
murdered him, nearly relapsed. At the sound of her voice he raised his
head, and smiling held out his hand to her. I am not much hurt said he
faintly, and shall soon be better, if indeed you are recovered. She
hastened towards him, and gave her hand. Is nobody gone for a surgeon?
said she with a look of agony. Do not be alarmed, said Theodore, I am
not so ill as you imagine. The room was now crowded with people, whom
the report of the affray had now brought together; among these was a man
who acted as physician, apothecary, and surgeon to the village, and who
now stepped forward to the assistance of Theodore.

Having examined the wound, he declined giving his opinion, but ordered
the patient to be immediately put to bed; to which the officers
objected, alleging that it was their duty to carry him to the regiment.
That cannot be done without great danger to his life, replied the
doctor; and--

Oh; his life, said the sergeant; we have nothing to do with that, we
must do our duty. Adeline, who had hitherto stood in trembling anxiety,
could now no longer be silent. Since the surgeon, said she, has declared
it his opinion that this gentleman cannot be removed in his present
condition without endangering his life, you will remember that if he
dies, yours will probably answer it.

Yes, rejoined the surgeon, who was unwilling to relinquish his patient;
I declare before these witnesses, that he cannot be removed with safety:
you will do well therefore to consider the consequences. He has received
a very dangerous wound, which requires the most careful treatment, and
the event is even then doubtful; but if he travels, a fever may ensue,
and the wound will then be mortal. Theodore heard this sentence with
composure, but Adeline could with difficulty conceal the anguish of her
heart: she roused all her fortitude to suppress the tears that struggled
in her eyes; and though she wished to interest the humanity or to awaken
the fears of the men in behalf of their unfortunate prisoner, she dared
not to trust her voice with utterance.

From this internal struggle she was relieved by the compassion of the
people who filled the room, and becoming clamorous in the cause of
Theodore, declared the officers would be guilty of murder if they
removed him. Why he must die at any rate, said the sergeant, for
quitting his post, and drawing upon me in the execution of the king's
orders. A faint sickness seized the heart of Adeline, and she leaned for
support against Theodore's chair, whose concern for himself was for a
while suspended in his anxiety for her. He supported her with his arm,
and forcing a smile, said in a low voice, which she only could hear.
This is a misrepresentation; I doubt not, when the affair is inquired
into, it will be settled without any serious consequences.

Adeline knew these words were uttered only to console her, and therefore
did not give much credit to them, though Theodore continued to give her
similar assurances of his safety. Meanwhile the mob, whose compassion
for him had been gradually excited by the obduracy of the officer, were
now roused to pity and indignation by the seeming certainty of his
punishment, and the unfeeling manner in which it had been denounced. In
a short time they became so much enraged that, partly from a dread of
further consequences, and partly from the shame which their charges of
cruelty occasioned, the sergeant consented that he should be put to bed,
till his commanding officer might direct what was to be done. Adeline's
joy at this circumstance overcame for a moment the sense of her
misfortunes and of her situation.

She waited in an adjoining room the sentence of the surgeon, who was now
engaged in examining the wound; and though the accident would in any
other circumstances have severely afflicted her, she now lamented it the
more, because she considered herself as the cause of it, and because the
misfortune by illustrating more fully the affection of her lover, drew
him closer to her heart, and seemed therefore to sharpen the poignancy
of her affliction. The dreadful assertion that Theodore, should he
recover, would be punished with death, she scarcely dared to consider,
but endeavoured to believe that it was no more than a cruel exaggeration
of his antagonist.

Upon the whole, Theodore's present danger, together with the attendant
circumstances, awakened all her tenderness, and discovered to her the
true state of her affections. The graceful form, the noble, intelligent,
countenance, and the engaging manners which she had at first admired in
Theodore, became afterwards more interesting by that strength of thought
and elegance of sentiment exhibited in his conversation. His conduct,
since her escape, had excited her warmest gratitude; and the danger
which he had now encountered in her behalf, called forth her tenderness,
and heightened it into love. The veil was removed from her heart, and
she saw for the first time its genuine emotions.

The surgeon at length came out of Theodore's chamber into the room where
Adeline was waiting to speak with him. She inquired concerning the state
of his wound. You are a relation of the gentleman's, I presume, Madam;
his sister, perhaps? The question vexed and embarrassed her, and without
answering it she repeated her inquiry. Perhaps, Madam, you are more
nearly related, pursued the surgeon, seeming also to disregard her
question,--perhaps you are his wife? Adeline blushed, and was about to
reply, but he continued his speech. The interest you take in his welfare
is at least very flattering, and I would almost consent to exchange
conditions with him, were I sure of receiving such tender compassion
from so charming a lady. Saying this, he bowed to the ground. Adeline
assuming a very reserved air, said, Now, Sir, that you have concluded
your compliment, you will perhaps attend to my question; I have inquired
how you have left your patient.

That, Madam, is perhaps a question very difficult to be resolved; and it
is likewise a very disagreeable office to pronounce ill news--I fear he
will die. The surgeon opened his snuff-box and presented it to Adeline.
Die! she exclaimed in a faint voice, die!

Do not be alarmed, Madam, resumed the surgeon, observing her grow pale,
do not be alarmed. It is possible that the wound may not have reached
the----, he stammered, in that case the----, stammering again, is not
affected; and if so, the interior membranes of the brain are not
touched: in this case the wound may perhaps escape inflammation, and the
patient may possibly recover. But if, on the other hand----

I beseech you, Sir, to speak intelligibly, interrupted Adeline, and not
to trifle with my anxiety. Do you really believe him in danger?

In danger, Madam, exclaimed the surgeon, in danger! yes, certainly, in
very great danger. Saying this, he walked away with an air of chagrin
and displeasure. Adeline remained for some moments in the room, in an
excess of sorrow, which she found it impossible to restrain; and then
drying her tears, and endeavouring to compose her countenance, she went
to inquire for the mistress of the inn, to whom she sent a waiter. After
expecting her in vain for some time, she rang the bell, and sent another
message somewhat more pressing. Still the hostess did not appear; and
Adeline at length went herself down stairs, where she found her,
surrounded by a number of people, relating, with a loud voice and
various gesticulations, the particulars of the late accident. Perceiving
Adeline, she called out, Oh! here is Mademoiselle herself; and the eyes
of the assembly were immediately turned upon her. Adeline, whom the
crowd prevented from approaching the hostess, now beckoned her, and was
going to withdraw; but the landlady, eager in the pursuit of her story,
disregarded the signal. In vain did Adeline endeavour to catch her eye;
it glanced every where but upon her, who was unwilling to attract the
further notice of the crowd by calling out.

It is a great pity, to be sure, that he should be shot, said the
landlady, he's such a handsome man; but they say he certainly will if he
recovers. Poor gentleman! he will very likely not suffer though, for the
doctor says he will never go out of this house alive. Adeline now spoke
to a man who stood near, and desiring he would tell the hostess she
wished to speak with her, left the place.

In about ten minutes the landlady appeared. Alas! Mademoiselle, said
she, your brother is in a sad condition; they fear he won't get over.
Adeline inquired whether there was any other medical person in the town
than the surgeon whom she had seen. Lord, Madam, this is a rare healthy
place; we have little need of medicine people here; such an accident
never happened in it before. The doctor has been here ten years, but
there's very bad encouragement for his trade, and I believe he's poor
enough himself. One of the sort's quite enough for us. Adeline
interrupted her to ask some questions concerning Theodore, whom the
hostess had attended to his chamber. She inquired how he had borne the
dressing of the wound, and whether he appeared to be easier after the
operation; questions to which the hostess gave no very satisfactory
answers. She now inquired whether there was any surgeon in the
neighbourhood of the town, and was told there was not.

The distress visible in Adeline's countenance seemed to excite the
compassion of the landlady, who now endeavoured to console her in the
best manner she was able. She advised her to send for her friends, and
offered to procure a messenger. Adeline sighed, and said it was
unnecessary. I don't know, Ma'mselle, what you may think necessary,
continued the hostess; but I know I should think it very hard to die in
a strange place, with no relations near me, and I dare say the poor
gentleman thinks so himself; and besides, who is to pay for his funeral
if he dies? Adeline begged she would be silent; and desiring that every
proper attention might be given, she promised her a reward for her
trouble, and requested pen and ink immediately. Ay, to be sure,
Ma'mselle, that is the proper way; why your friends would never forgive
you if you did not acquaint them; I know it by myself. And as for taking
care of him, he shall have every thing the house affords; and I warrant
there is never a better inn in the province, though the town is none of
the biggest. Adeline was obliged to repeat her request for pen and ink,
before the loquacious hostess would quit the room.

The thought of sending for Theodore's friends had, in the tumult of the
late scenes, never occurred to her, and she was now somewhat consoled by
the prospect of comfort which it opened for him. When the pen and ink
were brought, she wrote the following note to Theodore:--

"In your present condition, you have need of every comfort that can be
procured you; and surely there is no cordial more valuable in illness
than the presence of a friend. Suffer me, therefore, to acquaint your
family with your situation: it will be a satisfaction to me, and, I
doubt not, a consolation to you."

In a short time after she had sent the note, she received a message from
Theodore, entreating most respectfully, but earnestly, to see her for a
few minutes. She immediately went to his chamber, and found her worst
apprehensions confirmed, by the languor expressed in his countenance;
while the shock she received, together with her struggle to disguise her
emotions, almost overcame her. I thank you for this goodness, said he,
extending his hand, which she received, and sitting down by the bed,
burst into a flood of tears. When her agitation had somewhat subsided,
and, removing her handkerchief from her eyes, she again looked on
Theodore, a smile of the tenderest love expressed his sense of the
interest she took in his welfare, and administered a temporary relief to
her heart.

Forgive this weakness, said she; my spirits have of late been so
variously agitated--Theodore interrupted her: These tears are more
flattering to my heart. But for my sake endeavour to support yourself: I
doubt not I shall soon be better; the surgeon--

I do not like him, said Adeline; but tell me how you find yourself? He
assured her that he was now much easier than he had yet been; and
mentioning her kind note, he led to the subject on account of which he
had solicited to see her. My family, said he, reside at a great distance
from hence, and I well know their affection is such, that, were they
informed of my situation, no consideration, however reasonable, could
prevent their coming to my assistance: but before they can arrive, their
presence will probably be unnecessary (Adeline looked earnestly at him.)
I should probably be well, pursued he, smiling, before a letter could
reach them; it would, therefore, occasion them unnecessary pain, and
moreover a fruitless journey. For your sake, Adeline, I could wish they
were here; but a few days will more fully show the consequences of my
wound: let us wait at least till then, and be directed by circumstances.

Adeline forbore to press the subject further, and turned to one more
immediately interesting. I much wish, said she, that you had a more able
surgeon; you know the geography of the province better than I do; are we
in the neighbourhood of any town likely to afford you other advice?

I believe not, said he; and this is an affair of little consequence, for
my wound is so inconsiderable that a very moderate share of skill may
suffice to cure it. But why, my beloved Adeline, do you give way to this
anxiety? why suffer yourself to be disturbed by this tendency to
forebode the worst? I am willing, perhaps presumptuously so, to
attribute it to your kindness; and suffer me to assure you, that while
it excites my gratitude, it increases my tenderest esteem. O Adeline!
since you wish my speedy recovery, let me see you composed: while I
believe you to be unhappy I cannot be well.--She assured him she would
endeavour to be at least tranquil; and fearing the conversation, if
prolonged, would be prejudicial to him, she left him to repose.

As she turned out of the gallery she met the hostess, upon whom certain
words of Adeline had operated as a talisman, transforming neglect and
impertinence into officious civility. She came to inquire whether the
gentleman above stairs had every thing that he liked, for she was sure
it was her endeavour that he should. I have got him a nurse, Ma'mselle,
to attend him, and I dare say she will do very well; but I will look to
that, for I shall not mind helping him myself sometimes. Poor gentleman!
how patiently he bears it! One would not think now that he believes he
is going to die; yet the doctor told him so himself, or at least as
good. Adeline was extremely shocked at this imprudent conduct of the
surgeon, and dismissed the landlady, after ordering a slight dinner.

Towards evening the surgeon again made his appearance; and having passed
some time with his patient, returned to the parlour, according to the
desire of Adeline, to inform her of his condition. He answered Adeline's
inquiries with great solemnity. It is impossible to determine positively
at present. Madam, but I have reason to adhere to the opinion I gave you
this morning. I am not apt indeed, to form opinions upon uncertain
grounds--I will give you a singular instance of this:

It is not above a fortnight since I was sent for to a patient at some
leagues distance: I was from home when the messenger arrived, and the
case being urgent, before I could reach the patient another physician
was consulted, who had ordered such medicines as he thought proper, and
the patient had been apparently relieved by them. His friends were
congratulating themselves upon his improvement when I arrived, and had
agreed in opinion with the physician that there was no danger in his
case. Depend upon it, said I, you are mistaken; these medicines cannot
have relieved him; the patient is in the utmost danger. The patient
groaned; but my brother physician persisted in affirming that the
remedies he had prescribed would not only be certain, but speedy, some
good effect having been already produced by them. Upon this I lost all
patience; and adhering to my opinion, that these effects were fallacious
and the case desperate, I assured the patient himself that his life was
in the utmost danger. I am not one of those, Madam, who deceive their
patients to the last moment;--but you shall hear the conclusion.

My brother physician was, I suppose, enraged by the firmness of my
opposition, for he assumed a most angry look, which did not in the least
affect me, and turning to the patient, desired he would decide upon
which of our opinions to rely, for he must decline acting with me. The
patient did me the honour, pursued the surgeon with a smile of
complacency and smoothing his ruffles, to think more highly of me than,
perhaps, I deserved, for he immediately dismissed my opponent. I could
not have believed, said he, as the physician left the room--I could not
have believed that a man who has been so many years in the profession
could be so wholly ignorant of it.

I could not have believed it either, said I.--I am astonished that he
was not aware of my danger, resumed the patient. I am astonished
likewise, replied I. I was resolved to do what I could for the patient,
for he was a man of understanding, as you perceive, and I had a regard
for him. I therefore altered the prescriptions, and myself administered
the medicines; but all would not do,--my opinion was verified, and he
died even before the next morning.--Adeline, who had been compelled to
listen to this long story, sighed at the conclusion of it. I don't
wonder that you are affected, Madam, said the surgeon; the instance I
have related is certainly a very affecting one. It distressed me so
much, that it was some time before I could think or even speak
concerning it. But you must allow, Madam, continued he, lowering his
voice and bowing with a look of self-congratulation, that this was a
striking instance of the infallibility of my judgment.

Adeline shuddered at the infallibility of his judgment, and made no
reply. It was a shocking thing for the poor man, resumed the
surgeon.--It was indeed, very shocking, said Adeline.--It affected me a
good deal when it happened, continued he.--Undoubtedly, Sir, said
Adeline.

But time wears away the most painful impressions.

I think you mention it was about a fortnight since this happened?

Somewhere thereabouts, replied the surgeon without seeming to understand
the observation.--And will you permit me, Sir, to ask the name of the
physician who so ignorantly opposed you?

Certainly, Madame; it is Lafance.

He lives in the obscurity he deserves, no doubt, said Adeline.

Why no, Madam, he lives in a town of some note, at about the distance of
four leagues from hence; and affords one instance, among many others,
that the public opinion, is generally erroneous. You will hardly believe
it, but I assure you it is a fact, that this man comes into a great deal
of practice, while I am suffered to remain here neglected, and, indeed
very little known.

During his narrative Adeline had been considering by what means she
could discover the name of the physician; for the instance that had been
produced to prove his _ignorance_, and the _infallibility_ of his
opponent, had completely settled her opinion concerning them both. She
now more than ever wished to deliver Theodore from the hands of the
surgeon, and was musing on the possibility, when he with so much
self-security, developed the means.

She asked him a few more questions concerning the state of Theodore's
wound; and was told it was much as it had been, but that some degree of
fever had come on. But I have ordered a fire to be made in the room,
continued the surgeon, and some additional blankets to be laid on the
bed; these, I doubt not, will have a proper effect. In the mean time
they must be careful to keep from him every kind of liquid, except some
cordial draughts which I shall send. He will naturally ask for drink,
but it must on no account be given to him.

You do not approve then of the method which I have somewhere heard of,
said Adeline, of attending to nature in these cases?

Nature, Madam! pursued he, nature is the most improper guide in the
world: I always adopt a method directly contrary to what she would
suggest; for what can be the use of art, if she is only to follow
nature? This was my first opinion on setting out in life, and I have
ever since strictly adhered to it. From what I have said, indeed, Madam,
you may perhaps perceive that my opinions may be depended on; what they
once are they always are, for my mind is not of that frivolous kind to
be affected by circumstances.

Adeline was fatigued by this discourse, and impatient to impart to
Theodore her discovery of a physician: but the surgeon seemed by no
means disposed to leave her, and was expatiating upon various topics,
with new instances of his surprising sagacity, when the waiter brought a
message that some person desired to see him. He was, however, engaged
upon too agreeable a topic to be easily prevailed upon to quit it, and
it was not till after a second message was brought that he made his bow
to Adeline and left the room. The moment he was gone she sent a note to
Theodore, entreating his permission to call in the assistance of the
physician.

The conceited manners of the surgeon had by this time given Theodore a
very unfavourable opinion of his talents, and the last prescription had
so fully confirmed it, that he now readily consented to have other
advice. Adeline immediately inquired for a messenger; but recollecting
that the residence of the physician was still a secret, she applied to
the hostess, who being really ignorant of it, or pretending to be so,
gave her no information. What further inquiries she made were equally
ineffectual, and she passed some hours in extreme distress, while the
disorder of Theodore rather increased than abated.

When supper appeared, she asked the boy who waited if he knew a
physician of the name of Lafance in the neighbourhood. Not in the
neighbourhood, Madame; but I know doctor Lafance of Chancy, for I come
from the town.--Adeline inquired further, and received very satisfactory
answers. But the town was at some leagues distance, and the delay this
circumstance must occasion again alarmed her; she, however, ordered a
messenger to be immediately dispatched, and having sent again to inquire
concerning Theodore, retired to her chamber for the night.

The continued fatigue she had suffered for the last fourteen hours
overcame anxiety, and her harassed spirits sunk to repose. She slept
till late in the morning, and was then awakened by the landlady, who
came to inform her that Theodore was much worse, and to inquire what
should be done. Adeline, finding that the physician was not arrived,
immediately arose, and hastened to inquire further concerning Theodore.
The hostess informed her that he had passed a very disturbed night; that
he had complained of being very hot, and desired that the fire in his
room might be extinguished; but that the nurse knew her duty too well to
obey him, and had strictly followed the doctor's orders.

She added, that he had taken the cordial draughts regularly, but had,
notwithstanding, continued to grow worse, and at last became
light-headed. In the mean time the boy who had been sent for the
physician was still absent:--And no wonder, continued the hostess; why,
only consider, it's eight leagues off, and the lad had to find the road,
bad as it is, in the dark. But indeed, Ma'mselle, you might as well have
trusted our doctor, for we never want any body else, not we, in the town
here; and if I might speak my mind, Jaques had better have been sent off
for the young gentleman's friends than for this strange doctor that
nobody knows.

After asking some further questions concerning Theodore, the answers to
which rather increased than diminished her alarm, Adeline endeavoured to
compose her spirits, and await in patience the arrival of the physician.
She was now more sensible than ever of the forlornness of her own
condition, and of the danger of Theodore's, and earnestly wished that
his friends could be informed of his situation; a wish which could not
be gratified, for Theodore, who alone could acquaint her with their
place of residence, was deprived of recollection.

When the surgeon arrived and perceived the situation of his patient, he
expressed no surprise; but having asked some questions and given a few
general directions, he went down to Adeline. After paying her his usual
compliments, he suddenly assumed an air of importance,--I am sorry
Madam, said he, that it is my office to communicate disagreeable
intelligence, but I wish you to be prepared for the event, which I fear,
is approaching. Adeline comprehended his meaning; and though she had
hitherto given little faith to his judgment, she could not hear him hint
at the immediate danger of Theodore without yielding to the influence of
fear.

She entreated him to acquaint her with all he apprehended: and he then
proceeded to say that Theodore was, as he had foreseen, much worse this
morning than he had been the preceding night; and the disorder having
now affected his head, there was every reason to fear it would prove
fatal in a few hours. The worst consequences may ensue, continued he; if
the wound becomes inflamed, there will be very little chance of his
recovery.

Adeline listened to this sentence with a dreadful calmness, and gave no
utterance to grief, either by words or tears. The gentleman, I suppose,
Madam, has friends, and the sooner you inform them of his condition the
better. If they reside at any distance, it is indeed too late; but there
are other necessary--You are ill, Madam!

Adeline made an effort to speak, but in vain, and the surgeon now called
loudly for a glass of water; she drank it, and a deep sigh that she
uttered, seemed somewhat to relieve her oppressed heart: tears
succeeded. In the mean time the surgeon perceiving she was better,
though not well enough to listen to his conversation, took leave, and
promised to return in an hour. The physician was not yet arrived, and
Adeline awaited his appearance with a mixture of fear and anxious hope.

About noon he came; and having been informed of the accident by which
the fever was produced, and of the treatment which the surgeon had given
it, he ascended to Theodore's chamber. In a quarter of an hour he
returned to the room where Adeline expected him: The gentleman is still
delirious, said he, but I have ordered him a composing draught.----Is
there any hope, Sir? inquired Adeline. Yes, Madam, certainly there is
hope; the case at present is somewhat doubtful, but a few hours may
enable me to judge with more certainty: in the mean time, I have
directed that he shall be kept quiet, and be allowed to drink freely of
some diluting liquids.

He had scarcely, at Adeline's request, recommended a surgeon, instead of
the one at present employed, when the latter gentleman entered the room,
and perceiving the physician, threw a glance of mingled surprise and
anger at Adeline, who retired with him to another apartment, where she
dismissed him with a politeness which he did not deign to return, and
which he certainly did not deserve.

Early the following morning the surgeon arrived; but either the
medicines or the crisis of the disorder had thrown Theodore into a deep
sleep, in which he remained for several hours. The physician now gave
Adeline reason to hope for a favourable issue, and every precaution was
taken to prevent his being disturbed. He awoke perfectly sensible and
free from fever; and his first words inquired for Adeline, who soon
learned that he was out of danger.

In a few days he was sufficiently recovered to be removed from his
chamber to a room adjoining, where Adeline met him with a joy which she
found it impossible to repress; and the observance of this lighted up
his countenance with pleasure: indeed Adeline, sensible to the
attachment he had so nobly testified, and softened by the danger he had
encountered, no longer attempted to disguise the tenderness of her
esteem, and was at length brought to confess the interest his first
appearance had impressed upon her heart.

After an hour of affecting conversation, in which the happiness of a
young and mutual attachment totally occupied their minds, and excluded
every idea not in unison with delight, they returned to a sense of their
present embarrassments. Adeline recollected that Theodore was arrested
for disobedience of orders, and deserting his post; and Theodore, that
he must shortly be torn away from Adeline, who would be left exposed to
all the evils from which he had so lately rescued her. This thought
overwhelmed his heart with anguish; and after a long pause he ventured
to propose what his wishes had often suggested--a marriage with Adeline
before he departed from the village: this was the only means of
preventing, perhaps, an eternal separation; and though he saw the many
dangerous inconveniences to which she would be exposed by a marriage
with a man circumstanced like himself, yet these appeared so unequal to
those she would otherwise be left to encounter alone, that his reason
could no longer scruple to adopt what his affection had suggested.

Adeline was for some time too much agitated to reply: and though she had
little to oppose to the arguments and pleadings of Theodore; though she
had no friends to control, and no contrariety of interests to perplex
her, she could not bring herself to consent thus hastily to a marriage
with a man of whom she had little knowledge, and to whose family and
connexions she had no sort of introduction. At length she entreated he
would drop the subject; and the conversation for the remainder of the
day was more general, yet still interesting.

That similarity of taste and opinion which had at first attracted them,
every moment now more fully disclosed. Their discourse was enriched by
elegant literature, and endeared by mutual regard. Adeline had enjoyed
few opportunities of reading; but the books to which she had access,
operating upon a mind eager for knowledge, and upon a taste peculiarly
sensible of the beautiful and the elegant, had impressed all their
excellences upon her understanding. Theodore had received from nature
many of the qualities of genius, and from education, all that it could
bestow; to these were added a noble independency of spirit, a feeling
heart, and manners which partook of a happy mixture of dignity and
sweetness.

In the evening, one of the officers who, upon the representation of the
sergeant, was sent by the person employed to prosecute military
criminals, arrived at the village; and entering the apartment of
Theodore, from which Adeline immediately withdrew, informed him with an
air of infinite importance that he should set out on the following day
for head-quarters. Theodore answered that he was not able to bear the
journey, and referred him to his physician: but the officer replied that
he should take no such trouble, it being certain that the physician
might be instructed what to say, and that he should begin his journey on
the morrow. Here has been delay enough, said he, already; and you will
have sufficient business on your hands when you reach head-quarters; for
the sergeant whom you have severely wounded intends to appear against
you; and this, with the offence you have committed by deserting your
post----

Theodore's eyes flashed fire: Deserting! said he, rising from his seat
and darting a look of menace at his accuser--who dares to brand me with
the name of deserter? But instantly recollecting how much his conduct
had appeared to justify the accusation, he endeavoured to stifle his
emotions; and with a firm voice and composed manner said, that when he
reached head-quarters he should be ready to answer whatever might be
brought against him, but that till then he should be silent. The
boldness of the officer was repressed by the spirit and dignity with
which Theodore spoke these words, and muttering a reply that was
scarcely audible, he left the room.

Theodore sat musing on the danger of his situation: he knew that he had
much to apprehend from the peculiar circumstances attending his abrupt
departure from his regiment, it having been stationed in a garrison town
upon the Spanish frontiers, where the discipline was very severe, and
from the power of his colonel, the Marquis de Montalt, whom pride and
disappointment would now rouse to vengeance, and probably render
indefatigable in the accomplishment of his destruction. But his thoughts
soon fled from his own danger to that of Adeline; and in the
consideration of this, all his fortitude forsook him: he could not
support the idea of leaving her exposed to the evils he foreboded, nor,
indeed, of a separation so sudden as that which now threatened him: and
when she again entered the room, he renewed his solicitations for a
speedy marriage, with all the arguments that tenderness and ingenuity
could suggest.

Adeline, when she learned that he was to depart on the morrow, felt as
if bereaved of her last comfort: all the horrors of his situation arose
to her mind, and she turned from him in unutterable anguish. Considering
her silence as a favourable presage, he repeated his entreaties that she
would consent to be his, and thus give him a surety that their
separation should not be eternal. Adeline sighed deeply to these words:
And who can know that our separation will not be eternal, said she, even
if I could consent to the marriage you propose? But while you hear my
determination, forbear to accuse me of indifference; for indifference
towards you would indeed be a crime, after the services you have
rendered me.

And is a cold sentiment of gratitude all that I must expect from you?
said Theodore. I know that you are going to distress me with a proof of
your indifference, which you mistake for the suggestions of prudence;
and that I shall be compelled to look without reluctance upon the evils
that may shortly await me. Ah, Adeline! if you mean to reject this,
perhaps the last proposal which I can ever make to you, cease at least
to deceive yourself with an idea that you love me--that delirium is
fading even from my mind.

Can you then so soon forget our conversation of this morning? replied
Adeline; and can you think so lightly of me as to believe I would
profess a regard which I do not feel? If indeed you can believe this, I
shall do well to forget that I ever made such an acknowledgement, and
you that you heard it.

Forgive me, Adeline, forgive the doubts and inconsistencies I have
betrayed: let the anxieties of love, and the emergency of my
circumstances, plead for me. Adeline; smiling faintly through her tears,
held out her hand, which he seized and pressed to his lips. Yet do not
drive me to despair by a rejection of my suit, continued Theodore; think
what I must suffer to leave you here destitute of friends and
protection.

I am thinking how I may avoid a situation so deplorable, said Adeline.
They say there is a convent which receives boarders, within a few miles,
and thither I wish to go.

A convent! rejoined Theodore; would you go to a convent? Do you know the
persecutions you would be liable to; and that if the Marquis should
discover you, there is little probability the superior would resist his
authority, or at least his bribes?

All this I have considered, said Adeline, and am prepared to encounter
it, rather than enter into an engagement which at this time can be
productive only of misery to us both.

Ah, Adeline! could you think thus, if you truly loved? I see myself
about to be separated, and that perhaps for ever, from the object of my
tenderest affections; and I cannot but express all the anguish I feel--I
cannot forbear to repeat every argument that may afford even the
slightest possibility of altering your determination. But _you_,
Adeline, you look with complacency upon a circumstance which tortures
_me_ with despair.

Adeline, who had long strove to support her spirits in his presence,
while she adhered to a resolution which reason suggested, but which the
pleadings of her heart powerfully opposed, was unable longer to command
her distress, and burst into tears. Theodore was in the same moment
convinced of his error, and shocked at the grief he had occasioned. He
drew his chair towards her, and taking her hand, again entreated her
pardon, and endeavoured in the tenderest accents to soothe and comfort
her.--What a wretch was I to cause you this distress, by questioning
that regard with which I can no longer doubt you honour me! Forgive me,
Adeline; say but you forgive me, and whatever may be the pain of this
separation, I will no longer oppose it.

You have given me some pain, said Adeline, but you have not offended
me.--She then mentioned some further particulars concerning the convent.
Theodore endeavoured to conceal the distress which the approaching
separation occasioned him, and to consult with her on these plans with
composure. His judgment by degrees prevailed over his passions, and he
now perceived that the plan she suggested, would afford her best chance
of security. He considered, what in the first agitation of his mind had
escaped him, that he might be condemned upon the charges brought against
him, and that his death, should they have been married, would not only
deprive her of her protector, but leave her more immediately exposed to
the designs of the Marquis, who would doubtless attend his trial.
Astonished that he had not noticed this before, and shocked at the
unwariness by which he might have betrayed her into so dangerous a
situation, he became at once reconciled to the idea of leaving her in a
convent. He could have wished to place her in the asylum of his own
family: but the circumstances under which she must be introduced were so
awkward and painful, and above all, the distance at which they resided
would render a journey so highly dangerous for her, that he forbore to
propose it. He entreated only that she would allow him to write to her;
but recollecting that his letters might be a means of betraying the
place of her residence to the Marquis, he checked himself: I must deny
myself even this melancholy pleasure, said he, lest my letters should
discover your abode; yet hew shall I be able to endure the impatience
and uncertainty to which prudence condemns me! If you are in danger, I
shall be ignorant of it; though, indeed, did I know it, said he with a
look of despair, I could not fly to save you. O exquisite misery! 'tis
now only I perceive all the horrors of confinement--'tis now only that I
understand all the value of liberty.

His utterance was interrupted by the violent agitation of his mind; he
arose from his chair, and walked with quick paces about the room.
Adeline sat, overcome by the description which Theodore had given of his
approaching situation, and by the consideration that she might remain in
the most terrible suspense concerning his fate. She saw him in a
prison--pale--emaciated, and in chains:--she saw all the vengeance of
the Marquis descending upon him; and this for his noble exertions in her
cause. Theodore, alarmed by the placid despair expressed in her
countenance, threw himself into a chair by hers, and taking her hand,
attempted to speak comfort to her; but the words faltered on his lips,
and he could only bathe her hand with tears.

This mournful silence was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage at
the inn, and Theodore, arising, went to the window that opened into the
yard. The darkness of the night prevented his distinguishing the objects
without, but a light now brought from the house showed him a carriage
and four, attended by several servants. Presently he saw a gentleman,
wrapped up in a roquelaure, alight and enter the inn, and in the next
moment he heard the voice of the Marquis.

He had flown to support Adeline, who was sinking with terror, when the
door opened, and the Marquis followed by the officers and several
servants entered. Fury flashed from his eyes as they glanced upon
Theodore, who hung over Adeline with a look of fearful solicitude--Seize
that traitor, said he, turning to the officers; why have you suffered
him to remain here so long?

I am no traitor, said Theodore with a firm voice and the dignity of
conscious worth, but a defender of innocence, of one whom the
treacherous Marquis de Montalt would destroy.

Obey your orders, said the Marquis to the officers. Adeline shrieked,
held faster by Theodore's arm, and entreated the men not to part them.
Force only can effect it, said Theodore, as he looked round for some
instrument of defence; but he could see none, and in the same moment
they surrounded and seized him. Dread every thing from my vengeance,
said the Marquis to Theodore, as he caught the hand of Adeline, who had
lost all power of resistance and was scarcely sensible of what passed;
dread every thing from my vengeance; you know you have deserved it.

I defy your vengeance, cried Theodore, and dread only the pangs of
conscience, which your power cannot inflict upon me, though your vices
condemn you to its tortures.

Take him instantly from the room, and see that he is strongly fettered,
said the Marquis; he shall soon know what a criminal who adds insolence
to guilt may suffer.--Theodore exclaiming, Oh, Adeline! farewell! was
now forced out of the room; while Adeline, whose torpid senses were
roused by his voice and his last looks, fell at the feet of the Marquis,
and with tears of agony implored compassion for Theodore: but her
pleadings for his rival served only to irritate the pride and exasperate
the hatred of the Marquis. He denounced vengeance on his head, and
imprecations too dreadful for the spirits of Adeline, whom he compelled
to rise; and then endeavouring to stifle the emotions of rage, which the
presence of Theodore had excited, he began to address her with his usual
expressions of admiration.

The wretched Adeline, who, regardless of what he said, still endeavoured
to plead for her unhappy lover, was at length alarmed by the returning
rage which the countenance of the Marquis expressed; and exerting all
her remaining strength, she sprung from his grasp towards the door of
the room: but he seized her hand before she could reach it, and
regardless of her shrieks, bringing her back to her chair, was going to
speak, when voices were heard in the passage, and immediately the
landlord and his wife, whom Adeline's cries had alarmed, entered the
apartment. The Marquis, turning furiously at them, demanded what they
wanted; but not waiting for an answer, he bade them attend him, and
quitting the room, she heard the door locked upon her.

[Illustration 06]

Adeline now ran to the windows, which were unfastened and opened into
the inn-yard. All was dark and silent. She called aloud for help, but no
person appeared; and the windows were so high that it was impossible to
escape unassisted. She walked about the room in an agony of terror and
distress, now stooping to listen, and fancying she heard voices
disputing below and now quickening her steps, as suspense increased the
agitation of her mind.

She had continued in this state for near half an hour, when she suddenly
heard a violent noise in the lower part of the house, which increased
till all was uproar and confusion. People passed quickly through the
passages, and doors were frequently opened and shut. She called, but
received no answer. It immediately occurred to her that Theodore, having
heard her screams, had attempted to come to her assistance, and that the
bustle had been occasioned by the opposition of the officers. Knowing
their fierceness and cruelty, she was seized with dreadful apprehensions
for the life of Theodore.

A confused uproar of voices now sounded from below, and the screams of
women convinced her there was fighting; she even thought she heard the
clashing of swords: the image of Theodore dying by the hands of the
Marquis now rose to her imagination, and the terrors of suspense became
almost insupportable. She made a desperate effort to force the door, and
again called for help; but her trembling hands were powerless, and every
person in the house seemed to be too much engaged even to hear her. A
loud shriek now pierced her ears, and amidst the tumult that followed
she clearly distinguished deep groans. This confirmation of her fears
deprived her of all her remaining spirits, and growing faint, she sunk
almost lifeless into a chair near the door. The uproar gradually
subsided till all was still, but nobody returned to her. Soon after she
heard voices in the yard, but she had no power to walk across the room,
even to ask the questions she wished, yet feared, to have answered.

About a quarter of an hour elapsed, when the door was unlocked, and the
hostess appeared with a countenance as pale as death. For God's sake,
said Adeline, tell me what has happened? Is he wounded? Is he killed?

He is not dead, Ma'mselle, but--

He is dying then?--tell me where he is--let me go.

Stop, Ma'mselle, cried the hostess, you are to stay here, I only want
the hartshorn out of that cupboard there. Adeline tried to escape by the
door; but the hostess, pushing her aside, locked it, and went down
stairs.

Adeline's distress now entirely overcame her, and she sat motionless and
scarcely conscious that she existed, till roused by a sound of footsteps
near the door, which was again opened, and three men, whom she knew to
be the Marquis's servants entered. She had sufficient recollection to
repeat the questions she had asked the landlady; but they answered only
that she must come with them, and that a chaise was waiting for her at
the door. Still she urged her questions. Tell me if he lives, cried
she.--Yes, Ma'mselle, he is alive, but he is terribly wounded, and the
surgeon is just come to him. As they spoke they hurried her along the
passage: and without noticing her entreaties and supplications to know
whither she was going, they had reached the foot of the stairs, when her
cries brought several people to the door. To these the hostess related
that the lady was the wife of a gentleman just arrived, who had
overtaken her in her flight with a gallant; an account which the
Marquis's servants corroborated. 'Tis the gentleman who has just fought
the duel, added the hostess, and it was on her account.

Adeline, partly disdaining to take any notice of this artful story, and
partly from her desire to know the particulars of what had happened,
contented herself with repeating her inquiries; to which one of the
spectators at last replied, that the gentleman was desperately wounded.
The Marquis's people would now have hurried her into the chaise, but she
sunk lifeless in their arms; and her condition so interested the
humanity of the spectators, that, notwithstanding their belief of what
had been said, they opposed the effort made to carry her, senseless as
she was, into the carriage.

She was at length taken into a room, and by proper applications restored
to her senses. There she so earnestly besought an explanation of what
had happened, that the hostess acquainted her with some particulars of
the late rencounter. When the gentleman that was ill heard your screams,
Madam, said she, he became quite outrageous, as they tell me, and
nothing could pacify him. The Marquis, for they say he is a Marquis, but
you know best, was then in the room with my husband and I, and when he
heard the uproar, he went down to see what was the matter; and when he
came into the room where the Captain was, he found him struggling with
the sergeant. Then the Captain was more outrageous than ever; and
notwithstanding he had one leg chained, and no sword, he contrived to
get the sergeant's cutlass out of the scabbard, and immediately flew at
the Marquis, and wounded him desperately; upon which he was secured.--It
is the Marquis then who is wounded, said Adeline; the other gentleman is
not hurt?

No, not he, replied the hostess; but he will smart for it by and by, for
the Marquis swears he will do for him. Adeline for a moment forgot all
her misfortunes and all her danger in thankfulness for the immediate
escape of Theodore; and she was proceeding to make some further
inquiries concerning him, when the Marquis's servants entered the room,
and declared they could wait no longer. Adeline, now awakened to a sense
of the evils with which she was threatened, endeavoured to win the pity
of the hostess, who however was, or affected to be, convinced of the
truth of the Marquis's story, and therefore insensible to all she could
urge. Again she addressed his servants, but in vain; they would neither
suffer her to remain longer at the inn, nor inform her whither she was
going; but in the presence of several persons, already prejudiced by the
injurious assertions of the hostess, Adeline was hurried into the
chaise, and her conductors mounting their horses, the whole party was
very soon beyond the village.

Thus ended Adeline's share of an adventure, begun with a prospect not
only of security, but of happiness--an adventure which had attached her
more closely to Theodore, and shown him to be more worthy of her love;
but which, at the same time, had distressed her by new disappointment,
produced the imprisonment of her generous and now adored lover, and
delivered both himself and her into the power of a rival irritated by
delay, contempt, and opposition.




CHAPTER XIII


Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
Where flame-eyed fury means to frown--can save.


The surgeon of the place, having examined the Marquis's wound, gave him
an immediate opinion upon it, and ordered that he should be put to bed:
but the Marquis, ill as he was, had scarcely any other apprehension than
that of losing Adeline, and declared he should be able to begin his
journey in a few hours. With this intention he had begun to give orders
for keeping horses in readiness, when the surgeon persisting most
seriously, and even passionately to exclaim that his life would be the
sacrifice of his rashness, he was carried to a bedchamber, where his
valet alone was permitted to attend him.

This man, the convenient confident of all his intrigues, had been the
chief instrument in assisting his designs concerning Adeline, and was
indeed the very person who had brought her to the Marquis's villa on the
borders of the forest. To him the Marquis gave his further directions
concerning her: and, foreseeing the inconvenience as well as the danger
of detaining her at the inn, he had ordered him, with several other
servants, to carry her away immediately in a hired carriage. The valet
having gone to execute his orders, the Marquis was left to his own
reflections, and to the violence of contending passions.

The reproaches and continued opposition of Theodore, the favoured lover
of Adeline, exasperated his pride and roused all his malice. He could
not for a moment consider this opposition, which was in some respects
successful, without feeling an excess of indignation and inveteracy,
such as the prospect of a speedy revenge could alone enable him to
support.

When he had discovered Adeline's escape from the villa, his surprise at
first equalled his disappointment; and, after exhausting the paroxysms
of his rage upon his domestics, he dispatched them all different ways in
pursuit of her, going himself to the abbey, in the faint hope that,
destitute as she was of other succour, she might have fled thither. La
Motte, however, being as much surprised as himself, and as ignorant of
the route which Adeline had taken, he returned to the villa impatient of
intelligence, and found some of his servants arrived, without any news
of Adeline, and those who came afterwards were as successless as the
first.

A few days after, a letter from the lieutenant-colonel of the regiment
informed him, that Theodore had quitted his company, and had been for
some time absent, nobody knew where. This information, confirming a
suspicion which had frequently occurred to him, that Theodore had been
by some means or other instrumental in the escape of Adeline, all his
other passions became for a time subservient to his revenge, and he gave
orders for the immediate pursuit and apprehension of Theodore: but
Theodore, in the mean time, had been overtaken and secured.

It was in consequence of having formerly observed the growing partiality
between him and Adeline, and of intelligence received from La Motte, who
had noticed their interview in the forest, that the Marquis had resolved
to remove a rival so dangerous to his love, and so likely to be informed
of his designs. He had therefore told Theodore, in a manner as plausible
as he could, that it would be necessary for him to join the regiment; a
notice which affected him only as it related to Adeline, and which
seemed the less extraordinary, as he had already been at the villa a
much longer time than was usual with the officers invited by the
Marquis. Theodore, indeed, very well knew the character of the Marquis,
and had accepted his invitation rather from an unwillingness to show any
disrespect to his colonel by a refusal, than from a sanguine expectation
of pleasure.

From the men who had apprehended Theodore, the Marquis received the
information, which had enabled him to pursue and recover Adeline; but
though he had now effected this, he was internally a prey to the
corrosive effects of disappointed passion and exasperated pride. The
anguish of his wound was almost forgotten in that of his mind, and every
pang he felt seemed to increase his thirst of revenge, and to recoil
with new torture upon his heart. While he was in this state, he heard
the voice of the innocent Adeline imploring protection; but her cries
excited in him neither pity nor remorse: and when, soon after, the
carriage drove away, and he was certain both that she was secured and
Theodore was wretched, he seemed to feel some cessation of mental pain.

Theodore, indeed, did suffer all that a virtuous mind, labouring under
oppression so severe, could feel; but he was at least free from those
inveterate and malignant passions which tore the bosom of the Marquis,
and which inflict upon the professor a punishment more severe than any
they can prompt him to imagine for another. What indignation he might
feel towards the Marquis, was at this time secondary to his anxiety for
Adeline. His captivity was painful, as it prevented his seeking a just
and honourable revenge; but it was dreadful, as it withheld him from
attempting the rescue of her whom he loved more than life.

When he heard the wheels of the carriage that contained her drive off,
he felt an agony of despair which almost overcame his reason. Even the
stern hearts of the soldiers who attended him were not wholly insensible
to his wretchedness, and by venturing to blame the conduct of the
Marquis they endeavoured to console their prisoner. The physician, who
was just arrived, entered the room during this paroxysm of his distress,
and both feeling and expressing much concern at his condition, inquired
with strong surprise why he had been thus precipitately removed to a
room so very unfit for his reception?

Theodore explained to him the reason of this, of the distress he
suffered, and of the chains by which he was disgraced; and perceiving
the physician listened to him with attention and compassion, he became
desirous of acquainting him with some further particulars, for which
purpose he desired the soldiers to leave the room. The men, complying
with his request, stationed themselves on the outside of the door.

He then related all the particulars of the late transaction, and of his
connection with the Marquis. The physician attended to his narrative
with deep concern, and his countenance frequently expressed strong
agitation. When Theodore concluded, he remained for some time silent and
lost in thought; at length, awaking from his reverie, he said, I fear
your situation is desperate: the character of the Marquis is too well
known to suffer him either to be loved or respected; from such a man you
have nothing to hope, for he has scarcely any thing to fear: I wish it
was in my power to serve you, but I see no possibility of it.

Alas! said Theodore, my situation is indeed desperate, and--for that
suffering angel--deep sobs interrupted his voice, and the violence of
his agitation would not allow him to proceed. The physician could only
express the sympathy he felt for his distress, and entreat him to be
more calm, when a servant entered the room from the Marquis, who desired
to see the physician immediately. After some time, he said he would
attend the Marquis; and having endeavoured to attain a degree of
composure which he found it difficult to assume, he wrung the hand of
Theodore and quitted the room, promising to return before he left the
house.

He found the Marquis much agitated both in body and mind, and rather
more apprehensive for the consequences of the wound than he had
expected. His anxiety for Theodore now suggested a plan, by the
execution of which he hoped he might be able to serve him. Having felt
his patient's pulse, and asked some questions, he assumed a very serious
look; when the Marquis, who watched every turn of his countenance,
desired he would, without hesitation, speak his opinion.

I am sorry to alarm you, my Lord, but here is some reason for
apprehension: how long is it since you received the wound.

Good God! there is danger then! cried the Marquis, adding some bitter
execrations against Theodore.--There certainly _is_ danger, replied the
physician; a few hours may enable me to determine its degree.

A few hours, Sir! interrupted the Marquis; a few hours! The physician
entreated him to be more calm. Confusion! cried the Marquis: a man in
health may, with great composure, entreat a dying man to be calm.
Theodore will be broke upon the wheel for it, however.

You mistake me, Sir, said the physician; if I believed you a dying man,
or, indeed, _very_ near death, I should not have spoken as I did. But it
is of consequence I should know how long the wound has been
inflicted.--The Marquis's terror now began to subside, and he gave a
circumstantial account of the affray with Theodore, representing that he
had been basely used in an affair where his own conduct had been
perfectly just and humane. The physician heard this relation with great
coolness, and when it concluded without making any comment upon it, told
the Marquis he would prescribe a medicine which he wished him to take
immediately.

The Marquis again alarmed by the gravity of his manner, entreated he
would declare most seriously, whether he thought him in immediate
danger. The physician hesitated, and the anxiety of the Marquis
increased: It is of consequence, said he, that I should know my exact
situation. The physician then said, that if he had any worldly affairs
to settle, it would be as well to attend to them, for that it was
impossible to say what might be the event.

He then turned the discourse, and said he had just been with the young
officer under arrest, who, he hoped, would not be removed at present, as
such a procedure must endanger his life. The Marquis uttered a dreadful
oath, and, cursing Theodore for having brought him to his present
condition, said he should depart with the guard that very night. Against
the cruelty of this sentence the physician ventured to expostulate; and
endeavouring to awaken the Marquis to a sense of humanity, pleaded
earnestly for Theodore. But these entreaties and arguments seemed, by
displaying to the Marquis a part of his own character, to rouse his
resentment and rekindle all the violence of his passions.

The physician at length withdrew in despondency, after promising, at the
Marquis's request, not to leave the inn. He had hoped, by aggravating
his danger, to obtain some advantages both for Adeline and Theodore; but
the plan had quite a contrary effect: for the apprehension of death, so
dreadful to the guilty mind of the Marquis, instead of awakening
penitence, increased his desire of vengeance against the man who had
brought him to such a situation. He determined to have Adeline conveyed
where Theodore, should he by any accident escape, could never obtain
her; and thus to secure to himself at least some means of revenge. He
knew, however, that when Theodore was once safely conveyed to his
regiment, his destruction was certain; for should he even be acquitted
of the intention of deserting, he would be condemned for having
assaulted his superior officer.

The physician returned to the room where Theodore was confined. The
violence of his distress was now subsided into a stern despair more
dreadful than the vehemence which had lately possessed him. The guard,
in compliance with his request, having left the room, the physician
repeated to him some part of his conversation with the Marquis.
Theodore, after expressing his thanks, said he had nothing more to hope.
For himself he felt little; it was for his family and Adeline he
suffered. He inquired what route she had taken; and though he had no
prospect of deriving advantage from the information, desired the
physician to assist him in obtaining it: but the landlord and his wife
either were, or affected to be, ignorant of the matter, and it was in
vain to apply to any other person.

The sergeant now entered with orders from the Marquis for the immediate
departure of Theodore, who heard the message with composure, though the
physician could not help expressing his indignation at this precipitate
removal, and his dread of the consequences that might attend it.
Theodore had scarcely time to declare his gratitude for the kindness of
this valuable friend, before the soldiers entered the room to conduct
him to the carriage in waiting. As he bade him farewell, Theodore
slipped his purse into his hand, and turning abruptly away, told the
soldiers to lead on: but the physician stopped him, and refused the
present with such serious warmth that he was compelled to resume it. He
wrung the hand of his new friend, and being unable to speak, hurried
away. The whole party immediately set off; and the unhappy Theodore was
left to the remembrance of his past hopes and sufferings, to his anxiety
for the fate of Adeline, the contemplation of his present wretchedness,
and the apprehension of what might be reserved for him in future. For
himself, indeed, he saw nothing but destruction, and was only relieved
from total despair by a feeble hope that she whom he loved better than
himself might one time enjoy that happiness of which he did not venture
to look for a participation.




CHAPTER XIV


Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
_I knit my handkerchief about your brows_,
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour.
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time.

KING JOHN.

If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit Melancholy
Had baked thy blood and made it heavy, thick;
Then, in despite of broad-eyed watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.

KING JOHN.


Meanwhile the persecuted Adeline continued to travel, with little
interruption, all night. Her mind suffered such a tumult of grief,
regret, despair, and terror, that she could not be said to think. The
Marquis's valet, who had placed himself in the chaise with her, at first
seemed inclined to talk; but her inattention soon silenced him, and left
her to the indulgence of her own misery.

They seemed to travel through obscure lanes and by-ways, along which the
carriage drove as furiously as the darkness would permit. When the dawn
appeared, she perceived herself on the borders of a forest, and renewed
her entreaties to know whither she was going. The man replied he had no
orders to tell, but she would soon see. Adeline, who had hitherto
supposed they were carrying her to the villa, now began to doubt it; and
as every place appeared less terrible to her imagination than that, her
despair began to abate, and she thought only of the devoted Theodore,
whom she knew to be the victim of malice and revenge.

They now entered upon the forest, and it occurred to her that she was
going to the abbey; for though she had no remembrance of the scenery
through which she passed, it was not the less probable that this was the
forest of Fontanville, whose boundaries were by much too extensive to
have come within the circle of her former walks. This conjecture revived
a terror little inferior to that occasioned by the idea of going to the
villa; for at the abbey she would be equally in the power of the
Marquis, and also in that of her cruel enemy La Motte. Her mind revolted
at the picture her fancy drew; and as the carriage moved under the
shades, she threw from the window a look of eager inquiry for some
object which might confirm or destroy her present surmise: she did not
long look, before an opening in the forest showed her the distant towers
of the abbey--I am, indeed, lost then, said she, bursting into tears.

They were soon at the foot of the lawn, and Peter was seen running to
open the gate, at which the carriage stopped. When he saw Adeline, he
looked surprised and made an effort to speak; but the chaise now drove
up to the abbey, where, at the door of the hall, La Motte himself
appeared. As he advanced to take her from the carriage, an universal
trembling seized her; it was with the utmost difficulty she supported
herself, and for some moments she neither observed his countenance nor
heard his voice. He offered his arm to assist her into the abbey, which
she at first refused, but having tottered a few paces was obliged to
accept; they then entered the vaulted room, where, sinking into a chair,
a flood of tears came to her relief. La Motte did not interrupt the
silence, which continued for some time, but paced the room in seeming
agitation. When Adeline was sufficiently recovered to notice external
objects, she observed his countenance, and there read the tumult of his
soul, while he was struggling to assume a firmness which his better
feelings opposed.

La Motte now took her hand, and would have led her from the room; but
she stopped, and with a kind of desperate courage made an effort to
engage him to pity and to save her. He interrupted her; It is not in my
power, said he in a voice of emotion; I am not master of myself or my
conduct; inquire no further--it is sufficient for you to know that I
pity you; more I cannot do. He gave her no time to reply, but taking her
hand led her to the stairs of the tower, and from thence to the chamber
she had formerly occupied.

Here you must remain for the present, said he, in a confinement which
is, perhaps, almost as involuntary on my part as it can be on yours. I
am willing to render it as easy as possible, and have therefore ordered
some books to be brought you.

Adeline made an effort to speak; but he hurried from the room, seemingly
ashamed of the part he had undertaken, and unwilling to trust himself
with her tears. She heard the door of the chamber locked; and then
looking towards the windows, perceived they were secured: the door that
led to the other apartments was also fastened. Such preparation for
security shocked her; and hopeless as she had long believed herself, she
now perceived her mind sink deeper in despair. When the tears she shed
had somewhat relieved her, and her thoughts could turn from the subjects
of her immediate concern, she was thankful for the total seclusion
allotted her, since it would spare her the pain she must feel in the
presence of Monsieur and Madame La Motte, and allow the unrestrained
indulgence of her own sorrow and reflection; reflection which, however
distressing, was preferable to the agony inflicted on the mind when,
agitated by care and fear, it is obliged to assume an appearance of
tranquillity.

In about a quarter of an hour her chamber door was unlocked, and Annette
appeared with refreshments and books: she expressed satisfaction at
seeing Adeline again, but seemed fearful of speaking, knowing, probably,
that it was contrary to the orders of La Motte, who, she said, was
waiting at the bottom of the stairs. When Annette was gone, Adeline took
some refreshment, which was indeed necessary, for she had tasted nothing
since she left the inn. She was pleased, but not surprised, that Madame
La Motte did not appear, who, it was evident, shunned her from a
consciousness of her own ungenerous conduct,--a consciousness which
offered some presumption that she was still not wholly unfriendly to
her. She reflected upon the words of La Motte,--I am not master of
myself or my conduct,--and though they afforded her no hope, she derived
some comfort, poor as it was, from the belief that he pitied her. After
some time spent in miserable reflection and various conjectures, her
long-agitated spirits seemed to demand repose, and she lay down to
sleep.

Adeline slept quietly for several hours, and awoke with a mind refreshed
and tranquillized. To prolong this temporary peace, and to prevent
therefore the intrusion of her own thoughts, she examined the books La
Motte had sent her: among these she found some that in happier times had
elevated her mind and interested her heart: their effect was now
weakened; they were still, however, able to soften for a time the sense
of her misfortunes.

But this Lethean medicine to a wounded mind was but a temporary
blessing; the entrance of La Motte dissolved the illusions of the page,
and awakened her to a sense of her own situation. He came with food, and
having placed it on the table left the room without speaking. Again she
endeavoured to read, but his appearance had broken the enchantment;
bitter reflection returned to her mind, and brought with it the image of
Theodore--of Theodore lost to her for ever!

La Motte meanwhile experienced all the terrors that could be inflicted
by a conscience not wholly hardened to guilt. He had been led on by
passion to dissipation, and from dissipation to vice; but having once
touched the borders of infamy, the progressive steps followed each other
fast, and he now saw himself the pander of a villain, and the betrayer
of an innocent girl whom every plea of justice and humanity called upon
him to protect. He contemplated his picture--he shrunk from it, but he
could change its deformity only by an effort too nobly daring for a mind
already effeminated by vice. He viewed the dangerous labyrinth into
which he was led, and perceived, as if for the first time, the
progression of his guilt: from this labyrinth he weakly imagined further
guilt could alone extricate him. Instead of employing his mind upon the
means of saving Adeline from destruction, and himself from being
instrumental to it, he endeavoured only to lull the pangs of conscience,
and to persuade himself into a belief that he must proceed in the course
he had begun. He knew himself to be in the power of the Marquis, and he
dreaded that power more than the sure though distant punishment that
awaits upon guilt. The honour of Adeline, and the quiet of his own
conscience, he consented to barter for a few years of existence.

He was ignorant of the present illness of the Marquis, or he would have
perceived that there was a chance of escaping the threatened punishment
at a price less enormous than infamy, and he would perhaps have
endeavoured to save Adeline and himself by flight. But the Marquis,
foreseeing the possibility of this, had ordered his servants carefully
to conceal the circumstance which detained him, and to acquaint La Motte
that he should be at the abbey in a few days, at the same time directing
his valet to await him there. Adeline, as he expected, had neither
inclination nor opportunity to mention it; and thus La Motte remained
ignorant of the circumstance which might have preserved him from further
guilt and Adeline from misery.

Most unwillingly had La Motte made his wife acquainted with the action
which had made him absolutely dependent upon the will of the Marquis;
but the perturbation of his mind partly betrayed him: frequently in his
sleep he muttered incoherent sentences, and frequently would start from
his slumber, and call in passionate exclamation upon Adeline. These
instances of a disturbed mind had alarmed and terrified Madame La Motte,
who watched while he slept, and soon gathered from his words a confused
idea of the Marquis's designs.

She hinted her suspicions to La Motte, who reproved her for having
entertained them; but his manner, instead of repressing, increased her
fears for Adeline; fears, which the conduct of the Marquis soon
confirmed. On the night that he slept at the abbey, it had occurred to
her that whatever scheme was in agitation it would now most probably be
discussed; and anxiety for Adeline made her stoop to a meanness which,
in other circumstances, would have been despicable. She quitted her
room, and concealing herself in an apartment adjoining that in which she
had left the Marquis and her husband, listened to their discourse. It
turned upon the subject she had expected, and disclosed to her the full
extent of their designs. Terrified for Adeline, and shocked at the
guilty weakness of La Motte, she was for some time incapable of
thinking, or determining how to proceed. She knew her husband to be
under great obligation to the Marquis, whose territory thus afforded him
a shelter from the world, and that it was in the power of the former to
betray him into the hands of his enemies. She believed also that the
Marquis would do this, if provoked: yet she thought, upon such an
occasion, La Motte might find some way of appeasing the Marquis without
subjecting himself to dishonour. After some further reflection, her mind
became more composed, and she returned to her chamber, where La Motte
soon followed. Her spirits, however, were not now in a state to
encounter either his displeasure or his opposition, which she had too
much reason to expect whenever she should mention the subject of her
concern, and she therefore resolved not to notice it till the morrow.

On the morrow she told La Motte all he had uttered in his dreams; and
mentioned other circumstances, which convinced him it was in vain any
longer to deny the truth of her apprehensions. His wife then represented
to him how possible it was to avoid the infamy into which he was about
to plunge, by quitting the territories of the Marquis; and pleaded so
warmly for Adeline, that La Motte in sullen silence appeared to meditate
upon the plan. His thoughts were however very differently engaged. He
was conscious of having deserved from the Marquis a dreadful punishment,
and knew that if he exasperated him by refusing to acquiesce with his
wishes, he had little to expect from flight, for the eye of justice and
revenge would pursue him with indefatigable research.

La Motte meditated how to break this to his wife, for he perceived that
there was no other method of counteracting her virtuous compassion for
Adeline, and the dangerous consequences to be expected from it, than by
opposing it with terror for his safety; and this could be done only by
showing her the full extent of the evils that must attend the resentment
of the Marquis. Vice had not yet so entirely darkened his conscience,
but that the blush of shame stained his cheek, and his tongue faltered
when he would have told his guilt. At length, finding it impossible to
mention particulars, he told her that on account of an affair which no
entreaties should ever induce him to explain, his life was in the power
of the Marquis. You see the alternative, said he, take your choice of
evils; and, if you can, tell Adeline of her danger, and sacrifice my
life to save her from a situation which many would be ambitious to
obtain.--Madame La Motte, condemned to the horrible alternative of
permitting the seduction of innocence, or of dooming her husband to
destruction, suffered a distraction of thought which defied all control.
Perceiving, however, that an opposition to the designs of the Marquis
would ruin La Motte and avail Adeline little, she determined to yield
and endure in silence.

At the time when Adeline was planning her escape from the abbey, the
significant looks of Peter had led La Motte to suspect the truth and to
observe them more closely. He had seen them separate in the hall with
apparent confusion, and had afterwards observed them conversing together
in the cloisters. Circumstances so unusual left him not a doubt that
Adeline had discovered her danger, and was concerting with Peter some
means of escape. Affecting, therefore, to be informed of the whole
affair, he charged Peter with treachery towards himself, and threatened
him with the vengeance of the Marquis if he did not disclose all he
knew. The menace intimidated Peter, and supposing that all chance of
assisting Adeline was gone, he made a circumstantial confession, and
promised to forbear acquainting Adeline with the discovery of the
scheme. In this promise he was seconded by inclination, for he feared to
meet the displeasure which Adeline, believing he had betrayed her, might
express.

On the evening of the day on which Adeline's intended escape was
discovered, the Marquis designed to come to the abbey, and it had been
agreed that he should then take Adeline to his villa. La Motte had
immediately perceived the advantage of permitting Adeline to repair, in
the belief of being undiscovered, to the tomb. It would prevent much
disturbance and opposition, and spare himself the pain he must feel in
her presence, when she should know that he had betrayed her. A servant
of the Marquis might go at the appointed hour to the tomb, and wrapt in
the disguise of night might take her quietly thence in the character of
Peter. Thus, without resistance she would be carried to the villa, nor
discover her mistake till it was too late to prevent its consequence.

When the Marquis did arrive, La Motte, who was not so much intoxicated
by the wine he had drunk as to forget his prudence, informed him of what
had happened and what he had planned; and the Marquis approving it, his
servant was made acquainted with the signal, which afterwards betrayed
Adeline to his power.

A deep consciousness of the unworthy neutrality she had observed in
Adeline's concerns, made Madame La Motte anxiously avoid seeing her now
that she was again in the abbey. Adeline understood this conduct; and
she rejoiced that she was spared the anguish of meeting her as an enemy,
whom she had once considered as a friend. Several days now passed in
solitude, in miserable retrospection, and dreadful expectation. The
perilous situation of Theodore was almost the constant subject of her
thoughts. Often did she breathe an agonizing wish for his safety, and
often look round the sphere of possibility in search of hope: but hope
had almost left the horizon of her prospect, and when it did appear, it
sprung only from the death of the Marquis, whose vengeance threatened
most certain destruction.

The Marquis, meanwhile, lay at the inn at Caux, in a state of very
doubtful recovery. The physician and surgeon, neither of whom he would
dismiss nor suffer to leave the village, proceeded upon contrary
principles; and the good effect of what the one prescribed, was
frequently counteracted by the injudicious treatment of the other.
Humanity alone prevailed on the physician to continue his attendance.
The malady of the Marquis was also heightened by the impatience of his
temper, the terrors of death, and the irritation of his passions. One
moment he believed himself dying, another he could scarcely be prevented
from attempting to follow Adeline to the abbey. So various were the
fluctuations of his mind, and so rapid the schemes that succeeded each
other, that his passions were in a continual state of conflict. The
physician attempted to persuade him that his recovery greatly depended
upon tranquillity, and to prevail upon him to attempt at least some
command of his feelings; but he was soon silenced in hopeless disgust by
the impatient answers of the Marquis.

At length the servant who had carried off Adeline returned; and the
Marquis having ordered him into his chamber, asked so many questions in
a breath, that the man knew not which to answer. At length he pulled a
folded paper from his pocket, which he said had been dropped in the
chaise by Mademoiselle Adeline, and as he thought his Lordship would
like to see it, he had taken care of it. The Marquis stretched forth his
hand with eagerness, and received a note addressed to Theodore. On
perceiving the superscription, the agitation of jealous rage for a
moment overcame him, and he held it in his hand unable to open it.

He, however, broke the seal, and found it to be a note of inquiry,
written by Adeline to Theodore during his illness, and which from some
accident she had been prevented from sending him. The tender solicitude
it expressed for his recovery stung the soul of the Marquis, and drew
from him a comparison of her feelings on the illness of his rival and
that of himself. She could be solicitous for his recovery, said he, but
for mine she only dreads it. As if willing to prolong the pain this
little billet had excited, he then read it again. Again he cursed his
fate and execrated his rival. Giving himself up, as usual, to the
transports of his passion, he was going to throw it from him, when his
eyes caught the seal, and he looked earnestly at it: his anger seemed
now to have subsided, he deposited the note carefully in his
pocket-book, and was for some time lost in thought.

After many days of hopes and fears, the strength of his constitution
overcame his illness, and he was well enough to write several letters,
one of which he immediately sent off to prepare La Motte for his
reception. The same policy which had prompted him to conceal his illness
from La Motte, now urged him to say what he knew would not happen, that
he should reach the abbey on the day after his servant. He repeated this
injunction, that Adeline should be strictly guarded, and renewed his
promises of reward for the future services of La Motte.

La Motte, to whom each succeeding day had brought new surprise and
perplexity concerning the absence of the Marquis, received this notice
with uneasiness; for he had begun to hope that the Marquis had altered
his intentions concerning Adeline, being either engaged in some new
adventure, or obliged to visit his estates in some distant province: he
would have been willing thus to have got rid of an affair, which was to
reflect so much dishonour on himself.

This hope was now vanished, and he directed Madame to prepare for the
reception of the Marquis. Adeline passed these days in a state of
suspense which was now cheered by hope and now darkened by despair. The
delay, so much exceeding her expectation, seemed to prove that the
illness of the Marquis was dangerous; and when she looked forward to the
consequences of his recovery, she could not be sorry that it was so. So
odious was the idea of him to her mind, that she would not suffer her
lips to pronounce his name, nor make the inquiry of Annette, which was
of such consequence to her peace.

It was about a week after the receipt of the Marquis's letter that
Adeline one day saw from her window a party of horsemen enter the
avenue, and knew them to be the Marquis and his attendants. She retired
from the window, in a state of mind not to be described, and sinking
into a chair, was for some time scarcely conscious of the objects around
her. When she had recovered from the first terror which his appearance
excited, she again tottered to the window; the party was not in sight,
but she heard the trampling of horses, and knew that the Marquis had
wound round to the great gate of the abbey. She addressed herself to
Heaven for support and protection; and her mind being now somewhat
composed, sat down to wait the event.

La Motte received the Marquis with expressions of surprise at his long
absence; and the latter, merely saying he had been detained by illness,
proceeded to inquire for Adeline. He was told she was in her chamber,
from whence she might be summoned if he wished to see her. The Marquis
hesitated, and at length excused himself, but desired she might be
strictly watched. Perhaps, my Lord, said La Motte smiling, Adeline's
obstinacy has been too powerful for your passion? you seem less
interested concerning her than formerly.

O! by no means, replied the Marquis; she interests me if possible, more
than ever; so much, indeed, that I cannot have her too closely guarded;
and I therefore beg, La Motte, that you will suffer nobody to attend her
but when you can observe them yourself. Is the room where she is
confined sufficiently secure? La Motte assured him it was; but at the
same time expressed his wish that she was removed to the villa. If by
any means, said he, she should contrive to escape, I know what I must
expect from your displeasure; and this reflection keeps my mind in
continual anxiety.

This removal cannot be at present, said the Marquis; she is safer here,
and you do wrong to disturb yourself with any apprehension of her
escape, if her chamber is so secure as you represent it.

I can have no motive for deceiving you, my Lord, in this point.

I do not suspect you of any, said the Marquis; guard her carefully, and
trust me she will not escape. I can rely upon my valet, and if you wish
it he shall remain here. La Motte thought there could be no occasion for
him, and it was agreed that the man should go home.

The Marquis, after remaining about half an hour in conversation with La
Motte, left the abbey; and Adeline saw him depart with a mixture of
surprise and thankfulness that almost overcame her. She had waited in
momentary expectation of being summoned to appear, and had been
endeavouring to arm herself with resolution to support his presence. She
had listened to every voice that sounded from below; and at every step
that crossed the passage her heart had palpitated with dread, lest it
should be La Motte coming to lead her to the Marquis. This state of
suffering had been prolonged almost beyond her power of enduring it,
when she heard voices under her window, and rising, saw the Marquis ride
away. After giving way to the joy and thankfulness that swelled her
heart, she endeavoured to account for this circumstance, which,
considering what had passed, was certainly very strange. It appeared,
indeed, wholly inexplicable; and after much fruitless inquiry, she
quitted the subject, endeavouring to persuade herself that it could only
portend good.

The time of La Motte's usual visitation now drew near, and Adeline
expected it in the trembling hope of hearing that the Marquis had ceased
his persecution; but he was, as usual, sullen and silent, and it was not
till he was about to quit the room that Adeline had the courage to
inquire when the Marquis was expected again. La Motte, opening the door
to depart, replied, on the following day; and Adeline, whom fear and
delicacy embarrassed, saw she could obtain no intelligence of Theodore
but by a direct question; she looked earnestly, as if she would have
spoke, and he stopped; but she blushed and was still silent, till upon
his again attempting to leave the room she faintly called him back.

I would ask, said she, after that unfortunate chevalier who has incurred
the resentment of the Marquis, by endeavouring to serve me: Has the
Marquis mentioned him?

He has, replied La Motte; and your indifference towards the Marquis is
now fully explained.

Since I must feel resentment towards those who injure me, said Adeline,
I may surely be allowed to be grateful towards those who serve me. Had
the Marquis deserved my esteem, he would probably have possessed it.

Well, well, said La Motte, this young hero, who it seems has
been brave enough to lift his arm against his Colonel, is taken
care of, and I doubt not will soon be sensible of the value of his
quixotism.--Indignation, grief, and fear, struggled in the bosom of
Adeline; she disdained to give La Motte an opportunity of again
pronouncing the name of Theodore; yet the uncertainty under which she
laboured, urged her to inquire whether the Marquis had heard of him
since he left Caux. Yes, said La Motte, he has been safely carried to
his regiment, where he is confined till the Marquis can attend to appear
against him.

Adeline had neither power nor inclination to inquire further; and La
Motte quitting the chamber, she was left to the misery he had renewed.
Though this information contained no new circumstance of misfortune,
(for she now heard confirmed what she had always expected,) a weight of
new sorrow seemed to fall upon her heart, and she perceived that she had
unconsciously cherished a latent hope of Theodore's escape before he
reached the place of his destination. All hope was now, however, gone;
he was suffering the miseries of a prison, and the tortures of
apprehension both for his own life and her safety. She pictured to
herself the dark damp dungeon where he lay, loaded with chains and pale
with sickness and grief; she heard him, in a voice that thrilled her
heart, call upon her name, and raise his eyes to heaven in silent
supplication: she saw the anguish of his countenance, the tears that
fell slowly on his cheek; and remembering at the same time, the generous
conduct that had brought him to this abyss of misery, and that it was
for her sake he suffered, grief resolved itself into despair, her tears
ceased to flow, and she sunk silently into a state of dreadful torpor.

On the morrow the Marquis arrived, and departed as before. Several days
then elapsed, and he did not appear; till one evening, as La Motte and
his wife were in their usual sitting-room, he entered, and conversed for
some time upon general subjects, from which, however, he by degrees fell
into a reverie, and after a pause of silence he rose and drew La Motte
to the window. I would speak to you alone, said he, if you are at
leisure; if not, another time will do. La Motte assuring him he was
perfectly so, would have conducted him to another room, but the Marquis
proposed a walk in the forest. They went out together; and when they had
reached a solitary glade, where the spreading branches of the beech and
oak deepened the shades of twilight and threw a solemn obscurity around,
the Marquis turned to La Motte and addressed him:

Your condition, La Motte, is unhappy; this abbey is a melancholy
residence for a man like you fond of society, and like you also
qualified to adorn it. La Motte bowed. I wish it was in my power to
restore you to the world, continued the Marquis; perhaps, if I knew the
particulars of the affair which has driven you from it, I might perceive
that my interest could effectually serve you:--I think I have heard you
hint it was an affair of honour? La Motte was silent. I mean not to
distress you, however; nor is it common curiosity that prompts this
inquiry, but a sincere desire to befriend you. You have already informed
me of some particulars of your misfortunes; I think the liberality of
your temper led you into expenses which you afterwards endeavoured to
retrieve by gaming?

Yes, my Lord, said La Motte, 'tis true that I dissipated the greater
part of an affluent fortune in luxurious indulgencies, and that I
afterwards took unworthy means to recover it: but I wish to be spared
upon this subject. I would, if possible, lose the remembrance of a
transaction which must for ever stain my character, and the rigorous
effect of which, I fear, it is not in your power, my Lord, to soften.

You may be mistaken on this point, replied the Marquis; my interest at
court is by no means inconsiderable. Fear not from me any severity of
censure; I am not at all inclined to judge harshly of the faults of
others: I well know how to allow for the emergency of circumstances; and
I think La Motte, you have hitherto found me your friend.

I have, my Lord.

And when you recollect, that I have forgiven a certain transaction of
late date----

It is true, my Lord; and allow me to say, I have a just sense of your
generosity. The transaction you allude to is by far the worst of my
life; and what I have to relate cannot therefore lower me in your
opinion. When I had dissipated the greatest part of my property in
habits of voluptuous pleasure, I had recourse to gaming to supply the
means of continuing them. A run of good luck for some time enabled me to
do this; and encouraging my most sanguine expectations, I continued in
the same career of success.

Soon after this, a sudden turn of fortune destroyed my hopes, and
reduced me to the most desperate extremity. In one night my money was
lowered to the sum of two hundred louis. These I resolved to stake also,
and with them my life; for it was my resolution not to survive their
loss. Never shall I forget the horrors of that moment on which hung my
fate, nor the deadly anguish that seized my heart when my last stake was
gone. I stood for some time in a state of stupefaction, till, roused to
a sense of my misfortune, my passion made me pour forth execrations on
my more fortunate rivals, and act all the phrensy of despair. During
this paroxysm of madness, a gentleman, who had been a silent observer of
all that passed, approached me.--You are unfortunate, Sir, said he.--I
need not be informed of that. Sir, I replied.

You have perhaps been ill used? resumed he.--Yes, Sir, I am ruined, and
therefore it may be said I am ill used.

Do you know the people you have played with?

No; but I have met them in the first circles.

Then I am probably mistaken, said he, and walked away. His last words
roused me, and raised a hope that my money had not been fairly lost.
Wishing for further information, I went in search of the gentleman, but
he had left the rooms. I however stifled my transports, returned to the
table where I had lost my money, placed myself behind the chair of one
of the persons who had won it, and closely watched the game. For some
time I saw nothing that could confirm my suspicions, but was at length
convinced they were just.

When the game was ended I called one of my adversaries out of the room,
and telling him what I had observed, threatened instantly to expose him
if he did not restore my property. The man was for some time as positive
as myself; and assuming the bully, threatened me with chastisement for
my scandalous assertions. I was not, however, in a state of mind to be
frightened; and his manner served only to exasperate my temper, already
sufficiently inflamed by misfortune. After retorting his threats, I was
about to return to the apartment we had left, and expose what had
passed, when, with an insidious smile and a softened voice, he begged I
would favour him with a few moments' attention, and allow him to speak
with the gentleman his partner. To the latter part of his request I
hesitated, but in the mean time the gentleman himself entered the room.
His partner related to him, in few words, what had passed between us,
and the terror that appeared in his countenance sufficiently declared
his consciousness of guilt.

They then drew aside, and remained a few minutes in conversation
together, after which they approached me with an offer, as they phrased
it, of a compromise. I declared, however, against any thing of this
kind, and swore nothing less than the whole sum I had lost should
content me.--Is it not possible, Monsieur, that you may be offered
something as advantageous as the whole?--I did not understand their
meaning; but after they had continued for some time to give distant
hints of the same sort, they proceeded to explain.

Perceiving their characters wholly in my power, they wished to secure my
interest to their party, and therefore informing me that they belonged
to an association of persons who lived upon the folly and inexperience
of others, they offered me a share in their concern. My fortunes were
desperate; and the proposal now made me would not only produce an
immediate supply, but enable me to return to those scenes of dissipated
pleasure to which passion had at first, and long habit afterwards,
attached me. I closed with the offer, and thus sunk from dissipation
into infamy.

La Motte paused, as if the recollection of these times filled him with
remorse. The Marquis understood his feelings. You judge too rigorously
of yourself, said he; there are few persons, let their appearance of
honesty be what it may, who in such circumstances would have acted
better than you have done. Had I been in your situation, I know not how
I might have acted. That rigid virtue which shall condemn you, may
dignify itself with the appellation of wisdom, but I wish not to possess
it; let it still reside where it generally is to be found, in the cold
bosoms of those who, wanting feeling to be men, dignify themselves with
the title of philosophers. But pray proceed.

Our success was for some time unlimited, for we held the wheel of
fortune, and trusted not to her caprice. Thoughtless and voluptuous by
nature, my expenses fully kept pace with my income. An unlucky discovery
of the practices of our party was at length made by a young nobleman,
which obliged us to act for some time with the utmost circumspection. It
would be tedious to relate the particulars, which made us at length so
suspected, that the distant civility and cold reserve of our
acquaintance rendered the frequenting public assemblies both painful and
unprofitable. We turned our thoughts to other modes of obtaining money;
and a swindling transaction, in which I engaged to a very large amount,
soon compelled me to leave Paris. You know the rest my Lord.

La Motte was now silent, and the Marquis continued for some time musing.
You perceive, my Lord, at length resumed La Motte, you perceive that my
case is hopeless.

It is bad indeed, but not entirely hopeless. From my soul I pity you:
yet, if you should return to the world, and incur the danger of
prosecution, I think my interest with the minister might save you from
any severe punishment. You seem, however, to have lost your relish for
society, and perhaps do not wish to return to it.

Oh! my Lord can you doubt this?--But I am overcome with the excess of
your goodness; would to heaven it were in my power to prove the
gratitude it inspires!

Talk not of goodness, said the Marquis; I will not pretend that my
desire of serving you is unalloyed by any degree of self-interest: I
will not affect to be more than man, and trust me those who do are less.
It is in your power to testify your gratitude, and bind me to your
interest for ever. He paused. Name but the means, cried La Motte,--name
but the means, and if they are within the compass of possibility they
shall be executed. The Marquis was still silent. Do you doubt my
sincerity, my Lord, that you are yet silent? Do you fear to repose a
confidence in the man whom you have already loaded with obligation? who
lives by your mercy, and almost by your means! The Marquis looked
earnestly at him, but did not speak. I have not deserved this of you, my
Lord; speak, I entreat you.

There are certain prejudices attached to the human mind, said the
Marquis in a slow and solemn voice, which it requires all our wisdom to
keep from interfering with our happiness; certain set notions, acquired
in infancy, and cherished involuntarily by age, which grow up and assume
a gloss so plausible, that few minds, in what is called a civilized
country, can afterwards overcome them. Truth is often perverted by
education. While the refined Europeans boast a standard of honour and a
sublimity of virtue which often leads them from pleasure to misery, and
from nature to error, the simple uninformed American follows the impulse
of his heart, and obeys the inspiration of wisdom. The Marquis paused,
and La Motte continued to listen in eager expectation.

Nature, uncontaminated by false refinement, resumed the Marquis, every
where acts alike in the great occurrences of life. The Indian discovers
his friend to be perfidious, and he kills him; the wild Asiatic does the
same: the Turk, when ambition fires or revenge provokes, gratifies his
passion at the expense of life, and does not call it murder. Even the
polished Italian, distracted by jealousy, or tempted by a strong
circumstance of advantage, draws his stiletto, and accomplishes his
purpose. It is the first proof of a superior mind to liberate itself
from prejudices of country or of education. You are silent, La Motte:
are you not of my opinion?

I am attending, my Lord, to your _reasoning_.

There are, I repeat it, said the Marquis, people of minds so weak, as to
shrink from acts they have been accustomed to hold wrong, however
advantageous; they never suffer themselves to be guided by
circumstances, but fix for life upon a certain standard, from which they
will on no account depart. Self-preservation is the great law of nature;
when a reptile hurts us, or an animal of prey threatens us, we think no
further, but endeavour to annihilate it. When my life, or what may be
essential to my life, requires the sacrifice of another,--or even if
some passion, wholly unconquerable, requires it,--I should be a madman
to hesitate. La Motte, I think I may confide in you--there are ways of
doing certain things--you understand me? There are times, and
circumstances, and opportunities--you comprehend my meaning?

Explain yourself, my Lord.

Kind services that--in short, there are services which excite all our
gratitude, and which we can never think repaid. It is in your power to
place me in such a situation.

Indeed! my Lord, name the means.

I have already named them. This abbey well suits the purpose; it is shut
up from the eye of observation; any transaction may be concealed within
its walls; the hour of midnight may witness the deed, and the morn shall
not dawn to disclose it; these woods tell no tales. Ah! La Motte am I
right in trusting this business with you? may I believe you are desirous
of serving me, and of preserving yourself? The Marquis paused, and
looked steadfastly at La Motte, whose countenance was almost concealed
by the gloom of evening.

My Lord, you may trust me in any thing; explain yourself more fully.

What security will you give me of your faithfulness?

My life, my Lord; is it not already in your power? The Marquis
hesitated, and then said, To-morrow about this time I shall return to
the abbey, and will then explain my meaning, if indeed you shall not
already have understood it. You in the mean time will consider your own
powers of resolution, and be prepared either to adopt the purpose I
shall suggest, or to declare you will not. La Motte made some confused
reply. Farewell till to-morrow, said the Marquis; remember that freedom
and affluence are now before you. He moved towards the abbey, and,
mounting his horse, rode off with his attendants. La Motte walked slowly
home, musing on the late conversation.




CHAPTER XV


Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fixed behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form!
_Howling amidst the midnight storm!_----
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
_Who prompt to deeds accurst the mind!_
On whom that rav'ning brood of Fate
Who lap the blood of Sorrow wait;
Who, Fear! this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild like thee!

COLLINS.


The Marquis was punctual to the hour. La Motte received him at the gate;
but he declined entering, and said he preferred a walk in the forest.
Thither, therefore, La Motte attended him. After some general
conversation, Well, said the Marquis, have you considered what I said,
and are you prepared to decide?

I have, my Lord, and will quickly decide, when you shall further explain
yourself: till then I can form no resolution. The Marquis appeared
dissatisfied, and was a moment silent. Is it then possible, he at length
resumed, that you do not understand? This ignorance is surely affected.
La Motte, I expect sincerity. Tell me, therefore, is it necessary I
should say more?

It is, my Lord, said La Motte immediately. If you fear to confide in me
freely, how can I fully accomplish your purpose?

Before I proceed further, said the Marquis, let me administer some oath
which shall bind you to secrecy. But this is scarcely necessary; for,
could I even doubt your word of honour, the remembrance of a certain
transaction would point out to you the necessity of being as silent
yourself as you must wish me to be. There was now a pause of silence,
during which both the Marquis and La Motte betrayed some confusion. I
think, La Motte, said he, I have given you sufficient proof that I can
be grateful: the services you have already rendered me with respect to
Adeline have not been unrewarded.

True, my Lord; I am ever willing to acknowledge this; and am sorry it
has not been in my power to serve you more effectually. Your further
views respecting her I am ready to assist.

I thank you.--Adeline----the Marquis hesitated--Adeline, rejoined La
Motte, eager to anticipate his wishes, has beauty worthy of your
pursuit: she has inspired a passion of which she ought to be proud, and
at any rate she shall soon be yours. Her charms are worthy of----

Yes, yes, interrupted the Marquis; but--he paused. But they have given
you too much trouble in the pursuit, said La Motte; and to be sure, my
Lord, it must be confessed they have; but this trouble is all over--you
may now consider her as your own.

I would do so, said the Marquis, fixing an eye of earnest regard upon La
Motte--I would do so.

Name your hour, my Lord; you shall not be interrupted. Beauty such as
Adeline's--

Watch her closely, interrupted the Marquis, and on no account suffer her
to leave her apartment. Where is she now?

Confined in her chamber.

Very well. But I am impatient.

Name your time, my Lord--to-morrow night.

_To-morrow_ night, said the Marquis, to-morrow night. Do you understand
me now?

Yes, my Lord, this night if you wish it so. But had you not better
dismiss your servants, and remain yourself in the forest? You know the
door that opens upon the woods from the west tower. Come thither about
twelve--I will be there to conduct you to her chamber. Remember then, my
Lord, that to-night--

Adeline dies! interrupted the Marquis in a low voice scarcely human. Do
you understand me now?

----La Motte shrunk aghast--My Lord!

La Motte! said the Marquis.--There was a silence of several minutes, in
which La Motte endeavoured to recover himself. Let me ask, my Lord, the
meaning of this? said he, when he had breath to speak. Why should you
wish the death of Adeline--of Adeline, whom so lately you loved?

Make no inquiries for my motive, said the Marquis; but it is as certain
as that I live that she you name must die. This is sufficient. The
surprise of La Motte equalled his horror. The means are various, resumed
the Marquis. I could have wished that no blood might be spilt; and there
are drugs sure and speedy in their effect, but they cannot be soon or
safely procured. I also wish it over--it must be done quickly--this
night.

This night, my Lord!

Aye, this night, La Motte; if it is to be, why not soon? Have you no
convenient drug at hand?

None, my Lord.

I feared to trust a third person, or I should have been provided, said
the Marquis. As it is, take this poniard! use it as occasion offers, but
be resolute. La Motte received the poniard with a trembling hand, and
continued to gaze upon it for some time, scarcely knowing what he did.
Put it up, said the Marquis, and endeavour to recollect yourself. La
Motte obeyed, but continued to muse in silence.

He saw himself entangled in the web which his own crimes had woven.
Being in the power of the Marquis, he knew he must either consent to the
commission of a deed, from the enormity of which, depraved as he was, he
shrunk in horror, or sacrifice fortune, freedom, probably life itself,
to the refusal. He had been led on by slow gradations from folly to
vice, till he now saw before him an abyss of guilt which startled even
the conscience that so long had slumbered. The means of retreating were
desperate--to proceed was equally so.

When he considered the innocence and the helplessness of Adeline, her
orphan state, her former affectionate conduct, and her confidence in his
protection, his heart melted with compassion for the distress he had
already occasioned her, and shrunk in terror from the deed he was urged
to commit. But when, on the other hand, he contemplated the destruction
that threatened him from the vengeance of the Marquis, and then
considered the advantages that were offered him of favour, freedom, and
probably fortune,--terror and temptation contributed to overcome the
pleadings of humanity, and silence the voice of conscience. In this
state of tumultuous uncertainty he continued for some time silent, until
the voice of the Marquis roused him to a conviction of the necessity of
at least appearing to acquiesce in his designs.

Do you hesitate? said the Marquis.--No, my Lord, my resolution is
fixed--I will obey you. But methinks it would be better to avoid
bloodshed. Strange secrets have been revealed by----

Aye, but how avoid it? interrupted the Marquis.--Poison I will not
venture to procure. I have given you one sure instrument of death. You
also may find it dangerous to inquire for a drug. La Motte perceived
that he could not purchase poison without incurring a discovery much
greater than that he wished to avoid. You are right, my Lord, and I will
follow your orders implicitly. The Marquis now proceeded, in broken
sentences, to give further directions concerning this dreadful scheme.

In her sleep, said he, at midnight; the family will then be at rest.
Afterwards they planned a story which was to account for her
disappearance, and by which it was to seem that she had sought an escape
in consequence of her aversion to the addresses of the Marquis. The
doors of her chamber and of the west tower were to be left open to
corroborate this account, and many other circumstances were to be
contrived to confirm the suspicion. They further consulted how the
Marquis was to be informed of the event; and it was agreed that he
should come as usual to the abbey on the following day.--_To-night
then_, said the Marquis, I may rely upon your resolution?

You may, my Lord.

Farewell, then. When we meet again----

When we meet again said La Motte, it will be done. He followed the
Marquis to the abbey; and having seen him mount his horse and wished him
a good night, he retired to his chamber, where he shut himself up.

Adeline, meanwhile, in the solitude of her prison gave way to the
despair which her condition inspired. She tried to arrange her thoughts,
and to argue herself into some degree of resignation; but reflection, by
representing the past, and reason, by anticipating the future, brought
before her mind the full picture, of her misfortunes, and she sunk in
despondency. Of Theodore, who, by a conduct so noble, had testified his
attachment and involved himself in ruin, she thought with a degree of
anguish infinitely superior to any she had felt upon any other occasion.

That the very exertions which had deserved all her gratitude, and
awakened all her tenderness, should be the cause of his destruction, was
a circumstance so much beyond the ordinary bounds of misery,
that her fortitude sunk at once before it. The idea of Theodore
suffering--Theodore dying--was for ever present to her imagination; and
frequently excluding the sense of her own danger, made her conscious
only of his. Sometimes the hope he had given her of being able to
vindicate his conduct, or at least to obtain a pardon, would return; but
it was like the faint beam of an April morn, transient and cheerless.
She knew that the Marquis, stung with jealousy and exasperated to
revenge, would pursue him with unrelenting malice.

Against such an enemy what could Theodore oppose? Conscious rectitude
would not avail him to ward off the blow which disappointed passion and
powerful pride directed. Her distress was considerably heightened by
reflecting that no intelligence of him could reach her at the abbey, and
that she must remain she knew not how long in the most dreadful suspense
concerning his fate. From the abbey she saw no possibility of escaping.
She was a prisoner in a chamber inclosed at every avenue; she had no
opportunity of conversing with any person who could afford her even a
chance of relief; and she saw herself condemned to await in passive
silence the impending destiny, infinitely more dreadful to her
imagination than death itself.

Thus circumstanced, she yielded to the pressure of her misfortunes, and
would sit for hours motionless and given up to thought. Theodore! she
would frequently exclaim, you cannot hear my voice, you cannot fly to
help me; yourself a prisoner and in chains. The picture was too horrid:
the swelling anguish of her heart would subdue her utterance--tears
bathed her cheeks--and she became insensible to every thing but the
misery of Theodore.

On this evening her mind had been remarkably tranquil; and as she
watched from her window, with a still and melancholy pleasure, the
setting sun, the fading splendour of the western horizon, and the
gradual approach of twilight, her thoughts bore her back to the time
when in happier circumstances she had watched the same appearances. She
recollected also the evening of her temporary escape from the abbey,
when from this same window she had viewed the declining sun--how
anxiously she had awaited the fall of twilight--how much she had
endeavoured to anticipate the events of her future life--with what
trembling fear she had descended from the tower and ventured into the
forest. These reflections produced others that filled her heart with
anguish and her eyes with tears.

While she was lost in her melancholy reverie she saw the Marquis mount
his horse and depart from the gate. The sight of him revived in all its
force a sense of the misery he inflicted on her beloved Theodore, and a
consciousness of the evils which more immediately threatened herself.
She withdrew from the window in an agony of tears, which continuing for
a considerable time, her frame was at length quite exhausted, and she
retired early to rest.

La Motte remained in his chamber till supper obliged him to descend. At
table his wild and haggard countenance, which, in spite of all his
endeavours, betrayed the disorder of his mind, and his long and frequent
fits of abstraction, surprised as well as alarmed Madame La Motte. When
Peter left the room she tenderly inquired what had disturbed him, and he
with a distorted smile tried to be gay; but the effort was beyond his
art, and he quickly relapsed into silence; or when Madame La Motte
spoke, and he strove to conceal the absence of his thoughts, he answered
so entirely from the purpose that his abstraction became still more
apparent. Observing this, Madame La Motte appeared to take no notice of
his present temper; and they continued to sit in uninterrupted silence
till the hour of rest, when they retired to their chamber.

La Motte lay in a state of disturbed watchfulness for some time, and his
frequent starts awoke Madame, who however, being pacified by some
trifling excuse, soon went to sleep again. This agitation continued till
near midnight, when recollecting that the time was now passing in idle
reflection which ought to be devoted to action, he stole silently from
his bed, wrapped himself in his night-gown, and taking the lamp which
burned nightly in his chamber, passed up the spiral staircase. As he
went he frequently looked back, and often started and listened to the
hollow sighings of the blast.

His hand shook so violently when he attempted to unlock the door of
Adeline's chamber, that he was obliged to set the lamp on the ground,
and apply both his hands. The noise he made with the key induced him to
suppose he must have awakened her; but when he opened the door, and
perceived the stillness that reigned within, he was convinced she was
asleep. When he approached the bed he heard her gently breathe, and soon
after sigh--and he stopped: but silence returning he again advanced, and
then heard her sing in her deep. As he listened he distinguished some
notes of a melancholy little air, which in her happier days she had
often sung to him. The low and mournful accent in which she now uttered
them expressed too well the tone of her mind.

La Motte now stepped hastily towards the bed, when breathing a deep sigh
she was again silent. He undrew the curtain and saw her lying in a
profound sleep, her cheek, yet wet with tears, resting upon her arm. He
stood a moment looking at her; and as he viewed her innocent and lovely
countenance, pale in grief, the light of the lamp, which shone strong
upon her eyes, awoke her, and perceiving a man, she uttered a scream.
Her recollection returning, she knew him to be La Motte; and it
instantly occurring to her that the Marquis was at hand, she raised
herself in bed, and implored pity and protection. La Motte stood looking
eagerly at her, but without replying.

The wildness of his looks and the gloomy silence he preserved increased
her alarm, and with tears of terror she renewed her supplication. You
once saved me from destruction, cried she; O save me now! have pity upon
me--I have no protector but you.

What is it you fear? said La Motte in a tone scarcely articulate.--O
save me--save me from the Marquis!

Rise then, said he, and dress yourself quickly: I shall be back again in
a few minutes. He lighted a candle that stood on the table, and left the
chamber; Adeline immediately arose and endeavoured to dress; but her
thoughts were so bewildered that she scarcely knew what she did, and her
whole frame so violently agitated, that it was with the utmost
difficulty she preserved herself from fainting. She threw her clothes
hastily on, and then sat down to await the return of La Motte. A
considerable time elapsed, yet he did not appear; and having in vain
endeavoured to compose her spirits, the pain of suspense became at
length so insupportable, that she opened the door of her chamber, and
went to the top of the staircase to listen. She thought she heard voices
below; but considering that if the Marquis was there, her appearance
could only increase her danger, she checked the step she had almost
involuntarily taken to descend. Still she listened, and still thought
she distinguished voices. Soon after, she heard a door shut, and then
footsteps, and she hastened back to her chamber.

Near a quarter of an hour had elapsed and La Motte did not appear; when
again she thought she heard a murmur of voices below and also passing
steps: and at length, her anxiety not suffering her to remain in her
room, she moved through the passage that communicated with the spiral
staircase; but all was now still. In a few moments, however, a light
flashed across the hall, and La Motte appeared at the door of the
vaulted room. He looked up, and seeing Adeline in the gallery, beckoned
her to descend.

She hesitated, and looked towards her chamber; but La Motte now
approached the stairs, and with faltering steps she went to meet him. I
fear the Marquis may see me, said she, whispering; where is he? La Motte
took her hand and led her on, assuring her she had nothing to fear from
the Marquis. The wildness of his looks, however, and the trembling of
his hand, seemed to contradict this assurance, and she inquired whether
he was leading her. To the forest, said La Motte, that you may escape
from the abbey--a horse waits for you without: I can save you by no
other means. New terror seized her. She could scarcely believe that La
Motte, who had hitherto conspired with the Marquis, and had so closely
confined her, should now himself undertake her escape; and she at this
moment felt a dreadful presentiment which it was impossible to account
for, that he was leading her out to murder her in the forest. Again
shrinking back, she supplicated his mercy. He assured her he meant only
to protect her, and desired she would not waste time.

There was something in his manner that spoke sincerity, and she suffered
him to conduct her to a side door that opened into the forest, where she
could just distinguish through the gloom a man on horseback. This
brought to her remembrance the night in which she had quitted the tomb,
when, trusting to the person who appeared, she had been carried to the
Marquis's villa. La Motte called, and was answered by Peter, whose voice
somewhat reassured Adeline.

He then told her that the Marquis would return to the abbey on the
following morning and that this could be her only opportunity of
escaping his designs; that she might rely upon his (La Motte's) word,
that Peter had orders to carry her wherever she choose; but as he knew
the Marquis would be indefatigable in search of her, he advised her by
all means to leave the kingdom, which she might do with Peter, who was a
native of Savoy, and would convey her to the house of his sister. There
she might remain till La Motte himself, who did not now think it would
be safe to continue much longer in France, should join her. He entreated
her, whatever might happen, never to mention the events which had passed
at the abbey. To save you, Adeline, I have risked my life; do not
increase my danger and your own by any unnecessary discoveries. We may
never meet again, but I hope you will be happy; and remember, when you
think of me, that I am not quite so bad as I have been tempted to be.

Having said this, he gave her some money, which he told her would be
necessary to defray the expenses of her journey. Adeline could no longer
doubt his sincerity, and her transports of joy and gratitude would
scarcely permit her to thank him. She wished to have bid Madame La Motte
farewell, and indeed earnestly requested it; but he again told her she
had no time to lose; and having wrapped her in a large cloak, he lifted
her upon the horse. She bade him adieu with tears of gratitude, and
Peter set off as fast as the darkness would permit.

When they were got some way,--I am glad with all my heart, Mam'selle,
said he, to see you again. Who would have thought, after all, that my
master himself would have bid me take you away! Well, to be sure,
strange things come to pass; but I hope we shall have better luck this
time. Adeline, not choosing to reproach him with the treachery of which
she feared he had been formerly guilty, thanked him for his good wishes,
and said she hoped they should be more fortunate: but Peter, in his
usual strain of eloquence, proceeded to undeceive her in this point, and
to acquaint her with every circumstance which his memory, and it was
naturally a strong one could furnish.

Peter expressed such an artless interest in her welfare, and such a
concern for her disappointment, that she could no longer doubt his
faithfulness; and this conviction not only strengthened her confidence
in the present undertaking, but made her listen to his conversation with
kindness and pleasure. I should never have staid at the abbey till this
time, said he, if I could have got away; but my master frighted me so
much about the Marquis, and I had not money enough to carry me into my
own country, so that I was forced to stay. It's well we have got some
solid louis d'ors now; for I question, Ma'mselle, whether the people on
the road would have taken those trinkets you formerly talked of for
money.

Possibly not, said Adeline: I am thankful to Monsieur La Motte that we
have more certain means of procuring conveniences. What route shall you
take when we leave the forest, Peter?--Peter mentioned very correctly a
great part of the road to Lyons; And then, said he, we can easily get to
Savoy, and that will be nothing. My sister, God bless her! I hope, is
living; I have not seen her many a year: but if she is not all the
people will be glad to see me, and you will easily get a lodging,
Ma'mselle, and every thing you want.

Adeline resolved to go with him to Savoy. La Motte, who knew the
character and designs of the Marquis, had advised her to leave the
kingdom, and had told her, what her fears would have suggested, that the
Marquis would be indefatigable in search of her. His motive for this
advice must be a desire of serving her; why else, when she was already
in his power, should he remove her to another place, and even furnish
her with money for the expenses of a journey?

At Leloncourt, where Peter said he was well known, she would be most
likely to meet with protection and comfort, even should his sister be
dead; and its distance and solitary situation pleased her. These
reflections would have pointed out to her the prudence of proceeding to
Savoy, had she been less destitute of resources in France; in her
present situation they proved it to be necessary.

She inquired further concerning the route they were to take, and whether
Peter was sufficiently acquainted with the road. When once I get to
Thiers, I know it well enough, said Peter; for I have gone it many a
time in my younger days, and any body will tell us the way there. They
travelled for several hours in darkness and silence; and it was not till
they emerged from the forest that Adeline saw the morning light streak
the eastern clouds. The sight cheered and revived her; and as she
travelled silently along, her mind revolved the events of the past
night, and meditated plans for the future. The present kindness of La
Motte appeared so very different from his former conduct, that it
astonished and perplexed her; and she could only account for it by
attributing it to one of those sudden impulses of humanity which
sometimes operate even upon the most depraved hearts.

But when she recollected his former words--that he was not master of
himself--she could scarcely believe that mere pity could induce him to
break the bonds which had hitherto so strongly held him; and then,
considering the altered conduct of the Marquis, she was inclined to
think that she owed her liberty to some change in his sentiments towards
her: yet the advice La Motte had given her to quit the kingdom, and the
money with which he had supplied her for that purpose, seemed to
contradict this opinion, and involved her again in doubt.

Peter now got directions to Thiers, which place they reached without any
accident, and there stopped to refresh themselves. As soon as Peter
thought the horse sufficiently rested, they again set forward, and from
the rich plains of the Lyonnois, Adeline for the first time caught a
view of the distant Alps, whose majestic heads, seeming to prop the
vault of heaven, filled her mind with sublime emotions.

In a few hours they reached the vale in which stands the city of Lyons,
whose beautiful environs, studded with villas and rich with cultivation,
withdrew Adeline from the melancholy contemplation of her own
circumstances, and her more painful anxiety for Theodore.

When they reached that busy city, her first care was to inquire
concerning the passage of the Rhone; but she forbore to make these
inquiries of the people of the inn, considering that if the Marquis
should trace her thither, they might enable him to pursue her route.
She, therefore, sent Peter to the quays to hire a boat, while she
herself took a slight repast, it being her intention to embark
immediately. Peter presently returned, having engaged a boat and men to
take them up the Rhone to the nearest part of Savoy, from whence they
were to proceed by land to the village of Leloncourt.

Having taken some refreshment, she ordered him to conduct her to the
vessel. A new and striking scene presented itself to Adeline, who looked
with surprise upon the river, gay with vessels, and the quay crowded
with busy faces, and felt the contrast which the cheerful objects around
bore to herself--to her, an orphan, desolate, helpless, and flying from
persecution and her country. She spoke with the master of the boat; and
having sent Peter back to the inn for the horse, (La Motte's gift to
Peter in lieu of some arrears of wages,) they embarked.

As they slowly passed up the Rhone, whose steep banks, crowned with
mountains, exhibited the most various, wild, and romantic scenery,
Adeline sat in pensive reverie. The novelty of the scene through which
she floated, now frowning with savage grandeur, and now smiling in
fertility and gay with towns and villages, soothed her mind, and her
sorrow gradually softened into a gentle and not unpleasing melancholy.
She had seated herself at the head of the boat, where she watched its
sides cleave the swift stream, and listened to the dashing of the
waters.

The boat, slowly opposing the current, passed along for some hours, and
at length the veil of evening was stretched over the landscape. The
weather was fine, and Adeline, regardless of the dews that now fell,
remained in the open air, observing the objects darken round her, the
gay tints of the horizon fade away, and the stars gradually appear
trembling upon the lucid mirror of the waters. The scene was now sunk in
deep shadow, and the silence of the hour was broken only by the measured
dashing of the oars, and now and then by the voice of Peter speaking to
the boatmen. Adeline sat lost in thought--the forlornness of her
circumstances came heightened to her imagination.

She saw herself surrounded by the darkness and stillness of night, in a
strange place, far distant from any friends, going she scarcely knew
whither, under the guidance of strangers, and pursued, perhaps, by an
inveterate enemy. She pictured to herself the rage of the Marquis now
that he had discovered her flight; and though she knew it very unlikely
he should follow her by water, for which reason she had chosen that
manner of travelling, she trembled at the portrait her fancy drew. Her
thoughts then wandered to the plan she should adopt after reaching
Savoy; and much as her experience had prejudiced her against the manners
of a convent, she saw no place more likely to afford her a proper
asylum. At length she retired to the little cabin for a few hours
repose.

She awoke with the dawn: and her mind being too much disturbed to sleep
again, she rose and watched the gradual approach of day. As she mused,
she expressed the feelings of the moment in the following:


SONNET

Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose,
And wake the blushes of the rose,
That all night long oppress'd with dews,
And veil'd in chilly shade its hues,
Reclined, forlorn, the languid head,
And sadly sought its parent bed;
Warmth from her ray the trembling flower derives,
And, sweetly blushing, through its tears revives.

Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose,
And melt the tears that bend the rose;
But can their charms suppress the sigh,
Or chase the tear from Sorrow's eye?
Can all their lustrous light impart
One ray of peace to Sorrow's heart?
Ah! no; their fires her fainting soul oppress----
Eve's pensive shades more soothe her meek distress!


When Adeline left the abbey, La Motte had remained for some time at the
gate, listening to the steps of the horse that carried her, till the
sound was lost in distance: he then turned into the hall with a
lightness of heart to which he had long been a stranger. The
satisfaction of having thus preserved her, as he hoped, from the designs
of the Marquis, overcame for a while all sense of the danger in which
this step must involve him. But when he returned entirely to his own
situation, the terrors of the Marquis's resentment struck their full
force upon his mind, and he considered how he might best escape it.

It was now past midnight--the Marquis was expected early on the
following day; and in this interval it at first appeared probable to him
that he might quit the forest. There was only one horse; but he
considered whether it would be best to set off immediately for Auboine,
where a carriage might be procured to convey his family and his
moveables from the abbey, or quietly await the arrival of the Marquis,
and endeavour to impose upon him by a forged story of Adeline's escape.

The time which must elapse before a carriage could reach the abbey would
leave him scarcely sufficient to escape from the forest; what money he
had remaining from the Marquis's bounty would not carry him far; and
when it was expended he must probably be at a loss for subsistence,
should he not before then be detected. By remaining at the abbey it
would appear that he was unconscious of deserving the Marquis's
resentment; and though he could not expect to impress a belief upon him
that his orders had been executed, he might make it appear that Peter
only had been accessary to the escape of Adeline; an account which would
seem the more probable, from Peter's having been formerly detected in a
similar scheme. He believed, also, that if the Marquis should threaten
to deliver him into the hands of justice he might save himself by a
menace of disclosing the crime he had commissioned him to perpetrate.

Thus arguing, La Motte resolved to remain at the abbey, and await the
event of the Marquis's disappointment.

When the Marquis did arrive, and was informed of Adeline's flight, the
strong workings of his soul, which appeared in his countenance, for a
while alarmed and terrified La Motte. He cursed himself and her in terms
of such coarseness and vehemence, as La Motte was astonished to hear
from a man whose _manners_ were generally amiable, whatever might be the
violence and criminality of his passions. To invent and express these
terms seemed to give him not only relief, but delight; yet he appeared
more shocked at the circumstance of her escape than exasperated at the
carelessness of La Motte; and recollecting at length that he wasted
time, he left the abbey, and dispatched several of his servants in
pursuit of her.

When he was gone, La Motte, believing that his story had succeeded,
returned to the pleasure of considering that he had done his duty, and
to the hope that Adeline was now beyond the reach of pursuit. This calm
was of short continuance. In a few hours the Marquis returned,
accompanied by the officers of justice. The affrighted La Motte,
perceiving him approach, endeavoured to conceal himself, but was seized
and carried to the Marquis, who drew him aside.

I am not to be imposed upon, said he, by such a superficial story as you
have invented; you know your life is in my hands; tell me instantly
where you have secreted Adeline, or I will charge you with the crime you
have committed against me; but upon your disclosing the place of her
concealment I will dismiss the officers and, if you wish it, assist you
to leave the kingdom. You have no time to hesitate, and may know that I
will not be trifled with. La Motte attempted to appease the Marquis, and
affirmed that Adeline was really fled he knew not whither. You will
remember, my Lord, that your character is also in my power; and that, if
you proceed to extremities, you will compel me to reveal in the face of
day that you would have made me a murderer.

And who will believe you? said the Marquis. The crimes that banished you
from society will be no testimony of your veracity, and that with which
I now charge you will bring with it a sufficient presumption that your
accusation is malicious. Officers, do your duty.

They then entered the room and seized La Motte, whom terror now deprived
of all power of resistance, could resistance have availed him; and in
the perturbation of his mind he informed the Marquis that Adeline had
taken the road to Lyons. This discovery, however, was made too late to
serve himself; the Marquis seized the advantage it offered: but the
charge had been given; and with the anguish of knowing that he had
exposed Adeline to danger without benefiting himself, La Motte submitted
in silence to his fate. Scarcely allowing him time to collect what
little effects might easily be carried with him, the officers conveyed
him from the abbey: but the Marquis, in consideration of the extreme
distress of Madame La Motte, directed one of his servants to procure a
carriage from Auboine, that she might follow her husband.

The Marquis in the mean time, now acquainted with the route Adeline had
taken, sent forward his faithful valet to trace her to her place of
concealment, and return immediately with intelligence to the villa.

Abandoned to despair, La Motte and his wife quitted the forest of
Fontanville, which had for so many months afforded them an asylum, and
embarked once more upon the tumultuous world, where justice would meet
La Motte in the form of destruction. They had entered the forest as a
refuge, rendered necessary by the former crimes of La Motte, and for
sometime found in it the security they sought: but other offences, for
even in that sequestered spot there happened to be temptation, soon
succeeded; and his life, already sufficiently marked by the punishment
of vice, now afforded him another instance of this great truth, "That
where guilt is, there peace cannot enter."




CHAPTER XVI


Hail awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose!

BEATTIE.


Adeline meanwhile, and Peter, proceeded on their voyage without any
accident, and landed in Savoy, where Peter placed her upon the horse,
and himself walked beside her. When he came within sight of his native
mountains, his extravagant joy burst forth into frequent exclamations,
and he would often ask Adeline if she had ever seen such _hills_ in
France. No, no, said he, the hills there are very well for French hills,
but they are not to be named on the same day with ours. Adeline, lost in
admiration of the astonishing and tremendous scenery around her,
assented very warmly to the truth of Peter's assertion, which encouraged
him to expatiate more largely upon the advantages of his country; its
disadvantages he totally forgot; and though he gave away his last sous
to the children of the peasantry that ran barefooted by the side of the
horse, he spoke of nothing but the happiness and content of the
inhabitants.

His native village, indeed, was an exception to the general character of
the country, and to the usual effects of an arbitrary government; it was
flourishing, healthy, and happy; and these advantages it chiefly owed to
the activity and attention of the benevolent clergyman whose cure it
was.

Adeline, who now began to feel the effects of long anxiety and fatigue,
much wished to arrive at the end of her journey, and inquired
impatiently of Peter concerning it. Her spirits thus weakened, the
gloomy grandeur of the scenes which had so lately awakened emotions of
delightful sublimity, now awed her into terror; she trembled at the
sound of the torrents rolling among the cliffs and thundering in the
vale below, and shrunk from the view of the precipices, which sometimes
overhung the road and at others appeared beneath it. Fatigued as she
was, she frequently dismounted to climb on foot the steep flinty road,
which she feared to travel on horseback.

The day was closing when they drew near a small village at the foot of
the Savoy Alps; and the sun, in all his evening splendour, now sinking
behind their summits, threw a farewell gleam athwart the landscape so
soft and glowing as drew from Adeline, languid as she was, an
exclamation of rapture.

The romantic situation of the village next attracted her notice. It
stood at the foot of several stupendous mountains, which formed a chain
round a lake at some little distance, and the woods that swept from
their summits almost embosomed the village. The lake, unruffled by the
lightest air, reflected the vermeil tints of the horizon with the
sublime on its borders, darkening every instant with the falling
twilight.

When Peter perceived the village, he burst into a shout of joy. Thank
God, said he, we are near home; there is my dear native place: it looks
just as it did twenty years ago: and there are the same old trees
growing round our cottage yonder, and the huge rock that rises above it.
My poor father died there, Ma'mselle. Pray Heaven my sister be alive! it
is a long while since I saw her. Adeline listened with a melancholy
pleasure to these artless expressions of Peter, who in retracing the
scenes of his former days seemed to live them over again. As they
approached the village, he continued to point out various objects of his
remembrance. And there too is the good pastor's chateau; look,
Ma'mselle, that white house with the smoke curling, that stands on the
edge of the lake yonder. I wonder whether he is alive yet: he was not
old when I left the place, and as much beloved as ever man was; but
death spares nobody!

[Illustration 07]

They had by this time reached the village, which was extremely neat,
though it did not promise much accommodation. Peter had hardly advanced
ten steps before he was accosted by some of his old acquaintance, who
shook hands, and seemed not to know how to part with him. He inquired
for his sister, and was told she was alive and well. As they passed on,
so many of his old friends flocked round him, that Adeline became quite
weary of the delay. Many whom he had left in the vigour of life were now
tottering under the infirmities of age, while their sons and daughters,
whom he had known only in the playfulness of infancy, were grown from
his remembrance, and in the pride of youth. At length they approached
the cottage, and were met by his sister, who having heard of his
arrival, came and welcomed him with unfeigned joy.

On seeing Adeline, she seemed surprised, but assisted her to alight; and
conducting her into a small but neat cottage, received her with a warmth
of ready kindness which would have graced a better situation. Adeline
desired to speak with her alone, for the room was now crowded with
Peter's friends; and then acquainting her with such particulars of her
circumstances as it was necessary to communicate, desired to know if she
could be accommodated with lodging in the cottage. Yes, Ma'mselle, said
the good woman, such as it is, you are heartily welcome: I am only sorry
it is not better. But you seem ill Ma'mselle; what shall I get you?

Adeline, who had been long struggling with fatigue and indisposition,
now yielded to their pressure. She said she was indeed ill; but hoped
that rest would restore her, and desired a bed might be immediately
prepared. The good woman went out to obey her, and soon returning showed
her to a little cabin, where she retired to a bed whose cleanliness was
its only recommendation.

But notwithstanding her fatigue, she could not sleep; and her mind, in
spite of all her efforts, returned to the scenes that were passed, or
presented gloomy and imperfect visions of the future.

The difference between her own condition and that of other persons,
educated as she had been, struck her forcibly, and she wept. They, said
she, have friends and relations, all striving to save them not only from
what may hurt, but what may displease them; watching not only for their
present safety, but for their future advantage, and preventing them even
from injuring themselves. But during my whole life I have never known a
friend; have been in general surrounded by enemies, and very seldom
exempt from some circumstance either of danger or calamity. Yet surely I
am not born to be for ever wretched; the time will come when----She
began to think she might one time be happy; but recollecting the
desperate situation of Theodore,--No, said she, I can never hope even
for peace!

Early the following morning the good woman of the house came to inquire
how she had rested; and found she had slept little, and was much worse
than on the preceding night. The uneasiness of her mind contributed to
heighten the feverish symptoms that attended her, and in the course of
the day her disorder began to assume a serious aspect. She observed its
progress with composure, resigning herself to the will of God, and
feeling little to regret in life. Her kind hostess did every thing in
her power to relieve her, and there was neither physician nor apothecary
in the village, so that nature was deprived of none of her advantages.
Notwithstanding this, the disorder rapidly increased, and on the third
day from its first attack she became delirious, after which she sunk
into a state of stupefaction.

How long she remained in this deplorable condition she knew not; but on
recovering her senses she found herself in an apartment very different
from any she remembered. It was spacious and almost beautiful, the bed
and every thing around being in one style of elegant simplicity. For
some minutes she lay in a trance of surprise, endeavouring to recollect
her scattered ideas of the past, and almost fearing to move lest the
pleasing vision should vanish from her eyes.

At length she ventured to raise herself, when she presently heard a soft
voice speaking near her, and the bed curtain on one side was gently
undrawn by a beautiful girl. As she leaned forward over the bed, and
with a smile of mingled tenderness and joy inquired of her patient how
she did. Adeline gazed in silent admiration upon the most interesting
female countenance she had ever seen, in which the expression of
sweetness, united with lively sense and refinement, was chastened by
simplicity.

Adeline at length recollected herself sufficiently to thank her kind
inquirer, and begged to know to whom she was obliged, and where she was?
The lovely girl pressed her hand, 'Tis we who are obliged, said she. Oh!
how I rejoice to find that you have recovered your recollection! She
said no more, but flew to the door of the apartment, and disappeared. In
a few minutes she returned with an elderly lady, who approaching the bed
with an air of tender interest, asked concerning the state of Adeline;
to which the latter replied as well as the agitation of her spirits
would permit, and repeated her desire of knowing to whom she was so
greatly obliged. You shall know that hereafter, said the lady; at
present be assured that you are with those who will think their care
much overpaid by your recovery; submit, therefore, to every thing that
may conduce to it, and consent to be kept as quiet as possible.

Adeline gratefully smiled and bowed her head in silent assent. The lady
now quitted the room for a medicine; having given which to Adeline, the
curtain was closed and she was left to repose. But her thoughts were too
busy to suffer her to profit by the opportunity:--she contemplated the
past and viewed the present; and when she compared them, the contrast
struck her with astonishment: the whole appeared like one of those
sudden transitions so frequent in dreams, in which we pass from grief
and despair, we know not how, to comfort and delight.

Yet she looked forward to the future with a trembling anxiety that
threatened to retard her recovery, and which when she remembered the
words of her generous benefactress, she endeavoured to suppress. Had she
better known the disposition of the persons in whose house she now was,
her anxiety, as far as it regarded herself, must in a great measure have
been done away; for La Luc, its owner, was one of those rare characters
to whom misfortune seldom looks in vain, and whose native goodness,
confirmed by principle, is uniform and unassuming in its acts. The
following little picture of his domestic life, his family, and his
manners, will more fully illustrate his character. It was drawn from the
life, and its exactness will, it is hoped, compensate for its length.


THE FAMILY OF LA LUC.

But half mankind, like Handel's fool, destroy,
Through rage and ignorance, the strain of joy;
Irregularly wild, the passions roll
Through Nature's finest instrument, the soul:--
While men of sense, with Handel's happier skill,
Correct the taste and harmonize the will;
Teach their affections like his notes to flow,
Nor raised too high, nor ever sunk too low;
Till every virtue, measured and refined,
As fits the concert of the master mind,
Melts in its kindred sounds, and pours along
Th' according music of the moral song.

CAWTHORNE.


In the village of Leloncourt, celebrated for its picturesque situation
at the foot of the Savoy Alps, lived Arnaud La Luc, a clergyman
descended from an ancient family of France, whose decayed fortunes
occasioned them to seek a retreat in Switzerland, in an age when the
violence of civil commotion seldom spared the conquered. He was minister
of the village, and equally loved for the piety and benevolence of the
Christian, as respected for the dignity and elevation of the
philosopher. His was the philosophy of nature, directed by common sense.
He despised the jargon of the modern schools, and the brilliant
absurdities of systems which dazzled without enlightening, and guided
without convincing their disciples.

His mind was penetrating; his views extensive; and his systems, like his
religion, were simple, rational, and sublime. The people of his parish
looked up to him as to a father; for while his precepts directed their
minds, his example touched their hearts.

In early youth La Luc lost a wife whom he tenderly loved. This event
threw a tincture of soft and interesting melancholy over his character,
which remained when time had mellowed the remembrance that occasioned
it. Philosophy had strengthened, not hardened, his heart; it enabled him
to resist the pressure of affliction, rather than to overcome it.

Calamity taught him to feel with peculiar sympathy the distresses of
others. His income from the parish was small, and what remained from the
divided and reduced estates of his ancestors did not much increase it;
but though he could not always relieve the necessities of the indigent,
his tender pity and holy conversation seldom failed in administering
consolation to the mental sufferer. On these occasions the sweet and
exquisite emotions of his heart have often induced him to say, that
could the voluptuary be once sensible of these feelings, he would never
after forego the luxury of doing good. Ignorance of true pleasure, he
would say, more frequently than temptation to that which is false, leads
to vice.

La Luc had one son and a daughter, who were too young when their mother
died to lament their loss. He loved them with peculiar tenderness, as
the children of her whom he never ceased to deplore; and it was for some
time his sole amusement to observe the gradual unfolding of their infant
minds, and to bend them to virtue. His was the deep and silent sorrow of
the heart: his complaints he never obtruded upon others, and very seldom
did he even mention his wife. His grief was too sacred for the eye of
the vulgar. Often he retired to the deep solitude of the mountains, and
amid their solemn and tremendous scenery would brood over the
remembrance of times past, and resign himself to the luxury of grief. On
his return from these little excursions he was always more placid and
contented. A sweet tranquillity, which arose almost to happiness, was
diffused over his mind, and his manners were more than usually
benevolent. As he gazed on his children, and fondly kissed them, a tear
would sometimes steal into his eye: but it was a tear of tender regret,
unmingled with the darker qualities of sorrow, and was most precious to
his heart.

On the death of his wife he received into his house a maiden sister, a
sensible, worthy woman, who was deeply interested in the happiness of
her brother. Her affectionate attention and judicious conduct
anticipated the effect of time in softening the poignancy of his
distress; and her unremitted care of his children, while it proved the
goodness of her own heart, attracted her more closely to his.

It was with inexpressible pleasure that he traced in the infant features
of Clara the resemblance of her mother. The same gentleness of manner
and the same sweetness of disposition soon displayed themselves; and as
she grew up, her actions frequently reminded him so strongly of his lost
wife as to fix him in reveries, which absorbed all his soul.

Engaged in the duties of his parish, the education of his children, and
in philosophic research, his years passed in tranquillity. The tender
melancholy with which affliction had tinctured his mind, was by long
indulgence become dear to him, and he would not have relinquished it for
the brightest dream of airy happiness. When any passing incident
disturbed him, he retired for consolation to the idea of her he so
faithfully loved, and yielding to a gentle, and what the world would
call a romantic, sadness, gradually reassumed his composure.
This was the secret luxury to which he withdrew from temporary
disappointment--the solitary enjoyment which dissipated the cloud of
care, and blunted the sting of vexation--which elevated his mind above
this world, and opened to his view the sublimity of another.

The spot he now inhabited, the surrounding scenery, the romantic
beauties of the neighbouring walks, were dear to La Luc, for they had
once been loved by Clara; they had been the scenes of her tenderness,
and of his happiness.

His chateau stood on the borders of a small lake that was almost
environed by mountains of stupendous height, which, shooting into a
variety of grotesque forms, composed a scenery singularly solemn and
sublime. Dark woods intermingled with bold projections of rock,
sometimes barren and sometimes covered with the purple bloom of wild
flowers, impended over the lake, and were seen in the clear mirror of
its waters. The wild and alpine heights which rose above, were either
crowned with perpetual snows, or exhibited tremendous crags and masses
of solid rock, whose appearance was continually changing as the rays of
light were variously reflected on their surface, and whose summits were
often wrapt in impenetrable mists. Some cottages and hamlets, scattered
on the margin of the lake or seated in picturesque points of view on the
rocks above, were the only objects that reminded the beholder of
humanity.

On the side of the lake, nearly opposite to the chateau, the mountains
receded, and a long chain of Alps was seen stretching in perspective.
Their innumerable tints and shades, some veiled in blue mists, some
tinged with rich purple, and others glittering in partial light, gave
luxurious and magical colouring to the scene.

The chateau was not large, but it was convenient, and was characterized
by an air of elegant simplicity and good order. The entrance was a small
hall, which opening by a glass door into the garden, afforded a view of
the lake, with the magnificent scenery exhibited on its borders. On the
left of the hall was La Luc's study, where he usually passed his
mornings; and adjoining was a small room fitted up with chemical
apparatus, astronomical instruments, and other implements of science. On
the right hand was the family parlour, and behind it a room which
belonged exclusively to Madame La Luc. Here were deposited various
medicines and botanical distillations, together with the apparatus for
preparing them. From this room the whole village was liberally supplied
with medicinal comfort; for it was the pride of Madame to believe
herself skilful in relieving the disorders of her neighbours.

Behind the chateau rose a tuft of pines, and in front a gentle
declivity, covered with verdure and flowers, extended to the lake, whose
waters flowed even with the grass, and gave freshness to the acacias
that waved over its surface. Flowering shrubs, intermingled with
mountain-ash, cypress, and ever-green oak, marked the boundary of the
garden.

At the return of spring it was Clara's care to direct the young shoots
of the plants, to nurse the budding flowers, and to shelter them with
the luxuriant branches of the shrubs from the cold blasts that descended
from the mountains. In summer she usually rose with the sun, and visited
her favourite flowers while the dew yet hung glittering on their leaves.
The freshness of early day, with the glowing colouring which then
touched the scenery, gave a pure and exquisite delight to her innocent
heart. Born amid scenes of grandeur and sublimity, she had quickly
imbibed a taste for their charms, which taste was heightened by the
influence of a warm imagination. To view the sun rising above the Alps,
tinging their snowy heads with light, and suddenly darting his rays over
the whole face of nature--to see the fiery splendour of the clouds
reflected in the lake below, and the roseate tints first steal upon the
rocks above--were among the earliest pleasures of which Clara was
susceptible. From being delighted with the observance of nature, she
grew pleased with seeing her finely imitated, and soon displayed a taste
for poetry and painting. When she was about sixteen she often selected
from her father's library those of the Italian poets most celebrated for
picturesque beauty, and would spend the first hours of morning in
reading them under the shade of the acacias that bordered the lake. Here
too she would often attempt rude sketches of the surrounding scenery;
and at length by repeated efforts, assisted by some instruction from her
brother she succeeded so well as to produce twelve drawings in crayon,
which were judged worthy of decorating the parlour of the chateau.

Young La Luc played the flute, and she listened to him with exquisite
delight, particularly when he stood on the margin of the lake, under her
beloved acacias. Her voice was sweet and flexible, though not strong,
and she soon learned to modulate it to the instrument. She knew nothing
of the intricacies of execution; her airs were simple, and her style
equally so; but she soon gave them a touching expression, inspired by
the sensibility of her heart, which seldom left those of her hearers
unaffected.

It was the happiness of La Luc to see his children happy; and in one of
his excursions to Geneva, whither he went to visit some relations of his
late wife, he bought Clara a lute. She received it with more gratitude
than she could express; and having learned one air, she hastened to her
favourite acacias, and played it again and again till she forgot every
thing besides. Her little domestic duties, her books, her drawing, even
the hour which her father dedicated to her improvement, when she met her
brother in the library, and with him partook of knowledge, even this
hour passed unheeded by. La Luc suffered it to pass. Madame was
displeased that her niece neglected her domestic duties, and wished to
reprove her, but La Luc begged she would be silent. Let experience teach
her her error, said he, precept seldom brings conviction to young minds.

Madame objected that experience was a slow teacher. It is a sure one,
replied La Luc, and is not unfrequently the quickest of all teachers:
when it cannot lead us into serious evil, it is well to trust to it.

The second day passed with Clara as the first, and the third as the
second. She could now play several tunes; she came to her father and
repeated what she had learnt.

At supper the cream was not dressed, and there was no fruit on the
table. La Luc inquired the reason; Clara recollected it, and blushed.
She observed that her brother was absent, but nothing was said. Toward
the conclusion of the repast he appeared; his countenance expressed
unusual satisfaction, but he seated himself in silence. Clara inquired
what had detained him from supper, and learnt that he had been to a sick
family in the neighbourhood with the weekly allowance which her father
gave them. La Luc had intrusted the care of this family to his daughter,
and it was her duty to have carried them their little allowance on the
preceding day, but she had forgotten every thing but music.

How did you find the woman? said La Luc to his son. Worse, Sir, he
replied; for her medicines had not been regularly given and the children
had had little or no food to-day.

Clara was shocked. No food to-day! said she to herself; and I have been
playing all day on my lute, under the acacias by the lake! Her father
did not seem to observe her emotion, but turned to his son. I left her
better, said the latter; the medicines I carried eased her pain, and I
had the pleasure to see her children make a joyful supper.

Clara, perhaps, for the first time in her life, envied him his pleasure;
her heart was full, and she sat silent. No food to-day! thought she.

She retired pensively to her chamber. The sweet serenity with which she
usually went to rest was vanished, for she could no longer reflect on
the past day with satisfaction.

What a pity, said she, that what is so pleasing should be the cause of
so much pain! This lute is my delight, and my torment! This reflection
occasioned her much internal debate; but before she could come to any
resolution upon the point in question, she fell asleep.

She awoke very early the next morning, and impatiently watched the
progress of the dawn. The sun at length appearing, she arose, and
determined to make all the atonement in her power for her former
neglect, hastened to the cottage.

Here she remained a considerable time, and when she returned to the
chateau, her countenance had recovered all its usual serenity. She
resolved, however, not to touch her lute that day.

Till the hour of breakfast she busied herself in binding up the flowers
and pruning the shoots that were too luxuriant, and she at length found
herself, she scarcely knew how, beneath her beloved acacias by the side
of the lake. Ah! said she with a sigh, how sweetly would the song I
learned yesterday sound now over the waters! But she remembered her
determination, and checked the step she was involuntarily taking towards
the chateau.

She attended her father in the library at the usual hour, and learned
from his discourse with her brother on what had been read the two
preceding days, that she had lost much entertaining knowledge. She
requested her father would inform her to what this conversation alluded;
but he calmly replied, that she had preferred another amusement at the
time when the subject was discussed, and must therefore content herself
with ignorance. You would reap the rewards of study from the amusements
of idleness, said he; learn to be reasonable--do not expect to unite
inconsistencies.

Clara felt the justness of this rebuke, and remembered her lute. What
mischief has it occasioned! sighed she. Yes, I am determined not to
touch it at all this day. I will prove that I am able to control my
inclinations when I see it is necessary so to do. Thus resolving, she
applied herself to study with more than usual assiduity.

She adhered to her resolution, and towards the close of the day went
into the garden to amuse herself. The evening was still and uncommonly
beautiful. Nothing was heard but the faint shivering of the leaves,
which returned but at intervals, making silence more solemn, and the
distant murmurs of the torrents that rolled among the cliffs. As she
stood by the lake, and watched the sun slowly sinking below the Alps,
whose summits were tinged with gold and purple; as she saw the last rays
of light gleam upon the waters, whose surface was not curled by the
slightest air, she sighed, oh! how enchanting would be the sound of my
lute at this moment, on this spot, and when every thing is so still
around me!

The temptation was too powerful for the resolution of Clara: she ran to
the chateau, returned with the instrument to her dear acacias, and
beneath their shade continued to play till the surrounding objects faded
in darkness from her sight. But the moon rose, and shedding a trembling
lustre on the lake, made the scene more captivating than ever.

It was impossible to quit so delightful a spot; Clara repeated her
favourite airs again and again. The beauty of the hour awakened all her
genius; she never played with such expression before, and she listened
with increasing rapture to the tones as they languished over the waters
and died away on the distant air. She was perfectly enchanted--no!
nothing was ever so delightful as to play on the lute beneath her
acacias, on the margin of the lake, by moonlight!

When she returned to the chateau, supper was over. La Luc had observed
Clara, and would not suffer her to be interrupted.

When the enthusiasm of the hour was passed, she recollected that she had
broken her resolution, and the reflection gave her pain. I prided myself
on controlling my inclinations, said she, and I have weakly yielded to
their direction. But what evil have I incurred by indulging them this
evening? I have neglected no duty, for I had none to perform. Of what
then have I to accuse myself? It would have been absurd to have kept my
resolution, and denied myself a pleasure when there appeared no reason
for this self-denial.

She paused, not quite satisfied with this reasoning. Suddenly resuming
her inquiry, But how, said she, am I certain that I should have resisted
my inclinations if there _had_ been a reason for opposing them? If the
poor family whom I neglected yesterday had been unsupplied to-day, I
fear I should again have forgotten them while I played on my lute on the
banks of the lake.

She then recollected all that her father had at different times said on
the subject of self-command, and she felt some pain.

No, said she, if I do not consider that to preserve a resolution, which
I have once solemnly formed, is a sufficient reason to control my
inclinations, I fear no other motive would long restrain me. I seriously
determined not to touch my lute this whole day, and I have broken my
resolution. To-morrow perhaps I may be tempted to neglect some duty, for
I have discovered that I cannot rely on my own prudence. Since I cannot
conquer temptation, I will fly from it.

On the following morning she brought her lute to La Luc, and begged he
would receive it again, and at least keep it till she had taught her
inclinations to submit to control.

The heart of La Luc swelled as she spoke. No, Clara, said he, it is
unnecessary that I should receive your lute; the sacrifice you would
make proves you worthy of my confidence. Take back the instrument; since
you have sufficient resolution to resign it when it leads you from duty,
I doubt not that you will be able to control its influence now that it
is restored to you.

Clara felt a degree of pleasure and pride at these words, such as she
had never before experienced; but she thought, that to deserve the
commendation they bestowed, it was necessary to complete the sacrifice
she had begun. In the virtuous enthusiasm of the moment the delights of
music were forgotten in those of aspiring to well-earned praise; and
when she refused the lute thus offered, she was conscious only of
exquisite sensations. Dear Sir, said she, tears of pleasure, swelling in
her eyes, allow me to deserve the praises you bestow, and then I shall
indeed be happy.

La Luc thought she had never resembled her mother so much as at this
instant, and tenderly kissing her, he for some moments wept in silence.
When he was able to speak, You do already deserve my praises, said he,
and I restore your lute as a reward for the conduct which excites them.
This scene called back recollections too tender for the heart of La Luc,
and giving Clara the instrument, he abruptly quitted the room.

La Luc's son, a youth of much promise, was designed by his father for
the church, and had received from him an excellent education, which,
however, it was thought necessary he should finish at an university.
That of Geneva was fixed upon by La Luc. His scheme had been to make his
son not a scholar only; he was ambitious that he should also be enviable
as a man. From early infancy he had accustomed him to hardihood and
endurance, and as he advanced in youth, he encouraged him in manly
exercises, and acquainted him with the useful arts as well as with
abstract science.

He was high-spirited and ardent in his temper, but his heart was
generous and affectionate. He looked forward to Geneva, and to the new
world it would disclose, with the sanguine expectations of youth; and in
the delight of these expectations was absorbed the regret he would
otherways have felt at a separation from his family.

A brother of the late Madame La Luc, who was by birth an Englishman,
resided at Geneva with his family. To have been related to his wife was
a sufficient claim upon the heart of La Luc, and he had therefore always
kept up an intercourse with Mr. Audley, though the difference in their
characters and manner of thinking would never permit this association to
advance into friendship. La Luc now wrote to him, signifying an
intention of sending his son to Geneva, and recommending him to his
care. To this letter Mr. Audley returned a friendly answer; and a short
time after, an acquaintance of La Luc's being called to Geneva, he
determined that his son should accompany him. The separation was painful
to La Luc, and almost insupportable to Clara. Madame was grieved, and
took care that he should have a sufficient quantity of medicines put up
in his travelling trunk; she was also at some pains to point out their
virtues, and the different complaints for which they were requisite; but
she was careful to deliver her lecture during the absence of her
brother.

La Luc, with his daughter, accompanied his son on horseback to the next
town, which was about eight miles from Leloncourt; and there again
enforcing all the advice he had formerly given him respecting his
conduct and pursuits, and again yielding to the tender weakness of the
father, he bade him farewell. Clara wept, and felt more sorrow at this
parting than the occasion could justify; but this was almost the first
time she had known grief, and she artlessly yielded to its influence.

La Luc and Clara travelled pensively back, and the day was closing when
they came within view of the lake, and soon after of the chateau. Never
had it appeared gloomy till now; but now Clara wandered forlornly
through every deserted apartment where she had been accustomed to see
her brother, and recollected a thousand little circumstances which, had
he been present, she would have thought immaterial, but on which
imagination now stamped a value. The garden, the scenes around, all wore
a melancholy aspect, and it was long ere they resumed their natural
character and Clara recovered her vivacity.

Near four years had elapsed since this separation, when one evening, as
Madame La Luc and her niece were sitting at work together in the
parlour, a good woman in the neighbourhood desired to be admitted. She
came to ask for some medicines, and the advice of Madame La Luc. Here is
a sad accident happened at our house, Madame, said she; I am sure my
heart aches for the poor young creature.--Madame La Luc desired she
would explain herself, and the woman proceeded to say that her brother
Peter, whom she had not seen for so many years, was arrived, and had
brought a young lady to her cottage, who she verily believed was dying.
She described her disorder, and acquainted Madame with what particulars
of her mournful story Peter had related, failing not to exaggerate such
as her compassion for the unhappy stranger and her love of the
marvellous prompted.

The account appeared a very extraordinary one to Madame; but pity for
the forlorn condition of the young sufferer induced her to inquire
further into the affair. Do let me go to her, Madame, said Clara, who
had been listening with ready compassion to the poor woman's narrative:
Do suffer me to go--she must want comforts, and I wish much to see how
she is. Madame asked some further questions concerning her disorder, and
then, taking off her spectacles, she rose from her chair, and said she
would go herself. Clara desired to accompany her. They put on their hats
and followed the good woman to the cottage, where, in a very small close
room, on a miserable bed, lay Adeline, pale, emaciated, and unconscious
of all around her. Madame turned to the woman, and asked how long she
had been in this way, while Clara went up to the bed, and taking the
almost lifeless hand that lay on the quilt, looked anxiously in her
face. She observes nothing, said she, poor creature! I wish she was at
the chateau, she would be better accommodated, and I could nurse her
there. The woman told Madame La Luc that the young lady had lain in that
state for several hours. Madame examined her pulse, and shook her head.
This room is very close, said she.--Very close indeed, cried Clara
eagerly; surely she would be better at the chateau, if she could be
moved.

We will see about that, said her aunt. In the mean time let me speak to
Peter; it is some years since I saw him. She went to the outer room, and
the woman ran out of the cottage to look for him. When she was gone,
This is a miserable habitation for the poor stranger, said Clara; she
will never be well here: do, Madame, let her be carried to our house; I
am sure my father would wish it. Besides, there is something in her
features, even inanimate as they now are, that prejudices me in her
favour.

Shall I never persuade you to give up that romantic notion of judging
people by their faces? said her aunt. What sort of a face she has is of
very little consequence--her condition is lamentable, and I am desirous
of altering it; but I wish first to ask Peter a few questions concerning
her.

Thank you, my dear aunt, said Clara; she will be removed then. Madame La
Luc was going to reply; but Peter now entered, and expressing great joy
at seeing her again, inquired how Monsieur La Luc and Clara did. Clara
immediately welcomed honest Peter to his native place, and he returned
her salutation with many expressions of surprise at finding her _so much
grown_. Though I have so often dandled you in my arms, Ma'mselle, I
should never have known you again: Young twigs shoot fast, as they say.

Madame La Luc now inquired into the particulars of Adeline's story; and
heard as much as Peter knew of it, being only that his late master found
her in a very distressed situation, and that he had himself brought her
from the abbey to save her from a French Marquis. The simplicity of
Peter's manner would not suffer her to question his veracity, though
some of the circumstances he related excited all her surprise and
awakened all her pity. Tears frequently stood in Clara's eyes during the
course of his narrative; and when he concluded, she said, Dear Madame,
I am sure when my father learns the history of this unhappy young woman
he will not refuse to be a parent to her, and I will be her sister.

She deserves it all, said Peter, for she is very good indeed. He then
proceeded in a strain of praise which was very unusual with him.--I will
go home and consult with my brother about her, said Madame La Luc,
rising: she certainly ought to be removed to a more airy room. The
chateau is so near, that I think she may be carried thither without much
risk.

Heaven bless you! Madam, cried Peter, rubbing his hands, for your
goodness to my poor young lady.

La Luc had just returned from his evening walk when they reached the
chateau. Madame told him where she had been, and related the history of
Adeline and her present condition.--By all means have her removed
hither, said La Luc, whose eyes bore testimony to the tenderness of his
heart: she can be better attended to here than in Susan's cottage.

I knew you would say so, my dear father, said Clara: I will go and order
the green bed to be prepared for her.

Be patient, niece, said Madame La Luc; there is no occasion for such
haste: some things are to be considered first; but you are young and
romantic.--La Luc smiled.--The evening is now closed, resumed Madame; it
will therefore be dangerous to remove her before morning. Early
to-morrow a room shall be got ready, and she shall be brought here; in
the mean time I will go and make up a medicine which I hope may be of
service to her.--Clara reluctantly assented to this delay, and Madame La
Luc retired to her closet.

On the following morning Adeline, wrapped in blankets and sheltered as
much as possible from the air, was brought to the chateau, where the
good La Luc desired she might have every attention paid her, and where
Clara watched over her with unceasing anxiety and tenderness. She
remained in a state of torpor during the greater part of the day, but
towards evening she breathed more freely; and Clara, who still watched
by her bed, had at length the pleasure of perceiving that her senses
were restored. It was at this moment that she found herself in the
situation from which we have digressed to give this account of the
venerable La Luc and his family. The reader will find that his virtues
and his friendship to Adeline deserved this notice.




CHAPTER XVII


Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind.
And points the bleeding friend.

COLLINS.


Adeline, assisted by a fine constitution, and the kind attentions of her
new friends, was in a little more than a week so much recovered as to
leave her chamber. She was introduced to La Luc, whom she met with tears
of gratitude, and thanked for his goodness in a manner so warm, yet so
artless, as interested him still more in her favour. During the progress
of her recovery, the sweetness of her behaviour had entirely won the
heart of Clara, and greatly interested that of her aunt, whose reports
of Adeline, together with the praises bestowed by Clara, had excited
both esteem and curiosity in the breast of La Luc; and he now met her
with an expression of benignity which spoke peace and comfort to her
heart. She had acquainted Madame La Luc with such particulars of her
story as Peter, either through ignorance or inattention, had not
communicated, suppressing only, through a false delicacy perhaps, an
acknowledgment of her attachment to Theodore. These circumstances were
repeated to La Luc, who, ever sensible to the sufferings of others, was
particularly interested by the singular misfortunes of Adeline.

Near a fortnight had elapsed since her removal to the chateau, when one
morning La Luc desired to speak with her alone. She followed him into
his study, and then in a manner the most delicate he told her, that as
he found she was so unfortunate in her father, he desired she would
henceforth consider him as her parent, and his house as her home. You
and Clara shall be equally my daughters, continued he; I am rich in
having such children. The strong emotions of surprise and gratitude for
some time kept Adeline silent. Do not thank me, said La Luc; I know all
you would say, and I know also that I am but doing my duty: I thank God
that my duty and my pleasures are generally in unison. Adeline wiped
away the tears which his goodness had excited, and was going to speak;
but La Luc pressed her hand, and turning away to conceal his emotion,
walked out of the room.

Adeline was now considered as a part of the family; and in the parental
kindness of La Luc, the sisterly affection of Clara, and the steady and
uniform regard of Madame, she would have been happy as she was thankful,
had not unceasing anxiety for the fate of Theodore, of whom in this
solitude she was less likely than ever to hear, corroded her heart, and
embittered every moment of reflection. Even when sleep obliterated for
awhile the memory of the past, his image frequently arose to her fancy,
accompanied by all the exaggerations of terror. She saw him in chains,
and struggling in the grasp of ruffians, or saw him led, amidst the
dreadful preparations for execution, into the field: she saw the agony
of his look, and heard him repeat her name in frantic accents, till the
horrors of the scene overcame her and she awoke.

A similarity of taste and character attached her to Clara; yet the
misery that preyed upon her heart was of a nature too delicate to be
spoken of, and she never mentioned Theodore even to her friend. Her
illness had yet left her weak and languid, and the perpetual anxiety of
her mind contributed to prolong this state. She endeavoured by strong
and almost continual efforts to abstract her thoughts from their
mournful subject, and was often successful. La Luc had an excellent
library, and the instruction it offered at once gratified her love of
knowledge, and withdrew her mind from painful recollections. His
conversation too afforded her another refuge from misery.

But her chief amusement was to wander among the sublime scenery of the
adjacent country, sometimes with Clara, though often with no other
companion than a book. There were indeed times when the conversation of
her friend imposed a painful restraint, and, when, given up to
reflection, she would ramble alone through scenes whose solitary
grandeur assisted and soothed the melancholy of her heart. Here she
would retrace all the conduct of her beloved Theodore, and endeavour to
recollect his exact countenance, his air and manner. Now she would weep
at the remembrance, and then, suddenly considering that he had perhaps
already suffered an ignominious death for her sake, even in consequence
of the very action which had proved his love, a dreadful despair would
seize her, and, arresting her tears, would threaten to bear down every
barrier that fortitude and reason could oppose.

Fearing longer to trust her own thoughts, she would hurry home, and by a
desperate effort would try to lose, in the conversation of La Luc, the
remembrance of the past. Her melancholy, when he observed it, La Luc
attributed to a sense of the cruel treatment she had received from her
father; a circumstance which, by exciting his compassion, endeared her
more strongly to his heart; while that love of rational conversation,
which in her calmer hours so frequently appeared, opened to him a new
source of amusement in the cultivation of a mind eager for knowledge,
and susceptible of all the energies of genius. She found a melancholy
pleasure in listening to the soft tones of Clara's lute, and would often
soothe her mind by attempting to repeat the airs she heard.

The gentleness of her manners, partaking so much of that pensive
character which marked La Luc's, was soothing to his heart, and
tinctured his behaviour with a degree of tenderness that imparted
comfort to her, and gradually won her entire confidence and affection.
She saw with extreme concern the declining state of his health, and
united her efforts with those of the family to amuse and revive him.

The pleasing society of which she partook, and the quietness of the
country, at length restored her mind to a state of tolerable composure.
She was now acquainted with all the wild walks of the neighbouring
mountains; and never tired of viewing their astonishing scenery, she
often indulged herself in traversing alone their unfrequented paths,
where now and then a peasant from a neighbouring village was all that
interrupted the profound solitude. She generally took with her a book,
that if she perceived her thought inclined to fix on the one object of
her grief, she might force them to a subject less dangerous to her
peace. She had become a tolerable proficient in English while at the
convent where she received her education, and the instruction of La Luc,
who was well acquainted with the language, now served to perfect her. He
was partial to the English; he admired their character, and the
constitution of their laws, and his library contained a collection of
their best authors, particularly of their philosophers and poets.
Adeline found that no species of writing had power so effectually to
withdraw her mind from the contemplation of its own misery as the higher
kinds of poetry, and in these her taste soon taught her to distinguish
the superiority of the English from that of the French. The genius of
the language, more perhaps than the genius of the people, if indeed the
distinction may be allowed, occasioned this.

She frequently took a volume of Shakespeare or of Milton, and, having
gained some wild eminence, would seat herself beneath the pines, whose
low murmurs soothed her heart, and conspired with the visions of the
poet to lull her to forgetfulness of grief.

One evening, when Clara was engaged at home, Adeline wandered alone to a
favourite spot among the rocks that bordered the lake. It was an
eminence which commanded an entire view of the lake, and of the
stupendous mountains that environed it. A few ragged thorns grew from
the precipice beneath, which descended perpendicularly to the water's
edge; and above rose a thick wood of larch, pine, and fir, intermingled
with some chesnut and mountain ash. The evening was fine, and the air so
still that it scarcely waved the light leaves of the trees around, or
rippled the broad expanse of the waters below. Adeline gazed on the
scene with a kind of still rapture, and watched the sun sinking amid a
crimson glow, which tinted the bosom of the lake and the snowy heads of
the distant Alps. The delight which the scenery inspired:


Soothing each gust of passion into peace,
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind;


was now heightened by the tones of a French horn, and, looking on the
lake, she perceived at some distance a pleasure-boat. As it was a
spectacle rather uncommon in this solitude, she concluded the boat
contained a party of foreigners come to view the wonderful scenery of
the country, or perhaps of Genevois, who choose to amuse themselves on
a lake as grand, though much less extensive, than their own; and the
latter conjecture was probably just.

As she listened to the mellow and enchanting tones of the horn, which
gradually sunk away in distance, the scene appeared more lovely than
before; and finding it impossible to forbear attempting to paint in
language what was so beautiful in reality, she composed the following:


STANZAS

How smooth that lake expands its ample breast!
Where smiles in soften'd glow the summer sky:
How vast the rocks that o'er its surface rest!
How wild the scenes its winding shores supply!

Now down the western steep slow sinks the sun,
And paints with yellow gleam the tufted woods;
While here the mountain-shadows, broad and dun,
Sweep o'er the crystal mirror of the floods.

Mark how his splendour tips with partial light
Those shatter'd battlements! that on the brow
Of yon bold promontory burst to sight
From o'er the woods that darkly spread below.

In the soft blush of light's reflected power,
The ridgy rock, the woods that crown its steep,
Th' illumin'd battlement, and darker tower,
On the smooth wave in trembling beauty sleep.

But, lo! the sun recalls his fervid ray,
And cold and dim the watery visions fail;
While o'er yon cliff, whose pointed crags decay,
Mild evening draws her thin empurpled veil!

How sweet that strain of melancholy horn!
That floats along the slowly-ebbing wave,
And up the far-receding mountains borne,
Returns a dying close from Echo's cave!

Hail! shadowy forms of still, expressive Eve!
Your pensive graces stealing on my heart,
Bid all the fine-attun'd emotions live,
And Fancy all her loveliest dreams impart.


La Luc observing how much Adeline was charmed with the features of the
country, and desirous of amusing her melancholy, which, notwithstanding
her efforts, was often too apparent, wished to show her other scenes
than those to which her walks were circumscribed. He proposed a party on
horseback to take a nearer view of the Glaciers; to attempt their ascent
was a difficulty and fatigue to which neither La Luc, in his present
state of health, nor Adeline were equal. She had not been accustomed to
ride single, and the mountainous road they were to pass made the
experiment rather dangerous; but she concealed her fears, and they were
not sufficient to make her wish to forego an enjoyment such as was now
offered her.

The following day was fixed for this excursion. La Luc and his party
arose at an early hour, and having taken a slight breakfast, they set
out towards the Glacier of Montanvert, which lay at a few leagues
distance. Peter carried a small basket of provisions; and it was their
plan to dine on some pleasant spot in the open air.

It is unnecessary to describe the high enthusiasm of Adeline, the more
complacent pleasure of La Luc, and the transports of Clara, as the
scenes of this romantic country shifted to their eyes. Now frowning in
dark and gloomy grandeur, it exhibited only tremendous rocks and
cataracts rolling from the heights into some deep and narrow valley,
along which their united waters roared and foamed, and burst away to
regions inaccessible to mortal foot: and now the scene arose less
fiercely wild:


The pomp of groves and garniture of fields


were intermingled with the ruder features of nature; and while the snow
froze on the summit of the mountain, the vine blushed at its foot.

Engaged in interesting conversation, and by the admiration which the
country excited, they travelled on till noon, when they looked round for
a pleasant spot where they might rest and take refreshment. At some
little distance they perceived the ruins of a fabric which had once been
a castle; it stood almost on a point of rock that overhung a deep
valley; and its broken turrets rising from among the woods that
embosomed it, heightened the picturesque beauty of the object.

The edifice invited curiosity, and the shades repose--La Luc and his
party advanced.


Deep struck with awe they mark'd the dome o'erthrown,
Where once the beauty bloom'd, the warrior shone:
They saw the _castle's_ mouldering towers decay'd,
The loose stone tottering o'er the trembling shade.


They seated themselves on the grass under the shade of some high trees
near the ruins. An opening in the woods afforded a view of the distant
Alps--the deep silence of solitude reigned. For some time they were lost
in meditation. Adeline felt a sweet complacency, such as she had long
been a stranger to. Looking at La Luc, she perceived a tear stealing
down his cheek, while the elevation of his mind was strongly expressed
on his countenance. He turned on Clara his eyes, which were now filled
with tenderness, and made an effort to recover himself.

The stillness and total seclusion of this scene, said Adeline, those
stupendous mountains, the gloomy grandeur of these woods, together with
that monument of faded glory on which the hand of time is so
emphatically impressed, diffuse a sacred enthusiasm over the mind, and
awaken sensations truly sublime.

La Luc was going to speak; but Peter coming forward, desired to know
whether he had not better open the wallet, as he fancied his honour and
the young ladies must be main hungry, jogging on so far up hill and down
before dinner. They acknowledged the truth of honest Peter's suspicion,
and accepted his hint.

Refreshments were spread on the grass; and having seated themselves
under the canopy of waving woods, surrounded by the sweets of wild
flowers, they inhaled the pure breeze of the Alps, which might be called
spirit of air, and partook of a repast which these circumstances
rendered delicious.

When they arose to depart,--I am unwilling, said Clara, to quit this
charming spot. How delightful would it be to pass one's life beneath
these shades with the friends who are dear to one!--La Luc smiled at the
romantic simplicity of the idea: but Adeline sighed deeply to the image
of felicity and of Theodore which it recalled, and turned away to
conceal her tears.

They now mounted their horses, and soon after arrived at the foot of
Montanvert. The emotions of Adeline, as she contemplated in various
points of view the astonishing objects around her, surpassed all
expression; and the feelings of the whole party were too strong to admit
of conversation. The profound stillness which reigned in these regions
of solitude inspired awe, and heightened the sublimity of the scenery to
an exquisite degree.

It seems, said Adeline, as if we were walking over the ruins of the
world, and were the only persons who had survived the wreck. I can
scarcely persuade myself that we are not left alone on the globe.

The view of these objects, said La Luc, lift the soul to their Great
Author, and we contemplate with a feeling almost too vast for
humanity--the sublimity of his nature in the grandeur of his works.--La
Luc raised his eyes, filled with tears, to heaven, and was for some
moments lost in silent adoration.

They quitted these scenes with extreme reluctance; but the hour of the
day, and the appearance of the clouds, which seemed gathering for a
storm, made them hasten their departure. Could she have been sheltered
from its fury, Adeline almost wished to have witnessed the tremendous
effect of a thunder storm in these regions.

They returned to Leloncourt by a different route, and the shade of the
overhanging precipices was deepened by the gloom of the atmosphere. It
was evening when they came within view of the lake, which the travelers
rejoiced to see, for the storm so long threatened was now fast
approaching; the thunder murmured among the Alps; and the dark vapours
that rolled heavily along their sides heightened their dreadful
sublimity. La Luc would have quickened his pace, but the road winding
down the steep side of a mountain made caution necessary. The darkening
air and the lightnings that now flashed along the horizon terrified
Clara, but she withheld the expression of her fear in consideration of
her father. A peal of thunder, which seemed to shake the earth to its
foundations, and was reverberated in tremendous echoes from the cliffs,
burst over their heads. Clara's horse took fright at the sound, and
setting off, hurried her with amazing velocity down the mountain towards
the lake, which washed its foot. The agony of La Luc, who viewed her
progress in the horrible expectation of seeing her dashed down the
precipice that bordered the road, is not to be described.

Clara kept her seat, but terror had almost deprived her of sense. Her
efforts to preserve herself were mechanical, for she scarcely knew what
she did. The horse, however, carried her safely almost to the foot of
the mountain, but was making towards the lake, when a gentleman who
travelled along the road caught the bridle as the animal endeavoured to
pass. The sudden stopping of the horse threw Clara to the ground, and,
impatient of restraint, the animal burst from the hand of the stranger,
and plunged into the lake. The violence of the fall deprived her of
recollection; but while the stranger endeavoured to support her, his
servant ran to fetch water.

She soon recovered, and unclosing her eyes found herself in the arms of
a chevalier, who appeared to support her with difficulty. The compassion
expressed in his countenance while he inquired how she did, revived her
spirits; and she was endeavouring to thank him for his kindness, when La
Luc and Adeline came up. The terror impressed on her father's features
was perceived by Clara; languid as she was, she tried to raise herself,
and said with a faint smile, which betrayed instead of disguising her
sufferings, Dear Sir, I am not hurt. Her pale countenance and the blood
that trickled down her cheek contradicted her words. But La Luc, to whom
terror had suggested the utmost possible evil, now rejoiced to hear her
speak; he recalled some presence of mind, and while Adeline applied her
salts, he chafed her temples.

When she revived, she told him how much she was obliged to the stranger.
La Luc endeavoured to express his gratitude; but the former interrupting
him, begged he might be spared the pain of receiving thanks for having
followed only an impulse of common humanity.

They were now not far from Leloncourt; but the evening was almost shut
in, and the thunder murmured deeply among the hills. La Luc was
distressed how to convey Clara home.

In endeavouring to raise her from the ground, the stranger betrayed such
evident symptoms of pain, that La Luc inquired concerning it. The sudden
jerk which the horse had given the arm of the chevalier, in escaping
from his hold, had violently sprained his shoulder, and rendered his arm
almost useless. The pain was exquisite; and La Luc, whose fears for his
daughter were now subsiding, was shocked at the circumstance, and
pressed the stranger to accompany him to the village, where relief might
be obtained. He accepted the invitation; and Clara, being at length
placed on a horse led by her father, was conducted to the chateau.

When Madame, who had been looking out for La Luc some time, perceived
the cavalcade approaching, she was alarmed, and her apprehensions were
confirmed when she saw the situation of her niece. Clara was carried
into the house, and La Luc would have sent for a surgeon, but there was
none within several leagues of the village, neither were there any of
the physical profession within the same distance. Clara was assisted to
her chamber by Adeline, and Madame La Luc undertook to examine the
wounds. The result restored peace to the family, for though she was much
bruised, she had escaped material injury; a slight contusion on the
forehead had occasioned the bloodshed which at first alarmed La Luc.
Madame undertook to restore her niece in a few days with the assistance
of a balsam composed by herself, on the virtues of which she descanted
with great eloquence, till La Luc interrupted her by reminding her of
the condition of her patient.

Madame having bathed Clara's bruises, and given her a cordial of
incomparable efficacy, left her; and Adeline watched in the chamber of
her friend till she retired to her own for the night.

La Luc, whose spirits had suffered much perturbation, was now
tranquillized by the report his sister made of Clara. He introduced the
stranger; and having mentioned the accident he had met with, desired
that he might have immediate assistance. Madame hastened to her closet;
and it is perhaps difficult to determine whether she felt most concern
for the sufferings of her guest, or pleasure at the opportunity thus
offered of displaying her medical skill. However this might be, she
quitted the room with great alacrity, and very quickly returned with a
phial containing her inestimable balsam; and having given the necessary
directions for the application of it, she left the stranger to the care
of his servant.

La Luc insisted that the chevalier, M. Verneuil, should not leave the
chateau that night, and he very readily submitted to be detained. His
manners during the evening were as frank and engaging as the hospitality
and gratitude of La Luc were sincere, and they soon entered into
interesting conversation. M. Verneuil conversed like a man who had seen
much, and thought more; and if he discovered any prejudice in his
opinions, it was evidently the prejudice of a mind which, seeing objects
through the medium of his own goodness, tinges them with the hue of its
predominant quality. La Luc was much pleased, for in his retired
situation he had not often an opportunity of receiving the pleasure
which results from a communion of intelligent minds. He found that M.
Verneuil had travelled. La Luc having asked some questions relative to
England, they fell into discourse concerning the national characters of
the French and English.

If it is the privilege of wisdom, said M. Verneuil, to look beyond
happiness, I own I had rather be without it. When we observe the
English, their laws, writings, and conversations, and at the same time
mark their countenances, manners, and the frequency of suicide among
them, we are apt to believe that wisdom and happiness are incompatible.
If, on the other hand, we turn to their neighbours, the French, and
see[1] their wretched policy, their sparkling but sophistical discourse,
frivolous occupations, and, withal, their gay animated air, we shall be
compelled to acknowledge that happiness and folly too often dwell
together.

It is the end of wisdom, said La Luc, to attain happiness, and I can
hardly dignify that conduct or course of thinking which tends to misery
with the name of wisdom. By this rule, perhaps, the folly, as we term
it, of the French deserves, since its effect is happiness, to be called
wisdom. That airy thoughtlessness, which alike to contemn reflection and
anticipation, produces all the effect of it without reducing its
subjects to the mortification of philosophy. But in truth wisdom is an
exertion of mind to subdue folly; and as the happiness of the French is
less the consequence of mind than of constitution, it deserves not the
honours of wisdom.

Discoursing on the variety of opinions that are daily formed on the same
conduct, La Luc observed how much that which is commonly called opinion
is the result of passion and temper.

True, said M. Vernueil, there is a tone of thought, as there is a key
note in music, that leads all its weaker affections. Thus, where the
powers of judging may be equal, the disposition to judge is different;
and the actions of men are but too often arraigned by whim and caprice,
by partial vanity, and the humour of the moment.

Here La Luc took occasion to reprobate the conduct of those writers,
who, by showing the dark side only of human nature, and by dwelling on
the evils only which are incident to humanity, have sought to degrade
man in his own eyes, and to make him discontented with life. What should
we say of a painter, continued La Luc, who collected in his piece
objects of a black hue only, who presents you with a black man, a black
horse, a black dog, &c. &c., and tells you that his is a picture of
nature, and that nature is black?--'Tis true, you would reply, the
objects you exhibit do exist in nature, but they form a very small part
of her works. You say that nature is black, and, to prove it, you have
collected on your canvass all the animals of this hue that exist. But
you have forgot to paint the green earth, the blue sky, the white man,
and objects of all those various hues with which creation abounds, and
of which black is a very inconsiderable part.

The countenance of M. Verneuil lightened with peculiar animation during
the discourse of La Luc.--To think well of his nature, said he, is
necessary to the dignity and the happiness of man. There is a decent
pride which becomes every mind, and is congenial to virtue. That
consciousness of innate dignity, which shows him the glory of his
nature, will be his best protection from the meanness of vice. Where
this consciousness is wanting, continued M. Verneuil, there can be no
sense of moral honour, and consequently none of the higher principles of
action. What can be expected of him who says it is his nature to be mean
and selfish? Or who can doubt that he who thinks thus, thinks from the
experience of his own heart, from the tendency of his own inclinations?
Let it always be remembered, that he who would persuade men to be good,
ought to show them that they are great.

You speak, said La Luc, with the honest enthusiasm of a virtuous mind;
and in obeying the impulse of your heart, you utter the truths of
philosophy: and, trust me, a bad heart and a truly philosophic head have
never yet been united in the same individual. Vicious inclinations not
only corrupt the heart, but the understanding, and thus lead to false
reasoning. Virtue only is on the side of truth.

La Luc and his guest, mutually pleased with each other, entered upon the
discussion of subjects so interesting to them both, that it was late
before they parted for the night.


[Footnote 1: It must be remembered that this was said in the
seventeenth century.]




CHAPTER XVIII

'Twas such a scene as gave a kind relief
To memory, in sweetly pensive grief.

VIRGIL'S TOMB.

Mine be the breezy hill, that skirts the down,
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.

THE MINSTREL.


Repose had so much restored Clara, that when Adeline, anxious to know
how she did, went early in the morning to her chamber, she found her
already risen, and ready to attend the family at breakfast. Monsieur
Verneuil appeared also; but his looks betrayed a want of rest, and
indeed he had suffered during the night a degree of anguish from his arm
which it was an effort of some resolution to endure in silence. It was
now swelled and somewhat inflamed, and this might in some degree be
attributed to the effect of Madame La Luc's balsam, the restorative
qualities of which for once had failed. The whole family sympathized
with his sufferings, and Madame at the request of M. Verneuil, abandoned
her balsam, and substituted an emollient fomentation.

From an application of this, he in a short time found an abatement of
the pain, and returned to the breakfast table with greater composure.
The happiness which La Luc felt at seeing his daughter in safety was
very apparent; but the warmth of his gratitude towards her preserver he
found it difficult to express. Clara spoke the genuine emotions of her
heart with artless but modest energy, and testified sincere concern for
the sufferings which she had occasioned M. Verneuil.

The pleasure received from the company of his guest, and the
consideration of the essential services he had rendered him, co-operated
with the natural hospitality of La Luc, and he pressed M. Verneuil to
remain some time at the chateau.--I can never repay the services you
have done me, said La Luc; yet I seek to increase my obligations to you
by requesting you will prolong your visit, and thus allow me an
opportunity of cultivating your acquaintance.

M. Verneuil, who at the time he met La Luc was travelling from Geneva to
a distant part of Savoy, merely for the purpose of viewing the country,
being now delighted with his host and with every thing around him,
willingly accepted the invitation. In this circumstance prudence
concurred with inclination, for to have pursued his journey on
horseback, in his present situation, would have been dangerous, if not
impracticable.

The morning was spent in conversation, in which M. Verneuil displayed a
mind enriched with taste, enlightened by science, and enlarged by
observation. The situation of the chateau and the features of the
surrounding scenery charmed him, and in the evening he found himself
able to walk with La Luc and explore the beauties of this romantic
region. As they passed through the village, the salutations of the
peasants, in whom love and respect were equally blended, and their eager
inquiries after Clara, bore testimony to the character of La Luc; while
his countenance expressed a serene satisfaction, arising from the
consciousness of deserving and possessing their love.--I live surrounded
by my children, said he, turning to M. Verneuil, who had noticed their
eagerness; for such I consider my parishioners. In discharging the
duties of my office, I am repaid not only by my own conscience, but by
their gratitude. There is a luxury in observing their simple and honest
love, which I would not exchange for any thing the world calls
blessings.

Yet the world, Sir, would call the pleasures of which you speak
romantic, said M. Verneuil; for to be sensible of this pure and
exquisite delight requires a heart untainted with the vicious pleasures
of society--pleasures that deaden its finest feelings and poison the
source of its truest enjoyments.--They pursued their way along the
borders of the lake, sometimes under the shade of hanging woods, and
sometimes over hillocks of turf, where the scene opened in all its wild
magnificence. M. Verneuil often stopped in raptures to observe and point
out the singular beauties it exhibited, while La Luc, pleased with the
delight his friend expressed, surveyed with more than usual satisfaction
the objects which had so often charmed him before. But there was a
tender melancholy in the tone of his voice and his countenance, which
arose from the recollection of having often traced those scenes, and
partaken of the pleasure they inspired, with her who had long since bade
them an eternal farewell.

They presently quitted the lake, and, winding up a steep ascent between
the woods, came after a hour's walk to a green summit, which appeared,
among the savage rocks that environed it, like the blossom on the thorn.
It was a spot formed for solitary delight, inspiring that soothing
tenderness so dear to the feeling mind, and which calls back to memory
the images of past regret, softened by distance and endeared by frequent
recollection. Wild shrubs grew from the crevices of the rocks beneath,
and the high trees of pine and cedar that waved above, afforded a
melancholy and romantic shade. The silence of the scene was interrupted
only by the breeze as it rolled over the woods, and by the solitary
notes of the birds that inhabited the cliffs.

From this point the eye commanded an entire view of those majestic and
sublime Alps whose aspect fills the soul with emotions of indescribable
awe, and seems to lift it to a nobler nature. The village and the
chateau of La Luc appeared in the bosom of the mountains, a peaceful
retreat from the storms that gathered on their tops. All the faculties
of M. Verneuil were absorbed in admiration, and he was for some time
quite silent; at length, bursting into a rhapsody, he turned, and would
have addressed La Luc, when he perceived him at a distance leaning
against a rustic urn, over which drooped in beautiful luxuriance the
weeping willow.

As he approached, La Luc quitted his position, and advanced to meet him,
while M. Verneuil inquired upon what occasion the urn had been erected.
La Luc, unable to answer, pointed to it, and walked silently away, and
M. Verneuil approaching the urn, read the following inscription:


TO
THE MEMORY OF CLARA LA LUC,
THIS URN
IS ERECTED ON THE SPOT WHICH SHE
LOVED, IN TESTIMONY OF
THE AFFECTION OF
A HUSBAND.


M. Verneuil now comprehended the whole, and, feeling for his friend, was
hurt that he had noticed this monument of his grief. He rejoined La Luc,
who was standing on the point of the eminence contemplating the
landscape below with an air more placid, and touched with the sweetness
of piety and resignation. He perceived that M. Verneuil was somewhat
disconcerted, and he sought to remove his uneasiness. You will consider
it, said he, as a mark of my esteem that I have brought you to this
spot: it is never profaned by the presence of the unfeeling; they would
deride the faithfulness of an attachment which has so long survived its
object, and which, in their own breasts, would quickly have been lost
amidst the dissipation of general society. I have cherished in my heart
the remembrance of a woman whose virtues claimed all my love: I have
cherished it as a treasure to which I could withdraw from temporary
cares and vexations, in the certainty of finding a soothing, though
melancholy comfort.

La Luc paused. M. Verneuil expressed the sympathy he felt, but he knew
the sacredness of sorrow, and soon relapsed into silence. One of the
brightest hopes of a future state, resumed La Luc, is, that we shall
meet again those whom we have loved upon earth. And perhaps our
happiness may be permitted to consist very much in the society of our
friends, purified from the frailties of mortality, with the finer
affections more sweetly attuned, and with the faculties of mind
infinitely more elevated and enlarged. We shall then be enabled to
comprehend subjects which are too vast for human conception; to
comprehend, perhaps, the sublimity of that Deity who first called us
into being. These views of futurity, my friend, elevate us above the
evils of this world, and seem to communicate to us a portion of the
nature we contemplate.

Call them not the illusions of a visionary brain, proceeded La Luc: I
trust in their reality. Of this I am certain, that whether they are
illusions or not, a faith in them ought to be cherished for the comfort
it brings to the heart, and reverenced for the dignity it imparts to the
mind. Such feelings make a happy and an important part of our belief in
a future existence: they give energy to virtue, and stability to
principle.

This, said M. Verneuil, is what I have often felt, and what every
ingenuous mind must acknowledge.

La Luc and M. Verneuil continued in conversation till the sun had left
the scene. The mountains, darkened by twilight, assumed a sublimer
aspect, while the tops of some of the highest Alps were yet illuminated
by the sun's rays, and formed a striking contrast to the shadowy
obscurity of the world below. As they descended through the woods, and
traversed the margin of the lake, the stillness and solemnity of the
hour diffused a pensive sweetness over their minds, and sunk them into
silence.

They found supper spread, as was usual, in the hall, of which the
windows opened upon a garden, where the flowers might be said to yield
their fragrance in gratitude to the refreshing dews. The windows were
embowered with eglantine and other sweet shrubs, which hung in wild
luxuriance around, and formed a beautiful and simple decoration. Clara
and Adeline loved to pass their evenings in this hall, where they had
acquired the first rudiments of astronomy, and from which they had a
wide view of the heavens. La Luc pointed out to them the planets and the
fixed stars, explained their laws, and from thence taking occasion to
mingle moral with scientific instruction, would often ascend towards
that great First Cause, whose nature soars beyond the grasp of human
comprehension.

No study, he would sometimes say, so much enlarges the mind, or
impresses it with so sublime an idea of the Deity, as that of astronomy.
When the imagination launches into the regions of space, and
contemplates the innumerable worlds which are scattered through it, we
are lost in astonishment and awe. This globe appears as a mass of atoms
in the immensity of the universe, and man a mere insect. Yet how
wonderful! that man, whose frame is so diminutive in the scale of being,
should have powers which spurn the narrow boundaries of time and place,
soar beyond the sphere of his existence, penetrate the secret laws of
nature, and calculate their progressive effects.

O! how expressively does this prove the spirituality of our being! Let
the materialist consider it, and blush that he has ever doubted.

In this hall the whole family now met at supper; and during the
remainder of the evening the conversation turned upon general subjects,
in which Clara joined in modest and judicious remark. La Luc had taught
her to familiarize her mind to reasoning, and had accustomed her to
deliver her sentiments freely: she spoke them with a simplicity
extremely engaging, and which convinced her hearers that the love of
knowledge, not the vanity of talking, induced her to converse. M.
Verneuil evidently endeavoured to draw forth her sentiments; and Clara,
interested by the subjects he introduced, a stranger to affectation, and
pleased with the opinions he expressed, answered them with frankness and
animation. They retired mutually pleased with each other.

M. Verneuil was about six-and-thirty; his figure manly, his countenance
frank and engaging. A quick penetrating eye, whose fire was softened by
benevolence, disclosed the chief traits of his character; he was quick
to discern, but generous to excuse, the follies of mankind; and while no
one more sensibly felt an injury, none more readily accepted the
concession of an enemy.

He was by birth a Frenchman. A fortune lately devolved to him, had
enabled him to execute the plan which his active and inquisitive mind
had suggested, of viewing the most remarkable parts of the continent. He
was peculiarly susceptible of the beautiful and sublime in nature. To
such a taste, Switzerland and the adjacent country was, of all others,
the most interesting; and he found the scenery it exhibited infinitely
surpassing all that his glowing imagination had painted; he saw with the
eye of a painter, and felt with the rapture of a poet.

In the habitation of La Luc he met with the hospitality, the frankness,
and the simplicity so characteristic of the country; in his venerable
host he saw the strength of philosophy united with the finest tenderness
of humanity--a philosophy which taught him to correct his feelings, not
to annihilate them; in Clara, the bloom of beauty with the most perfect
simplicity of heart; and in Adeline, all the charms of elegance and
grace, with a genius deserving of the highest culture. In this family
picture the goodness of Madame La Luc was not unperceived or forgotten.
The cheerfulness and harmony that reigned within the chateau was
delightful; but the philanthropy which, flowing from the heart of the
pastor, was diffused through the whole village, and united the
inhabitants in the sweet and firm bonds of social compact, was divine.
The beauty of its situation conspired with these circumstances to make
Leloncourt seem almost a paradise. M. Verneuil sighed that he must soon
quit it. I ought to seek no further, said he, for here wisdom and
happiness dwell together.

The admiration was reciprocal: La Luc and his family found themselves
much interested in M. Verneuil, and looked forward to the time of his
departure with regret. So warmly they pressed him to prolong his visit,
and so powerfully his own inclinations seconded theirs, that he accepted
the invitation. La Luc admitted no circumstance which might contribute
to the amusement of his guest, who having in a few days recovered the
use of his arm, they made several excursions among the mountains.
Adeline and Clara, whom the care of Madame had restored to her usual
health, were generally of the party.

After spending a week at the chateau, M. Verneuil bade adieu to La Luc
and his family. They parted with mutual regret; and the former promised
that when he returned to Geneva, he would take Leloncourt in his way. As
he said this, Adeline, who had for some time observed with much alarm La
Luc's declining health, looked mournfully on his languid countenance,
and uttered a secret prayer that he might live to receive the visit of
M. Verneuil.

Madame was the only person who did not lament his departure; she saw
that the efforts of her brother to entertain his guest were more than
his present state of health would admit of, and she rejoiced in the
quiet that would now return to him.

But this quiet brought La Luc no respite from illness; the fatigue he
had suffered in his late excursions seemed to have increased his
disorder, which in a short time assumed the aspect of a consumption.
Yielding to the solicitations of his family, he went to Geneva for
advice, and was there recommended to try the air of Nice.

The journey thither, however, was of considerable length; and believing
his life to be very precarious, he hesitated whether to go. He was also
unwilling to leave the duty of his parish unperformed for so long a
period as his health might require; but this was an objection which
would not have withheld him from Nice, had his faith in the climate been
equal to that of his physicians.

His parishioners felt the life of their pastor to be of the utmost
consequence to them: it was a general cause, and they testified at once
his worth, and their sense of it, by going in a body to solicit him to
leave them. He was much affected by this instance of their attachment.
Such a proof of regard, joined with the entreaties of his own family,
and a consideration that for their sakes it was a duty to endeavour to
prolong his life, was too powerful to be withstood, and he determined to
set out for Italy.

It was settled that Clara and Adeline, whose health La Luc thought
required change of air and scene, should accompany him, attended by the
faithful Peter.

On the morning of his departure, a large body of his parishioners
assembled round the door to bid him farewell. It was an affecting
scene;--they might meet no more. At length, wiping the tears from his
eyes, La Luc said, Let us trust in God, my friends; he has power to heal
all disorders both of body and mind. We shall meet again, if not in this
world, I hope in a better;--let our conduct be such as to ensure that
better.

The sobs of his people prevented any reply. There was scarcely a dry eye
in the village; for there was scarcely an inhabitant of it that was not
now assembled in the presence of La Luc. He shook hands with them all;
Farewell, my friends, said he, we shall meet again.--God grant we may!
said they, with one voice of fervent petition.

Having mounted his horse, and Clara and Adeline being ready, they took a
last leave of Madame La Luc, and quitted the chateau. The people
unwilling to leave La Luc, the greater part of them accompanied him to
some distance from the village. As he moved slowly on, he cast a last
lingering look at his little home, where he had spent so many peaceful
years, and which he now gazed on perhaps for the last time, and tears
rose to his eyes; but he checked them. Every scene of the adjacent
country called up, as he passed, some tender remembrance. He looked
towards the spot consecrated to the memory of his deceased wife; the
dewy vapours of the morning veiled it. La Luc felt the disappointment
more deeply, perhaps, than reason could justify; but those who know from
experience how much the imagination loves to dwell on any object,
however remotely connected with that of our tenderness, will feel with
him. This was an object round which the affections of La Luc had settled
themselves; it was a memorial to the eye, and the view of it awakened
more forcibly in the memory every tender idea that could associate with
the primary subject of his regard. In such cases fancy gives to the
illusions of strong affection the stamp of reality, and they are
cherished by the heart with romantic fondness.

His people accompanied him for near a mile from the village, and could
scarcely then be prevailed on to leave him: at length he once more bade
them farewell, and went on his way, followed by their prayers and
blessings.

La Luc and his little party travelled slowly on, sunk in pensive
silence--a silence too pleasingly sad to be soon relinquished, and which
they indulged without fear of interruption. The solitary grandeur of the
scenes through which they passed, and the soothing murmur of the pines
that waved above, aided this soft luxury of meditation.

They proceeded by easy stages; and after travelling for some days among
the romantic mountains and green valleys of Piedmont, they entered the
rich country of Nice. The gay and luxuriant views which now opened upon
the travellers as they wound among the hills, appeared like scenes of
fairy enchantment, or those produced by the lonely visions of the poets.
While the spiral summits of the mountains exhibited the snowy severity
of winter, the pine, the cypress, the olive, and the myrtle shaded their
sides with the green tints of spring, and groves of orange, lemon, and
citron, spread over their feet the full glow of autumn. As they
advanced, the scenery became still more diversified; and at length,
between the receding heights, Adeline caught a glimpse of the distant
waters of the Mediterranean fading into the blue and cloudless horizon.
She had never till now seen the ocean; and this transient view of it
roused her imagination, and made her watch impatiently for a nearer
prospect.

It was towards the close of day when the travellers, winding round an
abrupt projection of that range of Alps which crowns the amphitheatre
that environs Nice, looked down upon the green hills that stretch to the
shores, on the city, and its ancient castle, and on the wide waters of
the Mediterranean; with the mountains of Corsica in the furthest
distance. Such a sweep of sea and land, so varied with the gay, the
magnificent, and the awful, would have fixed any eye in admiration. For
Adeline and Clara novelty and enthusiasm added their charms to the
prospect. The soft and salubrious air seemed to welcome La Luc to this
smiling region, and the serene atmosphere to promise invariable summer.
They at length descended upon the little plain where stands the city of
Nice, and which was the most extensive piece of level ground they had
passed since they entered the country. Here, in the bosom of the
mountains, sheltered from the north and the east, where the western
gales alone seemed to breathe, all the blooms of spring and the riches
of autumn were united. Trees of myrtle bordered the road, which wound
among groves of orange, lemon, and bergamot, whose delicious fragrance
came to the sense mingled with the breath of roses and carnations that
blossomed in their shade. The gently swelling hills that rose from the
plain were covered with vines, and crowned with cypresses, olives, and
date trees; beyond, there appeared the sweep of lofty mountains whence
the travellers had descended, and whence rose the little river Paglion,
swollen by the snows that melt on their summits, and which, after
meandering through the plain, washes the walls of Nice, where it falls
into the Mediterranean. In this blooming region Adeline observed that
the countenances of the peasants, meagre and discontented, formed a
melancholy contrast to the face of the country; and she lamented again
the effects of an arbitrary government, where the bounties of nature,
which were designed for all, are monopolized by a few, and the many are
suffered to starve, tantalized by surrounding plenty.

The city lost much of its enchantment on a nearer approach; its narrow
streets and shabby houses but ill answered the expectation which a
distant view of its ramparts and its harbour, gay with vessels, seemed
to authorize. The appearance of the inn at which La Luc now alighted did
not contribute to soften his disappointment: but if he was surprised to
find such indifferent accommodation at the inn of a town celebrated as
the resort of valetudinarians, he was still more so when he learned the
difficulty of procuring furnished lodgings.

After much search, he procured apartments in a small but pleasant house
situated a little way out of the town; it had a garden, and a terrace
which overlooked the sea, and was distinguished by an air of neatness
very unusual in the houses of Nice. He agreed to board with the family,
whose table likewise accommodated a gentleman and lady, their lodgers;
and thus he became a temporary inhabitant of this charming climate.

On the following morning Adeline rose at an early hour, eager to indulge
the new and sublime emotion with which a view of the ocean inspired her,
and walked with Clara toward the hills that afforded a more extensive
prospect. They pursued their way for some time between high embowering
banks, till they arrived at an eminence, whence:


Heaven, earth, ocean, smiled!


They sat down on a point of rock overshadowed by lofty palm-trees, to
contemplate at leisure the magnificent scene. The sun was just emerged
from the sea, over which his rays shed a flood of light, and darted a
thousand brilliant tints on the vapours that ascend the horizon, and
floated there in light clouds, leaving the bosom of the waters below
clear as crystal, except where the white surges were seen to beat upon
the rocks; and discovering the distant sails of the fishing-boats, and
the far distant highlands of Corsica tinted with ethereal blue. Clara,
after some time, drew forth her pencil, but threw it aside in despair.
Adeline, as they returned home through a romantic glen, when her senses
were no longer absorbed in the contemplation of this grand scenery, and
when its images floated on her memory only in softened colours, repeated
the following lines:


SUNRISE: A SONNET

Oft let me wander, at the break of day,
Through the cool vale o'erhung with waving woods,
Drink the rich fragrance of the budding May,
And catch the murmur of the distant floods;
Or rest on the fresh bank of limpid rill,
Where sleeps the violet in the dewy shade,
Where opening lilies balmy sweets distil,
And the wild musk-rose weeps along the glade:
Or climb the eastern cliff, whose airy head
Hangs rudely o'er the blue and misty main;
Watch the fine hues of morn through ether spread,
And paint with roseate glow the crystal plain.
Oh! who can speak the rapture of the soul
When o'er the waves the sun first steals to sight,
And all the world of waters, as they roll,
And Heaven's vast vault unveils in living light!
So life's young hour to man enchanting smiles,
With sparkling health, and joy, and fancy's fairy wiles!


La Luc in his walks met with some sensible and agreeable companions, who
like himself came to Nice in search of health. Of these he soon formed a
small but pleasant society, among whom was a Frenchman, whose mild
manners, marked with a deep and interesting melancholy, had particularly
attracted La Luc. He very seldom mentioned himself, or any circumstance
that might lead to a knowledge of his family, but on other subjects
conversed with frankness and much intelligence. La Luc had frequently
invited him to his lodgings, but he had always declined the invitation;
and this in a manner so gentle as to disarm displeasure, and convince La
Luc that his refusal was the consequence of a certain dejection of mind
which made him reluctant to meet other strangers.

The description which La Luc had given of this foreigner had excited the
curiosity of Clara; and the sympathy which the unfortunate feel for each
other called forth the commiseration of Adeline; for that he was
unfortunate she could not doubt. On their return from an evening walk La
Luc pointed out the chevalier, and quickened his pace to overtake him.
Adeline was for a moment impelled to follow; but delicacy checked her
steps, she knew how painful the presence of a stranger often is to a
wounded mind, and forbore to intrude herself on his notice for the sake
of only satisfying an idle curiosity. She turned therefore into another
path: but the delicacy which now prevented the meeting, accident in a
few days defeated, and La Luc introduced the stranger. Adeline received
him with a soft smile, but endeavoured to restrain the expression of
pity which her features had involuntarily assumed; she wished him not to
know that she observed he was unhappy.

After this interview he no longer rejected the invitations of La Luc,
but made him frequent visits, and often accompanied Adeline and Clara in
their rambles. The mild and sensible conversation of the former seemed
to soothe his mind, and in her presence he frequently conversed with a
degree of animation which La Luc till then had not observed in him.
Adeline too derived from the similarity of their taste, and his
intelligent conversation, a degree of satisfaction which contributed,
with the compassion his dejection inspired, to win her confidence, and
she conversed with an easy frankness rather unusual to her.

His visits soon became more frequent. He walked with La Luc and his
family; he attended them on their little excursions to view those
magnificent remains of Roman antiquity which enrich the neighbourhood of
Nice. When the ladies sat at home and worked, he enlivened the hours by
reading to them, and they had the pleasure to observe his spirits
somewhat relieved from the heavy melancholy that had oppressed him.

M. Amand was passionately fond of music. Clara had not forgot to bring
her beloved lute: he would sometimes strike the chords in the most sweet
and mournful symphonies, but never could be prevailed on to play. When
Adeline or Clara played, he would sit in deep reverie, and lost to every
object around him, except when he fixed his eyes in mournful gaze on
Adeline, and a sigh would sometimes escape him.

One evening, Adeline having excused herself from accompanying La Luc and
Clara in a visit to a neighbouring family, she retired to the terrace of
the garden which overlooked the sea; and as she viewed the tranquil
splendour of the setting sun, and his glories reflected on the polished
surface of the waves, she touched the strings of the lute in softest
harmony, her voice accompanying it with words which she had one day
written after having read that rich effusion of Shakespeare's genius, "A
Midsummer Night's Dream."


TITANIA TO HER LOVE.

O! fly with me through distant air
To isles that gem the western deep!
For laughing Summer revels there,
And hangs her wreath on every steep.

As through the green transparent sea
Light floating on the waves we go,
The nymphs shall gaily welcome me,
Far in their coral caves below.

For oft upon their margin sands,
When twilight leads the freshening hours,
I come with all my jocund bands
To charm them from their sea-green bowers.

And well they love our sports to view,
And on the ocean's breast to lave;
And oft as we the dance renew,
They call up music from the wave.

Swift hie we to that splendid clime,
Where gay Jamaica spreads her scene,
Lifts the blue mountain--wild--sublime!
And smooths her vales of vivid green.

Where throned high, in pomp of shade,
The _power of vegetation_ reigns,
Expanding wide, o'er hill and glade,
Shrubs of all growth--fruit of all stains:

She steals the sun-beam's fervid glow,
To paint her flowers of mingling hue;
And o'er the grape the purple throw,
Breaking from verdant leaves to view.

There myrtle bowers, and citron grove,
O'er canopy our airy dance;
And there the sea-breeze loves to rove,
When trembles day's departing glance.

And when the false moon steals away,
Or ere the chasing morn doth rise,
Oft, fearless, we our gambols play
By the fire-worm's radiant eyes.

And suck the honey'd reeds that swell
In tufted plumes of silver white;
Or pierce the cocoa's milky cell,
To sip the nectar of delight!

And when the shaking thunders roll,
And lightnings strike athwart the gloom,
We shelter in the cedar's bole,
And revel 'mid the rich perfume!

But chief we love beneath the palm,
Or verdant plantain's spreading leaf,
To hear, upon the midnight calm,
Sweet Philomela pour her grief.

To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,
Such blissful hours, were never known!
O fly with me my airy round,
And I will make them all thine own!


Adeline ceased to sing--when she immediately heard repeated in a low
voice:


To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,
Such blissful hours, were never known!


and turning her eyes whence it came, she saw M. Amand. She blushed and
laid down the lute, which he instantly took up, and with a tremulous
hand drew forth tones


[Illustration 08]


That might create a soul,
Under the ribs of death:


In a melodious voice, that trembled with sensibility, he sang the
following


SONNET

How sweet is Love's first gentle sway,
When crown'd with flowers he softly smiles!
His blue eyes fraught with tearful wiles,
Where beams of tender transport play:
Hope leads him on his airy way,
And faith and fancy still beguiles----
Faith quickly tangled in her toils----
Fancy, whose magic forms so say
The fair deceiver's self deceive----
How sweet is love's first gentle sway!
Ne'er would that heart he bids to grieve
From sorrow's soft enchantments stray----
Ne'er--till the God exulting in his art,
Relentless frowns and wings th' envenom'd dart.


Monsieur Amand paused: he seemed much oppressed, and at length, bursting
into tears, laid down the instrument and walked abruptly away to the
further end of the terrace. Adeline, without seeming to observe his
agitation, arose and leaned upon the wall, below which a group of
fishermen were busily employed in drawing a net. In a few moments he
returned with a composed and softened countenance. Forgive this abrupt
conduct, said he; I know not how to apologize for it but by owning its
cause. When I tell you, Madame, that my tears flow to the memory of a
lady who strongly resembled you, and who is lost to me for ever, you
will know how to pity me.--His voice faltered, and he paused. Adeline
was silent. The lute he resumed, was her favourite instrument, and when
you touched it with such a melancholy expression, I saw her very image
before me. But, alas! why do I distress you with a knowledge of my
sorrows! she is gone, and never to return! And you, Adeline,--you----He
checked his speech; and Adeline turning on him a look of mournful
regard, observed a wildness in his eyes which alarmed her. These
recollections are too painful, said she in a gentle voice: let us return
to the house; M. La Luc is probably come home. O no! replied M.
Amand;--No--this breeze refreshes me. How often at this hour have I
talked with _her_, as I now talk with you!--such were the soft tones of
her voice--such the ineffable expression of her countenance.--Adeline
interrupted him. Let me beg of you to consider your health--this dewy
air cannot be good for invalids. He stood with his hands clasped, and
seemed not to hear her. She took up the lute to go, and passed her
fingers lightly over the chords. The sounds recalled his scattered
senses: he raised his eyes, and fixed them in long unsettled gaze upon
hers. Must I leave you here? said she smiling, and standing in an
attitude to depart--I entreat you to play again the air I heard just
now, said M. Amand in a hurried voice.--Certainly; and she immediately
began to play. He leaned against a palm tree in an attitude of deep
attention, and as the sounds languished on the air, his features
gradually lost their wild expression, and he melted into tears. He
continued to weep silently till the song concluded, and it was some time
before he recovered voice enough to say, Adeline, I cannot thank you for
this goodness: my mind has recovered its bias; you have soothed a broken
heart. Increase the kindness you have shown me, by promising never to
mention what you have witnessed this evening, and I will endeavour never
again to wound your sensibility by a similar offence.--Adeline gave the
required promise; and M. Amand, pressing her hand, with a melancholy
smile hurried from the garden, and she saw him no more that night.

La Luc had been near a fortnight at Nice, and his health, instead of
amending seemed rather to decline, yet he wished to make a longer
experiment of the climate. The air which failed to restore her venerable
friend revived Adeline, and the variety and novelty of the surrounding
scenes amused her mind, though, since they could not obliterate the
memory of past, or suppress the pang of present affection, they were
ineffectual to dissipate the sick languor of melancholy. Company, by
compelling her to withdraw her attention from the subject of her sorrow,
afforded her a transient relief, but the violence of the exertion
generally left her more depressed. It was in the stillness of solitude,
in the tranquil observance of beautiful nature, that her mind recovered
its tone, and, indulging the pensive inclination now become habitual to
it, was soothed and fortified. Of all the grand objects which nature had
exhibited, the ocean inspired her with the most sublime admiration. She
loved to wander alone on its shores; and when she could escape so long
from the duties or forms of society, she would sit for hours on the
beach watching the rolling waves, and listening to their dying murmur,
till her softened fancy recalled long-lost scenes, and restored the
image of Theodore; when tears of despondency too often followed those of
pity and regret. But these visions of memory, painful as they were, no
longer excited that phrensy of grief they formerly awakened in Savoy;
the sharpness of misery was passed, though its heavy influence was not
perhaps less powerful. To these solitary indulgences generally succeeded
calmness, and what Adeline endeavoured to believe was resignation.

She usually rose early, and walked down to the shore to enjoy, in the
cool and silent hours of the morning, the cheering beauty of nature, and
inhale the pure sea-breeze. Every object then smiled in fresh and lively
colours. The blue sea, the brilliant sky, the distant fishing-boats with
their white sails, and the voices of the fishermen borne at intervals on
the air, were circumstances which reanimated her spirits; and in one of
her rambles, yielding to that taste for poetry which had seldom forsaken
her, she repeated the following lines:--


MORNING, ON THE SEA SHORE

What print of fairy feet is here
On Neptune's smooth and yellow sands?
What midnight revel's airy dance,
Beneath the moonbeam's trembling glance
Has blest these shores?--What sprightly bands
Have chased the waves uncheck'd by fear?
Whoe'er they were they fled from morn,
For now, all silent and forlorn,
These tide-forsaken sands appear--
Return, sweet sprites! the scene to cheer!

In vain the call!--Till moonlight's hour
Again diffuse its softer power,
Titania, nor her fairy loves,
Emerge from India's spicy groves.
Then, when the shadowy hour returns,
When silence reigns o'er air and earth,
And every star in ether burns,
They come to celebrate their mirth;
In frolic ringlet trip the ground,
Bid music's voice on silence win,
Till magic echoes answer round--
Thus do their festive rites begin.

O fairy forms so coy to mortal ken,
Your mystic steps to poets only shown;
O! lead me to the brook, or hollow'd glen,
Retiring far, with winding woods o'ergrown
Where'er ye best delight to rule;
If in some forest's lone retreat,
Thither conduct my willing feet
To the light brink of fountain cool,
Where, sleeping in the midnight dew,
Lie spring's young buds of every hue,
Yielding their sweet breath to the air;
To fold their silken leaves from harm,
And their chill heads in moonshine warm,
Is bright Titania's tender care.

There, to the night-birds's plaintive chaunt
Your carols sweet ye love to raise,
With oaten reed and pastoral lays;
And guard with forceful spell her haunt,
Who, when your antic sports are done,
Oft lulls ye in the lily's cell,
Sweet flower! that suits your slumbers well,
And shields ye from the rising sun.
When not to India's steeps ye fly
After twilight and the moon,
In honey buds ye love to lie,
While reigns supreme light's fervid noon;
Nor quit the cell where peace pervades.
Till night leads on the dews and shades.

E'en now your scenes enchanted meet my sight!
I see the earth unclose, the palace rise,
The high dome swell, and long arcades of light
Glitter among the deep embowering woods,
And glance reflecting from the trembling floods!
While to soft lutes the portals wide unfold,
And fairy forms, of fine ethereal dyes,
Advance with frolic step and laughing eyes,
Their hair with pearl, their garments deck'd with gold;
Pearls that in Neptune's briny waves they sought,
And gold from India's deepest caverns brought.
Thus your light visions to my eyes unveil,
Ye sportive pleasures, sweet illusion, hail!
But ah! at morn's first blush again ye fade!
So from youth's ardent gaze life's landscape gay,
And forms in fancy's summer hues array'd,
Dissolve at once in air at truth's resplendent day!


During several days succeeding that on which M. Amand had disclosed the
cause of his melancholy, he did not visit La Luc. At length Adeline met
him in one of her solitary rambles on the shore. He was pale, and
dejected, and seemed much agitated when he observed her; she therefore
endeavoured to avoid him, but he advanced with quickened steps and
accosted her. He said it was his intention to leave Nice in a few days.
I have found no benefit from the climate, added M. Amand; alas! what
climate can relieve the sickness of the heart! I go to lose in the
varieties of new scenes the remembrance of past happiness; yet the
effort is vain; I am every where equally restless and unhappy. Adeline
tried to encourage him to hope much from time and change of place. Time
_will_ blunt the sharpest edge of sorrow, said she; I know it from
experience. Yet while she spoke, the tears in her eyes contradicted the
assertions of her lips.--You have been unhappy, Adeline!--Yes--I knew it
from the first. The smile of pity which you gave me, assured me that you
knew what it was to suffer. The desponding air with which he spoke
renewed her apprehension of a scene similar to the one she had lately
witnessed, and she changed the subject; but he soon returned to it. You
bid me hope much from time!--My wife!--My dear wife!----his tongue
faltered--It is now many months since I lost her--yet the moment of her
death seems but as yesterday. Adeline faintly smiled. You can scarcely
judge of the effect of time, yet you have much to hope for. He shook his
head. But I am again intruding my misfortunes on your notice; forgive
this perpetual egotism. There is a comfort in the pity of the good, such
as nothing else can impart; this must plead my excuse; may you, Adeline,
never want it! Ah! those tears----Adeline hastily dried them. M. Amand
forbore to press the subject, and immediately began to converse on
indifferent topics. They returned towards the chateau; but La Luc being
from home, M. Amand took leave at the door. Adeline retired to her
chamber, oppressed by her own sorrows, and those of her amiable friend.

Near three weeks had now elapsed at Nice, during which the disorder of
La Luc seemed rather to increase than abate, when his physician very
honestly confessed the little hope he entertained from the climate, and
advised him to try the effect of a sea voyage, adding that if the
experiment failed, even the air of Montpellier appeared to him more
likely to afford relief than that of Nice. La Luc received this
disinterested advice with a mixture of gratitude and disappointment. The
circumstances which had made him reluctant to quit Savoy, rendered him
yet more so to protract his absence and increase his expenses; but the
ties of affection that bound him to his family, and the love of life,
which so seldom leaves us, again prevailed over inferior considerations;
and he determined to coast the Mediterranean as far as Languedoc, where
if the voyage did not answer his expectation he would land and proceed
to Montpellier.

When M. Amand learned that La Luc designed to quit Nice in a few days,
he determined not to leave it before him. During this interval he had
not sufficient resolution to deny himself the frequent conversation of
Adeline, though her presence, by reminding him of his lost wife, gave
him more pain than comfort. He was the second son of a French gentleman
of family, and had been married about a year to a lady to whom he had
long been attached, when she died in her lying-in. The infant soon
followed its mother, and left the disconsolate father abandoned to
grief, which had preyed so heavily on his health, that his physician
thought it necessary to send him to Nice. From the air of Nice, however,
he had derived no benefit; and he now determined to travel further into
Italy, though he no longer felt any interest in those charming scenes
which in happier days and with her whom he never ceased to lament, would
have afforded him the highest degree of mental luxury--now he sought
only to escape from himself, or rather from the image of her who had
once constituted his truest happiness.

La Luc having laid his plan, hired a small vessel, and in a few days
embarked, with a sick hope, bidding adieu to the shores of Italy and the
towering Alps, and seeking on a new element the health which had
hitherto mocked his pursuit.

M. Amand took a melancholy leave of his new friends, whom he attended to
the sea-side. When he assisted Adeline on board, his heart was too full
to suffer him to say farewell; but he stood long on the beach pursuing
with his eyes her course over the waters, and waving his hand, till
tears dimmed his sight. The breeze wafted the vessel gently from the
coast, and Adeline saw herself surrounded by the undulating waves of the
ocean. The shore appeared to recede, its mountains to lessen, the gay
colours of its landscape to melt into each other, and in a short time
the figure of M. Amand was seen no more: the town of Nice, with its
castle and harbour next faded away in distance, and the purple tint of
the mountains was at length all that remained on the verge of the
horizon. She sighed as she gazed, and her eyes filled with tears. So
vanished my prospect of happiness, said she; and my future view is like
the waste of waters that surround me. Her heart was full, and she
retired from observation to a remote part of the deck, where she
indulged her tears as she watched the vessel cut its way through the
liquid glass. The water was so transparent that she saw the sun-beams
playing at a considerable depth, and fish of various colours glance
athwart the current. Innumerable marine plants spread their vigorous
leaves on the rocks below, and the richness of their verdure formed a
beautiful contrast to the glowing scarlet of the coral that branched
beside them.

The distant coast at length entirely disappeared. Adeline gazed with an
emotion the most sublime, on the boundless expanse of waters that spread
on all sides: she seemed as if launched into a new world: the grandeur
and immensity of the view astonished and overpowered her: for a moment
she doubted the truth of the compass, and believed it to be almost
impossible for the vessel to find its way over the pathless waters to
any shore. And when she considered that a plank alone separated her from
death, a sensation of unmixed terror superseded that of sublimity, and
she hastily turned her eyes from the prospect, and her thoughts from the
subject.




CHAPTER XIX


Is there a heart that music cannot melt?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!
Is there who ne'er the mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?
He need not woo the Muse--he is her scorn.

BEATTIE.


Towards evening the captain, to avoid the danger of encountering a
Barbary corsair steered for the French coast, and Adeline distinguished
in the gleam of the setting sun the shores of Provence, feathered with
wood and green with pasturage. La Luc, languid and ill, had retired to
the cabin, whither Clara attended him. The pilot at the helm guiding the
tall vessel through the sounding waters, and one solitary sailor leaning
with crossed arms against the mast, and now and then singing parts of a
mournful ditty, were all of the crew, except Adeline, that remained upon
deck--and Adeline silently watched the declining sun, which threw a
saffron glow upon the waves and on the sails gently swelling in the
breeze that was now dying away. The sun at length sunk below the ocean,
and twilight stole over the scene, leaving the shadowy shores yet
visible, and touching with a solemn tint the waters that stretched wide
around. She sketched the picture, but it was with a faint pencil.


NIGHT

O'er the dim breast of Ocean's wave
Night spreads afar her gloomy wings,
And pensive thought, and silence brings,
Save when the distant waters lave;
Or when the mariner's lone voice
Swells faintly in the passing gale,
Or when the screaming sea-gulls poise
O'er the tall mast and swelling sail.
Bounding the grey gleam of the deep,
Where fancied forms arouse the mind,
Dark sweep the shores, on whose rude steep
Sighs the sad spirit of the wind.
Sweet is its voice upon the air,
At Evening's melancholy close,
When the smooth wave in silence flows!
Sweet, sweet the peace its stealing accents bear!
Blest be thy shades, O Night! and blest the song
Thy low winds breathe the distant shores along!


As the shadows thickened, the scene sunk into deeper repose. Even the
sailor's song had ceased; no sound was heard but that of the waters
dashing beneath the vessel, and their fainter murmur on the pebbly
coast. Adeline's mind was in unison with the tranquillity of the hour;
lulled by the waves, she resigned herself to a still melancholy and sat
lost in reverie. The present moment brought to her recollection her
voyage up the Rhone, when seeking refuge from the terrors of the Marquis
de Montalt, she so anxiously endeavoured to anticipate her future
destiny. She then, as now, had watched the fall of evening and the
fading prospect, and she remembered what a desolate feeling had
accompanied the impression which those objects made. She had then no
friends--no asylum--no certainty of escaping the pursuit of her enemy.
Now she had found affectionate friends--a secure retreat--and was
delivered from the terrors she then suffered--but still she was unhappy.
The remembrance of Theodore--of Theodore who had loved her so truly, who
had encountered and suffered so much for her sake, and of whose fate she
was now as ignorant as when she traversed the Rhone, was an incessant
pang to her heart. She seemed to be more remote than ever from the
possibility of hearing of him. Sometimes a faint hope crossed her that
he had escaped the malice of his persecutor; but when she considered the
inveteracy and power of the latter, and the heinous light in which the
law regards an assault upon a superior officer, even this poor hope
vanished, and left her to tears and anguish, such as this reverie, which
began with a sensation of only gentle melancholy, now led to. She
continued to muse till the moon arose from the bosom of the ocean, and
shed her trembling lustre upon the waves, diffusing peace, and making
silence more solemn; beaming a soft light on the white sails, and
throwing upon the waters the tall shadow of the vessel which now seemed
to glide along unopposed by any current. Her tears had somewhat relieved
the anguish of her mind, and she again reposed in placid melancholy,
when a strain of such tender and entrancing sweetness stole on the
silence of the hour, that it seemed more like celestial than mortal
music--so soft, so soothing, it sunk upon her ear, that it recalled her
from misery to hope and love. She wept again--but these were tears which
she would not have exchanged for mirth and joy. She looked round, but
perceived neither ship nor boat; and as the undulating sounds swelled on
the distant air, she thought they came from the shore. Sometimes the
breeze wafted them away, and again returned them in tones of the most
languishing softness. The links of the air thus broken, it was music
rather than melody that she caught, till, the pilot gradually steering
nearer the coast, she distinguished the notes of a song familiar to her
ear. She endeavoured to recollect where she had heard it, but in vain;
yet her heart beat almost unconsciously with a something resembling
hope. Still she listened, till the breeze again stole the sounds. With
regret she now perceived that the vessel was moving from them, and at
length they trembled faintly on the waves, sunk away at distance, and
were heard no more. She remained upon deck a considerable time,
unwilling to relinquish the expectation of hearing them again, and their
sweetness still vibrating on her fancy, and at length retired to the
cabin oppressed by a degree of disappointment which the occasion did not
appear to justify.

La Luc grew better during the voyage, his spirits revived, and when the
vessel entered that part of the Mediterranean called the Gulf of Lyons,
he was sufficiently animated to enjoy from the deck the noble prospect
which the sweeping shores of Provence, terminating in the far distant
ones of Languedoc, exhibited. Adeline and Clara, who anxiously watched
his looks, rejoiced in their amendment; and the fond wishes of the
latter already anticipated his perfect recovery. The expectations of
Adeline had been too often checked by disappointment permit her now to
indulge an equal degree of hope with that of her friend, yet she
confided much in the effect of this voyage.

La Luc amused himself at intervals with discoursing, and pointing out
the situations of considerable ports on the coast, and the mouths of the
rivers that, after wandering through Provence, disembogue themselves
into the Mediterranean. The Rhone, however, was the only one of much
consequence which he passed. On this object, though it was so distant
that fancy perhaps, rather than the sense, beheld it, Clara gazed with
peculiar pleasure, for it came from the banks of Savoy; and the wave
which she thought she perceived, had washed the feet of her dear native
mountains. The time passed with mingled pleasure and improvement as La
Luc described to his attentive pupils the manners and commerce of the
different inhabitants of the coast, and the natural history of the
country: or as he traced in imagination the remote wanderings of rivers
to their source, and delineated the characteristic beauties of their
scenery.

After a pleasant voyage of a few days, the shores of Provence receded,
and that of Languedoc, which had long bounded the distance, became the
grand object of the scene, and the sailors drew near their port. They
landed in the afternoon at a small town, situated at the foot of a woody
eminence, on the right overlooking the sea, and on the left the rich
plains of Languedoc gay with the purple vine. La Luc determined to defer
his journey till the following day, and was directed to a small inn at
the extremity of the town, where the accommodation, such as it was, he
endeavoured to be contented with.

In the evening, the beauty of the hour and the desire of exploring new
scenes, invited Adeline to walk. La Lac was fatigued, and did not go
out, and Clara remained with him. Adeline took her way to the woods that
rose from the margin of the sea, and climbed the wild eminence on which
they hung. Often as she went she turned her eyes to catch between the
dark foliage the blue waters of the bay, the white sail that flitted by,
and the trembling gleam of the setting sun. When she reached the summit,
and looked down over the dark tops of the woods on the wide and various
prospect, she was seized with a kind of still rapture impossible to be
expressed, and stood unconscious of the flight of time, till the sun had
left the scene, and twilight threw its solemn shade upon the mountains.
The sea alone reflected the fading splendour of the west; its tranquil
surface was partially disturbed by the low wind that crept in tremulous
lines along the waters, whence rising to the woods, it shivered their
light leaves, and died away. Adeline, resigning herself to the luxury of
sweet and tender emotions, repeated the following lines:--


SUNSET

Soft o'er the mountain's purple brow
Meek Twilight draws her shadows gray;
From tufted woods and valleys low,
Light's magic colours steal away.
Yet still, amid the spreading gloom,
Resplendent glow the western waves,
That roll o'er Neptune's coral caves,
A zone of light on Evening's dome.
On this lone summit let me rest,
And view the forms to Fancy dear,
Till on the Ocean's darken'd breast
The stars of Evening tremble clear;
Or the moon's pale orb appear,
Throwing her line of radiance wide,
Far o'er the lightly-curling tide,
That seems the yellow sands to chide.
No sounds o'er silence now prevail,
Save of the dying wave below,
Or sailor's song borne on the gale,
Or oar at distance striking slow.
So sweet! so tranquil! may my evening ray
Set to this world--and rise in future day!


Adeline quitted the heights, and followed a narrow path that wound to
the beach below: her mind was now particularly sensible to fine
impressions, and the sweet notes of the nightingale amid the stillness
of the woods again awakened her enthusiasm.


TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Child of the melancholy song!
O yet that tender strain prolong!

Her lengthen'd shade when Evening flings,
From mountain-cliffs, and forests green,
And sailing slow on silent wings,
Along the glimmering West is seen;
I love o'er pathless hills to stray,
Or trace the winding vale remote,
And pause, sweet Bird! to hear thy lay
While moonbeams on the thin clouds float,
Till o'er the Mountain's dewy head
Pale Midnight steals to wake the dead.

Far through the heaven's ethereal blue,
Wafted on Spring's light airs you come,
With blooms, and flowers, and genial dew,
From climes where Summer joys to roam;
O! welcome to your long-lost home!
"Child of the melancholy song!"
Who lov'st the lonely woodland glade
To mourn, unseen, the boughs among,
When Twilight spreads her pensive shade,
Again thy dulcet voice I hail!
O pour again the liquid note
That dies upon the evening gale!
For Fancy loves the kindred tone;
Her griefs the plaintive accents own.
She loves to hear thy music float
At solemn Midnight's stillest hour,
And think on friends for ever lost,
On joys by disappointment crost,
And weep anew Love's charmful power!

Then Memory wakes the magic smile,
Th' impassion'd voice, the melting eye,
That wont the trusting heart beguile,
And _wakes again_ the hopeless sigh.
Her skill the glowing tints revive
Of scenes that Time had bade decay;
She bids the soften'd Passions live--
The Passions urge again their sway.
Yet o'er the long-regretted scene
Thy song the grace of sorrow throws;
A melancholy charm serene,
More rare than all that mirth bestows,
Then hail, sweet Bird, and hail thy pensive tear!
To Taste, to Fancy, and to Virtue dear!


The spreading dusk at length reminded Adeline of her distance from the
inn, and that she had her way to find through a wild and lonely wood:
she bade adieu to the syren that had so long detained her, and pursued
the path with quick steps. Having followed it for some time, she became
bewildered among the thickets, and the increasing darkness did not allow
her to judge of the direction she was in. Her apprehensions heightened
her difficulties: she thought she distinguished the voices of men at
some little distance, and she increased her speed till she found herself
on the sea-sands over which the woods impended. Her breath was now
exhausted--she paused a moment to recover herself, and fearfully
listened: but instead of the voices of men, she heard faintly swelling
in the breeze the notes of mournful music.--Her heart, ever sensible to
the impressions of melody, melted with the tones, and her fears were for
a moment lulled in sweet enchantment. Surprise was soon mingled with
delight when, as the sound advanced, she distinguished the tone of that
instrument, and the melody of that well-known air, she had heard a few
preceding evenings from the shores of Provence. But she had no time for
conjecture--footsteps approached, and she renewed her speed. She was now
emerged from the darkness of the woods, and the moon, which shone
bright, exhibited along the level sands the town and port in the
distance. The steps that had followed now came up with her, and she
perceived two men; but they passed in conversation without noticing her,
and as they passed she was certain she recollected the voice of him who
was then speaking. Its tones were so familiar to her ear, that she was
surprised at the imperfect memory which did not suffer her to be assured
by whom they were uttered. Another step now followed, and a rude voice
called to her to stop. As she hastily turned her eyes she saw
imperfectly by the moonlight a man in sailor's habit pursuing, while he
renewed the call. Impelled by terror, she fled along the sands; but her
steps were short and trembling--those of her pursuer strong and quick.

She had just strength sufficient to reach the men who had before passed
her, and to implore their protection, when her pursuer came up with
them, but suddenly turned into the woods on the left, and disappeared.

She had no breath to answer the inquiries of the strangers who supported
her, till a sudden exclamation, and the sound of her own name, drew her
eyes attentively upon the person who uttered them, and in the rays which
shone strong from his features she distinguished M. Verneuil! Mutual
satisfaction and explanation ensued; and when he learned that La Luc and
his daughter were at the inn, he felt an increased pleasure in
conducting her thither. He said that he had accidentally met with an old
friend in Savoy, whom he now introduced by the name of Mauron, and who
had prevailed on him to change his route and accompany him to the shores
of the Mediterranean. They had embarked from the coast of Provence only
a few preceding days, and had that evening landed in Languedoc on the
estate of M. Mauron. Adeline had now no doubt that it was the flute of
M. Verneuil, and which had so often delighted her at Leloncourt, that
she had heard on the sea.

When they reached the inn, they found La Luc under great anxiety for
Adeline, in search of whom he had sent several people. Anxiety yielded
to surprise and pleasure, when he perceived her with M. Verneuil, whose
eyes beamed with unusual animation on seeing Clara. After mutual
congratulations, M. Verneuil observed, and lamented, the very
indifferent accommodation which the inn afforded his friends, and M.
Mauron immediately invited them to his chateau with a warmth of
hospitality that overcame every scruple which delicacy or pride could
oppose. The woods that Adeline had traversed formed a part of his
domain, which extended almost to the inn; but he insisted that his
carriage should take his guests to the chateau, and departed to give
orders for their reception. The presence of M. Verneuil, and the
kindness of his friend, gave to La Luc an unusual flow of spirits; he
conversed with a degree of vigour and liveliness to which he had long
been unaccustomed, and the smile of satisfaction that Clara gave to
Adeline expressed how much she thought he was already benefited by the
voyage. Adeline answered her look with a smile of less confidence, for
she attributed his present animation to a more temporary cause.

About half an hour after the departure of M. Mauron, a boy who served as
waiter brought a message from a chevalier then at the inn, requesting
permission to speak with Adeline. The man who had pursued her along the
sands instantly occurred to her, and she scarcely doubted that the
stranger was some person belonging to the Marquis de Montalt, perhaps
the Marquis himself, though that he should have discovered her
accidentally, in so obscure a place, and so immediately upon her
arrival, seemed very improbable. With trembling lips and a countenance
pale as death she inquired the name of the chevalier. The boy was not
acquainted with it. La Luc asked what sort of a person he was; but the
boy, who understood little of the art of describing, gave such a
confused account of him, that Adeline could only learn he was not large,
but of a middle stature. This circumstance, however, convincing her it
was not the Marquis de Montalt who desired to see her, she asked whether
it would be agreeable to La Luc to have the stranger admitted. La Luc
said, By all means; and the waiter withdrew. Adeline sat in trembling
expectation till the door opened, and Louis de la Motte entered the
room. He advanced with an embarrassed and melancholy air, though his
countenance had been enlightened with a momentary pleasure when he first
beheld Adeline--Adeline, who was still the idol of his heart. After the
first salutations were over, all apprehensions of the Marquis being now
dissipated, she inquired when Louis had seen Monsieur and Madame La
Motte.

I ought rather to ask you that question, said Louis in some confusion,
for I believe you have seen them since I have; and the pleasure of
meeting you thus is equalled by my surprise. I have not heard from my
father for some time, owing probably to my regiment being removed to new
quarters.

He looked as if he wished to be informed with whom Adeline now was; but
as this was a subject upon which it was impossible she could speak in
the presence of La Luc, she led the conversation to general topics,
after having said that Monsieur and Madame La Motte were well when she
left them. Louis spoke little, and often looked anxiously at Adeline,
while his mind seemed labouring under strong oppression. She observed
this, and recollecting the declaration he had made her on the morning of
his departure from the abbey, she attributed his present embarrassment
to the effect of a passion yet unsubdued, and did not appear to notice
it. After he had sat near a quarter of an hour, under a struggle of
feelings which he could neither conquer nor conceal, he rose to leave
the room; and as he passed Adeline, said, in a low voice, Do permit me
to speak with you alone for five minutes. She hesitated in some
confusion, and then, saying there were none but friends present, begged
he would be seated.--Excuse me, said he, in the same low accent; what I
would say nearly concerns you, and you only. Do favour me with a few
moments' attention. He said this with a look that surprised her; and
having ordered candles in another room, she went thither.

Louis sat for some moments silent, and seemingly in great perturbation
of mind. At length he said, I know not whether to rejoice or to lament
at this unexpected meeting, though, if you are in safe hands, I ought
certainly to rejoice, however hard the task that now falls to my lot. I
am not ignorant of the dangers and persecutions you have suffered, and
cannot forbear expressing my anxiety to know how you are now
circumstanced. Are you indeed with friends?--I am, said Adeline; M. La
Motte has informed you----No, replied Louis with a deep sigh, not my
father.--He paused.--But I do indeed rejoice, resumed he, O! how
sincerely rejoice! that you are in safety. Could you know, lovely
Adeline, what I have suffered!--He checked himself.--I understood you
had something of importance to say, Sir, said Adeline; you must excuse
me if I remind you that I have not many moments to spare.

It is indeed of importance, replied Louis; yet I know not how to mention
it--how to soften----This task is too severe. Alas! my poor friend!

Whom is it you speak of, Sir? said Adeline with quickness. Louis rose
from his chair and walked about the room. I would prepare you for what I
have to say, he resumed, but upon my soul I am not equal to it.

I entreat you to keep me no longer in suspense, said Adeline, who had a
wild idea that it was Theodore he would speak of. Louis still hesitated.
Is it--O! is it?--I conjure you tell me the worst at once, said she in a
voice of agony. I can bear it,--indeed I can.

My unhappy friend! exclaimed Louis. O! Theodore!--Theodore! faintly
articulated Adeline; he lives then!--He does, said Louis, but--He
stopped.--But what? cried Adeline, trembling violently; if he is living,
you cannot tell me worse than my fears suggest; I entreat you therefore
not to hesitate.--Louis resumed his seat and, endeavouring to assume a
collected air, said, He is living, Madame, but he is a prisoner;
and--for why should I deceive you? I fear he has little to hope in this
world.

I have long feared so, Sir, said Adeline in a voice of forced composure;
you have something more terrible than this to relate, and I again
entreat you will explain yourself.

He has every thing to apprehend from the Marquis de Montalt, said Louis.
Alas! why do I say to apprehend? His judgment is already fixed--he is
condemned to die.

At this confirmation of her fears, a death-like paleness diffused itself
over the countenance of Adeline; she sat motionless, and attempted to
sigh, but seemed almost suffocated. Terrified at her situation, and
expecting to see her faint, Louis would have supported her, but with her
hand she waved him from her, and was unable to speak. He now called for
assistance, and La Luc and Clara, with M. Verneuil, informed of
Adeline's indisposition, were quickly by her side.

At the sound of their voices she looked up, and seemed to recollect
herself, when uttering a heavy sigh she burst into tears. La Luc,
rejoiced to see her weep, encouraged her tears, which after some time
relieved her; and when she was able to speak, she desired to go back to
La Luc's parlour. Louis attended her thither; when she was better he
would have withdrawn, but La Luc begged he would stay.

You are perhaps a relation of this young lady, Sir, said he, and may
have brought news of her father?--Not so, Sir, replied Louis,
hesitating--This gentleman, said Adeline, who had now recollected her
dissipated thoughts, is the son of the M. La Motte whom you may have
heard me mention.--Louis seemed shocked to be declared the son of a man
that had once acted so unworthily towards Adeline, who, instantly
perceiving the pain her words occasioned, endeavoured to soften their
effect by saying that La Motte had saved her from imminent danger, and
had afforded her an asylum for many months.--Adeline sat in a state of
dreadful solicitude to know the particulars of Theodore's situation, yet
could not acquire courage to renew the subject in the presence of La
Luc; she ventured, however, to ask Louis if his own regiment was
quartered in the town.

He replied that his regiment lay at Vaceau, a French town on the
frontiers of Spain; that he had just crossed a part of the Gulf of
Lyons, and was on his way to Savoy, whither he should set out early in
the morning.

We are lately come from thence, said Adeline; may I ask to what part of
Savoy you are going?---To Leloncourt, he replied.--To Leloncourt! said
Adeline, in some surprise.--I am a stranger to the country, resumed
Louis; but I go to serve my friend. You seem to know Leloncourt.--I do
indeed, said Adeline.--You probably know then that M. La Luc lives
there, and will guess the motive of my journey?

O Heavens! is it possible? exclaimed Adeline--is it possible that
Theodore Peyrou is a relation of M. La Luc?

Theodore! what of my son? asked La Luc in surprise and
apprehension--Your son! said Adeline, in a trembling voice--your
son!--The astonishment and anguish depicted on her countenance increased
the apprehensions of this unfortunate father, and he renewed his
question. But Adeline was totally unable to answer him; and the distress
of Louis, on thus unexpectedly discovering the father of his unhappy
friend, and knowing that it was his task to disclose the fate of his
son, deprived him for some time of all power of utterance; and La Luc
and Clara, whose fears were every instant heightened by this dreadful
silence, continued to repeat their questions.

At length a sense of the approaching sufferings of the good La Luc
overcoming every other feeling, Adeline recovered strength of mind
sufficient to try to soften the intelligence Louis had to communicate,
and to conduct Clara to another room. Here she collected resolution to
tell her, and with much tender consideration, the circumstances of her
brother's situation, concealing only her knowledge of his sentence being
already pronounced. This relation necessarily included the mention of
their attachment, and in the friend of her heart Clara discovered the
innocent cause of her brother's destruction. Adeline also learned the
occasion of that circumstance which had contributed to keep her ignorant
of Theodore's relationship to La Luc; she was told the former had taken
the name of Peyrou, with an estate which had been left him about a year
before by a relation of his mother's upon that condition. Theodore had
been designed for the church, but his disposition inclined him to a more
active life than the clerical habit would admit of; and on his accession
to this estate he had entered into the service of the French king.

In the few and interrupted interviews which had been allowed them at
Caux, Theodore had mentioned his family to Adeline only in general
terms; and thus, when they were so suddenly separated, had, without
designing it, left her in ignorance of his father's name and place of
residence.

The sacredness and delicacy of Adeline's grief, which had never
permitted her to mention the subject of it even to Clara, had since
contributed to deceive her.

The distress of Clara, on learning the situation of her brother, could
endure no restraint; Adeline, who had commanded her feelings so as to
impart this intelligence with tolerable composure, only by a strong
effort of mind, was now almost overwhelmed by her own and Clara's
accumulated suffering. While they wept forth the anguish of their
hearts; a scene if possible, more affecting passed between La Luc and
Louis; who perceived it was necessary to inform him, though cautiously
and by degrees, of the full extent of his calamity. He, therefore, told
La Luc, that though Theodore had been first tried for the offence of
having quitted his post, he was now condemned on a charge of assault
made upon his general officer the Marquis de Montalt, who had brought
witnesses to prove that his life had been endangered by the
circumstance; and who, having pursued the prosecution with the most
bitter rancour, had at length obtained the sentence which the law could
not withhold, but which every other officer in the regiment deplored.

Louis added, that the sentence was to be executed in less than a
fortnight, and that Theodore being very unhappy at receiving no answers
to the letters he had sent his father, wishing to see him once more, and
knowing that there was now no time to be lost, had requested him to go
to Leloncourt and acquaint his father with his situation.

La Luc received the account of his son's condition with a distress that
admitted neither of tears nor complaint. He asked where Theodore was;
and desiring to be conducted to him, he thanked Louis for all his
kindness, and ordered post horses immediately.

A carriage was soon ready; and this unhappy father, after taking a
mournful leave of M. Verneuil, and sending a compliment to M. Mauron,
attended by his family set out for the prison of his son. The journey
was a silent one; each individual of the party endeavoured, in
consideration of each other, to suppress the expression of grief, but
was unable to do more. La Luc appeared calm and complacent; he seemed
frequently to be engaged in prayer; but a struggle for resignation and
composure was sometimes visible upon his countenance, notwithstanding
the efforts of his mind.




CHAPTER XX


And venom'd with disgrace the dart of Death.

SEWARD.


We now return to the Marquis de Montalt, who having seen La Motte safely
lodged in the prison of D----y, and learning the trial would not come on
immediately, had returned to his villa on the borders of the forest,
where he expected to hear news of Adeline. It had been his intention to
follow his servants to Lyons; but he now determined to wait a few days
for letters, and he had little doubt that Adeline, since her flight had
been so quickly pursued, would be overtaken, and probably before she
could reach that city. In this expectation he had been miserably
disappointed; for his servants informed him, that though they traced her
thither, they had neither been able to follow her route beyond, nor to
discover her at Lyons. This escape she probably owed to having embarked
on the Rhone, for it does not appear that the Marquis's people thought
of seeking her on the course of that river.

His presence was soon after required at Vaceau, where the court-martial
was then sitting; thither therefore he went, with passions still more
exasperated by his late disappointment, and procured the condemnation of
Theodore. The sentence was universally lamented, for Theodore was much
beloved in his regiment; and the occasion of the Marquis's personal
resentment towards him being known, every heart was interested in his
cause.

Louis de La Motte happening at this time to be stationed in the same
town, heard an imperfect account of his story; and being convinced that
the prisoner was the young chevalier whom he had formerly seen with the
Marquis at the abbey, he was induced partly from compassion, and partly
with a hope of hearing of his parents, to visit him. The compassionate
sympathy which Louis expressed, and the zeal with which he tendered his
services, affected Theodore, and excited in him a warm return of
friendship; Louis made him frequent visits, did every thing that
kindness could suggest to alleviate his sufferings, and a mutual esteem
and confidence ensued.

Theodore at length communicated the chief subject of his concern to
Louis; who discovered with inexpressible grief that it was Adeline whom
the Marquis had thus cruelly persecuted, and Adeline for whose sake the
generous Theodore was about to suffer. He soon perceived also that
Theodore was his favoured rival; but he generously suppressed the
jealous pang this discovery occasioned, and determined that no prejudice
of passion should withdraw him from the duties of humanity and
friendship. He eagerly inquired where Adeline then resided. She is yet,
I fear, in the power of the Marquis, said Theodore, sighing deeply. O
God!--these chains!--and he threw an agonizing glance upon them. Louis
sat silent and thoughtful; at length starting from his reverie, he said
he would go to the Marquis, and immediately quitted the prison. The
Marquis, was, however, already set off for Paris, where he had been
summoned to appear at the approaching trial of La Motte; and Louis, yet
ignorant of the late transactions at the abbey, returned to the prison;
where he endeavoured to forget that Theodore was the favoured rival of
his love, and to remember him only as the defender of Adeline. So
earnestly he pressed his offers of service, that Theodore, whom the
silence of his father equally surprised and afflicted, and who was very
anxious to see him once again, accepted his proposal of going himself to
Savoy. My letters I strongly suspect to have been intercepted by the
Marquis, said Theodore; if so, my poor father will have the whole weight
of this calamity to sustain at once, unless I avail myself of your
kindness, and I shall neither see him nor hear from him before I die.
Louis! there are moments when my fortitude shrinks from the conflict,
and my senses threaten to desert me.

No time was to be lost; the warrant for his execution had already
received the king's signature, and Louis immediately set forward for
Savoy. The letters of Theodore had indeed been intercepted by order of
the Marquis, who, in the hope of discovering the asylum of Adeline, had
opened and afterwards destroyed them.

But to return to La Luc, who now drew near Vaceau, and whom his family
observed to be greatly changed in his looks since he had heard the late
calamitous intelligence; he uttered no complaint; but it was too obvious
that his disorder had made a rapid progress. Louis, who during the
journey proved the goodness of his disposition by the delicate
attentions he paid this unhappy party, concealed his observation of the
decline of La Luc, and to support Adeline's spirits, endeavoured to
convince her that her apprehensions on this subject were groundless. Her
spirits did indeed require support, for she was now within a few miles
of the town that contained Theodore; and while her increasing
perturbation almost overcame her, she yet tried to appear composed. When
the carriage entered the town, she cast a timid and anxious glance from
the window in search of the prison; but having passed through several
streets without perceiving any building which corresponded with her idea
of that she looked for, the coach stopped at the inn. The frequent
changes in La Luc's countenance betrayed the violent agitation of his
mind; and when he attempted to alight, feeble and exhausted, he was
compelled to accept the support of Louis, to whom he faintly said as he
passed to the parlour, I am indeed sick at heart, but I trust the pain
will not be long. Louis pressed his hand without speaking, and hastened
back for Adeline and Clara, who were already in the passage. La Luc
wiped the tears from his eyes (they were the first he had shed) as they
entered the room. I would go immediately to my poor boy, said he to
Louis; yours, Sir, is a mournful office--be so good as to conduct me to
him. He rose to go, but, feeble and overcome with grief, again sat down.
Adeline and Clara united in entreating that he would compose himself,
and take some refreshment; and Louis urging the necessity of preparing
Theodore for the interview, prevailed with him to delay it till his son
should be informed of his arrival, and immediately quitted the inn for
the prison of his friend. When he was gone, La Luc, as a duty he owed
those he loved, tried to take some support; but the convulsions of his
throat would not suffer him to swallow the wine he held to his parched
lips, and he was now so much disordered, that he desired to retire to
his chamber, where alone, and in prayer, he passed the dreadful interval
of Louis's absence.

Clara on the bosom of Adeline, who sat in calm but deep distress,
yielded to the violence of her grief. I shall lose my dear father too,
said she; I see it; I shall lose my father and my brother together.
Adeline wept with her friend for some time in silence; and then
attempted to persuade her that La Luc was not so ill as she apprehended.

Do not mislead me with hope, she replied that will not survive the shock
of this calamity--I saw it from the first. Adeline knowing that La Luc's
distress would be heightened by the observance of his daughter's, and
that indulgence would only increase its poignancy, endeavoured to rouse
her to an exertion of fortitude by urging the necessity of commanding
her emotion in the presence of her father. This is possible, added she,
however painful may be the effort. You must know, my dear, that my grief
is not inferior to your own, yet I have hitherto been enabled to support
my sufferings in silence; for M. La Luc I do, indeed, love and reverence
as a parent.

Louis meanwhile reached the prison of Theodore, who received him with an
air of mingled surprise and impatience. What brings you back so soon?
said he, have you heard news of my father? Louis now gradually unfolded
the circumstances of their meetings and La Luc's arrival at Vaceau. A
various emotion agitated the countenance of Theodore on receiving this
intelligence. My poor father! said he, he has then followed his son to
this ignominious place! Little did I think when last we parted he would
meet me in a prison under condemnation! This reflection roused an
impetuosity of grief which deprived him for some time of speech? But
where is he? said Theodore, recovering himself; now he is come I shrink
from the interview I have so much wished for. The sight of his distress
will be dreadful to me. Louis! when I am gone, comfort my poor father.
His voice was again interrupted by sobs; and Louis, who had been fearful
of acquainting him at the same time of the arrival of La Luc and the
discovery of Adeline, now judged it proper to administer the cordial of
this latter intelligence.

The glooms of a prison and of calamity vanished for a transient moment;
those who had seen Theodore would have believed this to be the instant
which gave him life and liberty. When his first emotions subsided, I
will not repine, said he, since I know that Adeline is preserved, and
that I shall once more see my father, I will endeavour to die with
resignation. He inquired if La Luc was then in the prison, and was told
he was at the inn with Clara and Adeline. Adeline! Is Adeline there
too?--This is beyond my hopes. Yet why do I rejoice? I must never see
her more: this is no place for Adeline. Again he relapsed into an agony
of distress--and again repeated a thousand questions concerning Adeline,
till he was reminded by Louis that his father was impatient to see
him--when, shocked that he had so long detained his friend, he entreated
him to conduct La Luc to the prison, and endeavoured to recollect
fortitude for the approaching interview.

When Louis returned to the inn, La Luc was still in his chamber; and
Clara quitting the room to call him, Adeline seized with trembling
impatience the opportunity to inquire more particularly concerning
Theodore, than she chose to do in the presence of his unhappy sister.
Louis represented him to be much more tranquil than he really was.
Adeline was somewhat soothed by the account; and her tears, hitherto
restrained, flowed silently and fast till La Luc appeared. His
countenance had recovered its serenity, but was impressed with a deep
and steady sorrow, which excited in the beholder a mingled emotion of
pity and reverence. How is my son, Sir? said he as he entered the room.
We will go to him immediately.

Clara renewed the entreaties that had been already rejected, to
accompany her father, who persisted in a refusal. To-morrow you shall
see him, added he; but our first meeting must be alone. Stay with your
friend, my dear; she has need of consolation. When La Luc was gone,
Adeline, unable longer to struggle against the force of grief, retired
to her chamber and her bed.

La Luc walked silently towards the prison, resting on the arm of Louis.
It was now night: a dim lamp that hung above showed them the gates, and
Louis rang a bell: La Luc, almost overcome with agitation, leaned
against the postern till the porter appeared. He inquired for Theodore,
and followed the man; but when he reached the second courtyard he seemed
ready to faint, and again stopped. Louis desired the porter would fetch
some water; but La Luc, recovering his voice, said he should soon be
better, and would not suffer him to go. In a few minutes he was able to
follow Louis, who led him through several dark passages, and up a flight
of steps to a door which, being unbarred, disclosed to him the prison of
his son. He was seated at a small table, on which stood a lamp that
threw a feeble light across the place, sufficient only to show its
desolation and wretchedness. When he perceived La Luc he sprung from his
chair, and in the next moment was in his arms. My father! said he in a
tremulous voice. My son! exclaimed La Luc; and they were for some time
silent, and locked in each other's embrace. At length Theodore led him
to the only chair the room afforded, and seating himself with Louis at
the foot of the bed, had leisure to observe the ravages which illness
and calamity had made on the features of his parent. La Luc made several
efforts to speak; but, unable to articulate, laid his hand upon his
breast and sighed deeply. Fearful of the consequence of so affecting a
scene on his shattered frame, Louis endeavoured to call off his
attention from the immediate object of his distress, and interrupted the
silence; but La Luc shuddering, and complaining he was very cold, sunk
back in his chair. His condition roused Theodore from the stupor of
despair; and while he flew to support his father, Louis ran out for
other assistance.--I shall soon be better, Theodore, said La Luc,
unclosing his eyes, the faintness is already going off. I have not been
well of late; and this sad meeting!--Unable any longer to command
himself, Theodore wrung his hand, and the distress which had long
struggled for utterance burst in convulsive throbs from his breast. La
Lac gradually revived, and exerted himself to calm the transports of his
son; but the fortitude of the latter had now entirely forsaken him, and
he could only utter exclamation and complaint. Ah! little did I think we
should ever meet under circumstances so dreadful as the present! But I
have not deserved them, my father! the motives of my conduct have still
been just.

That is my supreme consolation, said La Luc, and ought to support you in
this hour of trial. The Almighty God, who is the judge of hearts, will
reward you hereafter. Trust in him, my son; I look to him with no feeble
hope, but with a firm reliance on his justice! La Luc's voice faltered;
he raised his eyes to heaven with an expression of meek devotion, while
the tears of humanity fell slowly on his cheek.

Still more affected by his last words, Theodore turned from him, and
paced the room with quick steps: the entrance of Louis was a very
seasonable relief to La Luc, who, taking a cordial he had brought, was
soon sufficiently restored to discourse on the subject most interesting
to him. Theodore tried to attain a command of his feelings, and
succeeded. He conversed with tolerable composure for above an hour,
during which La Luc endeavoured to elevate, by religious hope, the mind
of his son, and to enable him to meet with fortitude the awful hour that
approached. But the appearance of resignation which Theodore attained
always vanished when he reflected that he was going to leave his father
a prey to grief, and his beloved Adeline for ever. When La Luc was about
to depart he again mentioned her. Afflicting as an interview must be in
our present circumstances, said he, I cannot bear the thought of
quitting the world without seeing her once more; yet I know not how to
ask her to encounter, for my sake, the misery of a parting scene. Tell
her that my thoughts never, for a moment, leave her; that----La Luc
interrupted, and assured him, that since he so much wished it, he should
see her, though a meeting could serve only to heighten the mutual
anguish of a final separation.

I know it--I know it too well, said Theodore; yet I cannot resolve to
see her no more, and thus spare her the pain this interview must
inflict. O my father! when I think of those whom I must soon leave for
ever, my heart breaks. But I will, indeed, try to profit by your precept
and example, and show that your paternal care has not been in vain. My
good Louis, go with my father--he has need of support. How much I owe
this generous friend, added Theodore, you well know, Sir.--I do, in
truth, replied La Luc, and can never repay his kindness to you. He has
contributed to support us all; but you require comfort more than
myself--he shall remain with you--I will go alone.

This Theodore would not suffer; and La Luc no longer opposing him, they
affectionately embraced, and separated for the night.

When they reached the inn, La Luc consulted with Louis on the
possibility of addressing a petition to the sovereign time enough to
save Theodore. His distance from Paris, and the short interval before
the period fixed for this execution of the sentence, made this design
difficult: but believing it was practicable, La Luc, incapable as he
appeared of performing so long a journey, determined to attempt it.
Louis, thinking that the undertaking would prove fatal to the father,
without benefiting the son, endeavoured, though faintly, to dissuade him
from it--but his resolution was fixed--If I sacrifice the small remains
of my life in the service of my child, said he, I shall lose little: if
I save him, I shall gain every thing. There is no time to be lost--I
will set off immediately.

He would have ordered post-horses, but Louis and Clara, who were now
come from the bed-side of her friend, urged the necessity of his taking
a few hours' repose: he was at length compelled to acknowledge himself
unequal to the immediate exertion which parental anxiety prompted, and
consented to seek rest.

When he had retired to his chamber, Clara lamented the condition of her
father.--He will not bear the journey, said she; he is greatly changed
within these few days.--Louis was so entirely of her opinion, that he
could not disguise it, even to flatter her with a hope. She added, what
did not contribute to raise his spirits, that Adeline was so much
indisposed by her grief for the situation of Theodore and the sufferings
of La Luc that she dreaded the consequence.

It has been seen that the passion of young La Motte had suffered no
abatement from time or absence; on the contrary, the persecution and the
dangers which had pursued Adeline awakened all his tenderness, and drew
her nearer to his heart. When he had discovered that Theodore loved her,
and was beloved again, he experienced all the anguish of jealousy and
disappointment; for, though she had forbidden him to hope, he found it
too painful an effort to obey her, and had secretly cherished the flame
which he ought to have stifled. His heart was, however, too noble to
suffer his zeal for Theodore to abate because he was his favoured rival,
and his mind too strong not to conceal the anguish this certainty
occasioned. The attachment which Theodore had testified towards Adeline
even endeared him to Louis, when he had recovered from the first shock
of disappointment, and that conquest over jealousy which originated in
principle, and was pursued with difficulty, became afterwards his pride
and his glory. When, however, he again saw Adeline--saw her in the mild
dignity of sorrow more interesting than ever--saw her, though sinking
beneath its pressure, yet tender and solicitous to soften the
afflictions of those around her--it was with the utmost difficulty he
preserved his resolution, and forebore to express the sentiments she
inspired. When he further considered that her acute sufferings arose
from the strength of her affection, he more than ever wished himself the
object of a heart capable of so tender a regard--and Thedore in prison
and in chains was a momentary object of envy.

In the morning, when La Luc arose from short and disturbed slumbers, he
found Louis, Clara, and Adeline, whom indisposition could not prevent
from paying him this testimony of respect and affection, assembled in
the parlour of the inn to see him depart. After a slight breakfast,
during which his feelings permitted him to say little, he bade his
friends a sad farewell, and stepped into the carriage, followed by their
tears and prayers.--Adeline immediately retired to her chamber, which
she was too ill to quit that day. In the evening Clara left her friend,
and, conducted by Louis, went to visit her brother, whose emotions, on
hearing of his father's departure, were various and strong.




CHAPTER XXI


'Tis only when with inbred horror smote
At some base act, or done, or to be done,
That the recoiling soul, with conscious dread.
Shrinks back into itself.

MASON.


We return now to Pierre de la Motte, who, after remaining some weeks in
the prison of D----y, was removed to take his trial in the courts of
Paris, whether the Marquis de Montalt followed to prosecute the charge.
Madame de la Motte accompanied her husband to the prison of the
Chatelet. His mind sunk under the weight of his misfortunes; nor could
all the efforts of his wife rouse him from the torpidity of despair
which a consideration of his circumstances occasioned. Should he be even
acquitted of the charge brought against him by the Marquis, (which was
very unlikely,) he was now in the scene of his former crimes, and the
moment that should liberate him from the walls of his prison would
probably deliver him again into the hands of offended justice.

[Illustration 09]

The prosecution of the Marquis was too well founded, and its object of a
nature too serious, not to justify the terror of La Motte. Soon after
the latter had settled at the abbey of St. Clair, the small stock of
money which the emergency of his circumstances had left him being nearly
exhausted, his mind became corroded with the most cruel anxiety
concerning the means of his future subsistence. As he was one evening
riding alone in a remote part of the forest, musing on his distressed
circumstances, and meditating plans to relieve the exigencies which he
saw approaching, he perceived among the trees at some distance a
chevalier on horseback, who was riding deliberately along, and seemed
wholly unattended. A thought darted across the mind of La Motte, that he
might be spared the evils which threatened him by robbing this stranger.
His former practices had passed the boundary of honesty--fraud was in
some degree familiar to him--and the thought was not dismissed. He
hesitated----every moment of hesitation increased the power of
temptation--the opportunity was such as might never occur again. He
looked round, and as far as the trees opened saw no person but the
chevalier, who seemed by his air to be a man of distinction. Summoning
all his courage, La Motte rode forward and attacked him. The Marquis de
Montalt, for it was he, was unarmed; but knowing that his attendants
were not far off, he refused to yield. While they were struggling for
victory, La Motte saw several horsemen enter the extremity of the
avenue, and rendered desperate by opposition and delay, he drew from his
pocket a pistol, (which an apprehension of banditti made him usually
carry when he rode to a distance from the abbey) and fired at the
Marquis, who staggered and fell senseless to the ground. La Motte had
time to tear from his coat a brilliant star, some diamond rings from his
fingers, and to rifle his pockets before his attendants came up. Instead
of pursuing the robber, they all, in their first confusion, flew to
assist their Lord, and La Motte escaped.

He stopped before he reached the abbey at a little ruin, the tomb
formerly mentioned, to examine his booty. It consisted of a purse
containing seventy louis d'ors; of a diamond star, three rings of great
value, and a miniature set with brilliants of the Marquis himself, which
he had intended as a present for his favourite mistress. To La Motte,
who but a few hours before had seen himself nearly destitute, the view
of this treasure excited an almost ungovernable transport; but it was
soon checked when he remembered the means he had employed to obtain it,
and that he had paid for the wealth he contemplated, the price of blood.
Naturally violent in his passions, this reflection sunk him from the
summit of exultation to the abyss of despondency. He considered himself
a murderer, and, startled as one awakened from a dream, would have given
half the world, had it been his, to have been as poor, and comparatively
as guiltless, as a few preceding hours had seen him. On examining the
portrait he discovered the resemblance; and believing that his hand had
deprived the original of life, he gazed upon the picture with
unutterable anguish. To the horrors of remorse succeeded the
perplexities of fear. Apprehensive of he knew not what, he lingered at
the tomb, where he at length deposited his treasure, believing that if
his offence should awaken justice, the abbey might be searched, and
these jewels betray him. From Madame La Motte it was easy to conceal his
increase of wealth; for as he had never made her acquainted with the
exact state of his finances, she had not suspected the extreme poverty
which menaced him; and as they continued to live as usual, she believed
that their expenses were drawn from the usual supply. But it was not so
easy to disguise the workings of remorse and horror: his manner became
gloomy and reserved, and his frequent visits to the tomb, where he went
partly to examine his treasure, but chiefly to indulge in the dreadful
pleasure of contemplating the picture of the Marquis, excited curiosity.
In the solitude of the forest, where no variety of objects occurred to
renovate his ideas, the horrible one of having committed murder was ever
present to him.--When the Marquis arrived at the abbey, the astonishment
and terror of La Motte (for at first he scarce knew whether he held the
shadow or the substance of a human form) were quickly succeeded by
apprehension of the punishment due to the crime he had really committed.
When his distress had prevailed on the Marquis to retire, he informed
him that he was by birth a chevalier: he then touched upon such parts of
his misfortunes as he thought would excite pity, expressed such
abhorrence of his guilt, and voluntarily uttered such a solemn promise
of returning the jewels he had yet in his possession, (for he had
ventured to dispose only of a small part,) that the Marquis at length
listened to him with some degree of compassion. This favourable
sentiment, seconded by a selfish motive, induced the Marquis to
compromise with La Motte. Of quick and inflammable passions, he had
observed the beauty of Adeline with an eye of no common regard, and he
resolved to spare the life of La Motte upon no other condition than the
sacrifice of this unfortunate girl. La Motte had neither resolution nor
virtue sufficient to reject the terms--the jewels were restored, and he
consented to betray the innocent Adeline. But as he was too well
acquainted with her heart to believe that she would easily be won to the
practice of vice, and as he still felt a degree of pity and tenderness
for her, he endeavoured to prevail on the Marquis to forbear precipitate
measures, and to attempt gradually to undermine her principles by
seducing her affections. He approved and adopted this plan: the failure
of his first scheme induced him to employ the stratagems he afterwards
pursued, and thus to multiply the misfortunes of Adeline.

Such were the circumstances which had brought La Motte to his present
deplorable situation. The day of trial was now come, and he was led from
prison into the court, where the Marquis appeared as his accuser. When
the charge was delivered, La Motte, as is usual, pleaded Not guilty, and
the Advocate Nemours, who had undertaken to plead for him, afterwards
endeavoured to make it appear that the accusation, on the part of the
Marquis de Montalt, was false and malicious. To this purpose he
mentioned the circumstance of the latter having attempted to persuade
his client to the murder of Adeline: he further urged that the Marquis
had lived in habits of intimacy with La Motte for several months
immediately preceding his arrest, and that it was not till he had
disappointed the designs of his accuser, by conveying beyond his reach
the unhappy object of his vengeance, that the Marquis had thought proper
to charge La Motte with the crime for which he stood indicted. Nemours
urged the improbability of one man's keeping up a friendly intercourse
with another from whom he had suffered the double injury of assault and
robbery; yet it was certain that the Marquis had observed a frequent
intercourse with La Motte for some months following the time specified
for the commission of the crime. If the Marquis intended to prosecute,
why was it not immediately after his discovery of La Motte? and if not
then, what had influenced him to prosecute at so distant a period?

To this nothing was replied on the part of the Marquis; for, as his
conduct on this point had been subservient to his designs on Adeline, he
could not justify it but by exposing schemes which would betray the
darkness of his character, and invalidate his cause. He, therefore,
contented himself with producing several of his servants as witnesses of
the assault and robbery, who swore without scruple to the person of La
Motte, though not one of them had seen him otherwise than through the
gloom of evening and riding off at full speed. On a cross-examination
most of them contradicted each other; their evidence was of course
rejected: but as the Marquis had yet two other witnesses to produce,
whose arrival at Paris had been hourly expected, the event of the trial
was postponed, and the court adjourned.

La Motte was re-conducted to his prison under the same pressure of
despondency with which he had quitted it. As he walked through one of
the avenues he passed a man who stood by to let him proceed, and who
regarded him with a fixed and earnest eye. La Motte thought he had seen
him before; but the imperfect view he caught of his features through the
darkness of the place made him uncertain as to this, and his mind was in
too perturbed a state to suffer him to feel an interest on the subject.
When he was gone, the stranger inquired of the keeper of the prison who
La Motte was: on being told, and receiving answers to some further
questions he put, he desired he might be admitted to speak with him. The
request, as the man was only a debtor, was granted; but as the doors
were now shut for the night, the interview was deferred till the morrow.

La Motte found Madame in his room, where she had been waiting for some
hours to hear the event of the trial. They now wished more earnestly
than ever to see their son; but they were, as he had suspected, ignorant
of his change of quarters, owing to the letters which he had as usual,
addressed to them under an assumed name, remaining at the post-house of
Auboine. This circumstance occasioned Madame La Motte to address her
letters to the place of her son's late residence, and he had thus
continued ignorant of his father's misfortunes and removal. Madame La
Motte, surprised at receiving no answers to her letters, sent off
another, containing an account of the trial as far as it had proceeded,
and a request that her son would obtain leave of absence, and set out
for Paris instantly. As she was still ignorant, of the failure of her
letters, and, had it been otherwise, would not have known whither to
have sent them, she directed this as usual.

Meanwhile his approaching fate was never absent for a moment from the
mind of La Motte, which, feeble by nature, and still more enervated by
habits of indulgence, refused to support him at this dreadful period.

While these scenes were passing at Paris, La Luc arrived there without
any accident, after performing a journey, during which he had been
supported almost entirely by the spirit of his resolution. He hastened
to throw himself at the feet of the sovereign; and such was the excess
of his feeling on presenting the petition which was to decide the fate
of his son, that he could only look silently up, and then fainted. The
king received the paper, and giving orders for the unhappy father to be
taken care of, passed on. He was carried back to his hotel, where he
awaited the event of this his final effort.

Adeline, meanwhile, continued at Vaceau in a state of anxiety too
powerful for her long-agitated frame, and the illness in consequence of
this, confined her almost wholly to her chamber. Sometimes she ventured
to flatter herself with a hope that the journey of La Luc would be
successful: but these short and illusive intervals of comfort served
only to heighten, by contrast, the despondency that succeeded; and in
the alternate extremes of feeling she experienced a state more torturing
than that produced either by the sharp sting of unexpected calamity, or
the sullen pain of settled despair.

When she was well enough she came down to the parlour to converse with
Louis, who brought her frequent accounts of Theodore, and who passed
every moment he could snatch from the duty of his profession in
endeavours to support and console his afflicted friends. Adeline and
Theodore, both looked to him for the little comfort allotted them, for
he brought them intelligence of each other, and whenever he appeared a
transient melancholy kind of pleasure played round their hearts. He
could not conceal from Theodore Adeline's indisposition, since it was
necessary to account for her not indulging the earnest wish he
repeatedly expressed to see her again. To Adeline he spoke chiefly of
the fortitude and resignation of his friend, not however forgetting to
mention the tender affection he constantly expressed for her. Accustomed
to derive her sole consolation from the presence of Louis, and to
observe his unwearied friendship towards him whom she so truly loved,
she found her esteem for him ripen into gratitude, and her regard daily
increase.

The fortitude with which he had said Theodore supported his calamities
was somewhat exaggerated. He could not forget those ties which bound him
to life sufficiently to meet his fate with firmness; but though the
paroxysms of grief were acute and frequent, he sought, and often
attained in the presence of his friends, a manly composure. From the
event of his father's journey he hoped little, yet that little was
sufficient to keep his mind in the torture of suspense till the issue
should appear.

On the day preceding that fixed for the execution of the sentence, La
Luc reached Vaceau. Adeline was at her chamber window when the carriage
drew up to the inn; she saw him alight, and with feeble steps, supported
by Peter, enter the house. From the languor of his air she drew no
favourable omen, and, almost sinking under the violence of her emotion,
she went to meet him. Clara was already with her father when Adeline
entered the room. She approached him, but, dreading to receive from his
lips a confirmation of the misfortune his countenance seemed to
indicate, she looked expressively at him and sat down, unable to speak
the question she would have asked. He held out his hand to her in
silence, sunk back in his chair, and seemed to be fainting under
oppression of heart. His manner confirmed all her fears; at this
dreadful conviction her senses failed her, and she sat motionless and
stupefied.

La Luc and Clara were too much occupied by their own distress to observe
her situation; after some time she breathed a heavy sigh, and burst into
tears. Relieved by weeping, her spirits gradually returned, and she at
length said to La Luc, It is unnecessary, Sir, to ask the success of
your journey; yet, when you can bear to mention the subject, I wish--

La Luc waved his hand--Alas! said he, I have nothing to tell but what
you already guess too well. My poor Theodore!--His voice was convulsed
with sorrow, and some moments of unutterable anguish followed.

Adeline was the first who recovered sufficient recollection to notice
the extreme languor of La Luc, and attend to his support. She ordered
him refreshments, and entreated he would retire to his bed and suffer
her to send for a physician; adding, that the fatigue he had suffered
made repose absolutely necessary. Would that I could find it, my dear
child! said he; it is not in this world that I must look for it, but in
a better, and that better, I trust, I shall soon attain. But where is
our good friend, Louis La Motte? He must lead me to my son.--Grief again
interrupted his utterance, and the entrance of Louis was a very
seasonable relief to them all. Their tears explained the question he
would have asked. La Luc immediately inquired for his son; and thanking
Louis for all his kindness to him, desired to be conducted to the
prison. Louis endeavoured to persuade him to defer his visit till the
morning, and Adeline and Clara joined their entreaties with his, but La
Luc determined to go that night.--His time is short, said he; a few
hours and I shall see him no more, at least in this world; let me not
neglect these precious moments. Adeline! I had promised my poor boy that
he should see you once more; you are not now equal to the meeting; I
will try to reconcile him to the disappointment: but if I fail, and you
are better in the morning, I know you will exert yourself to sustain the
interview.--Adeline looked impatient, and attempted to speak. La Luc
rose to depart, but could only reach the door of the room, where, faint
and feeble, he sat down in a chair. I must submit to necessity, said he;
I find I am not able to go further to-night. Go to him, La Motte, and
tell him I am somewhat disordered by my journey, but that I will be with
him early in the morning. Do not flatter him with a hope; prepare him
for the worst.--There was a pause of silence. La Luc at length
recovering himself, desired Clara would order his bed to be got ready,
and she willingly obeyed. When he withdrew, Adeline told Louis, what was
indeed unnecessary, the event of La Luc's journey. I own, continued she,
that I had sometimes suffered myself to hope, and I now feel this
calamity with double force: I fear too that M. La Luc will sink under
its pressure; he is much altered for the worse since he set out for
Paris. Tell me your opinion sincerely.

The change was so obvious that Louis could not deny it; but he
endeavoured to soothe her apprehension by ascribing this alteration, in
a great measure, to the temporary fatigue of travelling. Adeline
declared her resolution of accompanying La Luc to take leave of Theodore
in the morning. I know not how I shall support the interview, said she;
but to see him once more is a duty I owe both to him and myself. The
remembrance of having neglected to give him this last proof of affection
would pursue me with incessant remorse.

After some further conversation on this subject Louis withdrew to the
prison, ruminating on the best means of imparting to his friend the
fatal intelligence he had to communicate. Theodore received it with more
composure than he had expected; but he asked with impatience why he did
not see his father and Adeline; and on being informed that indisposition
withheld them, his imagination seized on the worst possibility, and
suggested that his father was dead. It was a considerable time before
Louis could convince him of the contrary, and that Adeline was not
dangerously ill: when, however, he was assured that he should see them
in the morning, he became more tranquil. He desired his friend would not
leave him that night. These are the last hours we can pass together,
added he; I cannot sleep! Stay with me and lighten their heavy moments.
I have need of comfort, Louis. Young as I am, and held by such strong
attachments, I cannot quit the world with resignation. I know not how to
credit those stories we hear of philosophic fortitude; wisdom cannot
teach us cheerfully to resign a good, and life in my circumstances is
surely such.

The night was passed in embarrassed conversation; sometimes interrupted
by long fits of silence, and sometimes by the paroxysms of despair; and
the morning of that day which was to lead Theodore to death, at length
dawned through the grates of his prison.

La Luc meanwhile passed a sleepless and dreadful night. He prayed for
fortitude and resignation both for himself and Theodore; but the pangs
of nature were powerful in his heart, and not to be subdued. The idea of
his lamented wife, and of what she would have suffered had she lived to
witness the ignominious death which awaited her son, frequently occurred
to him.

It seemed as if a destiny had hung over the life of Theodore; for it is
probable that the king might have granted the petition of the unhappy
father, had it not happened that the Marquis de Montalt was present at
court when the paper was presented. The appearance and singular distress
of the petitioner had interested the monarch, and, instead of putting by
the paper, he opened it. As he threw his eyes over it, observing that
the criminal was of the Marquis de Montalt's regiment, he turned to him
and inquired the nature of the offence for which the culprit was about
to suffer. The answer was such as might have been expected from the
Marquis, and the king was convinced that Theodore was not a proper
object of mercy.

But to return to La Luc, who was called, according to his order, at a
very early hour. Having passed some time in prayer, he went down to the
parlour, where Louis, punctual to the moment, already waited to conduct
him to the prison. He appeared calm and collected, but his countenance
was impressed with a fixed despair that sensibly affected his young
friend. While they waited for Adeline he spoke little, and seemed
struggling to attain the fortitude necessary to support him through the
approaching scene. Adeline not appearing, he at length sent to hasten
her, and was told she had been ill, but was recovering. She had indeed
passed a night of such agitation, that her frame had sunk under it, and
she was now endeavouring to recover strength and composure sufficient to
sustain her in this dreadful hour. Every moment that brought her nearer
to it had increased her emotion, and the apprehension of being prevented
seeing Theodore had alone enabled her to struggle against the united
pressure of illness and grief.

She now, with Clara, joined La Luc, who advanced as they entered the
room, and took a hand of each in silence. After some moments he proposed
to go, and they stepped into a carriage which conveyed them to the gates
of the prison. The crowd had already begun to assemble there, and a
confused murmur arose as the carriage moved forward; it was a grievous
sight to the friends of Theodore. Louis supported Adeline when she
alighted, she was scarcely able to walk, and with trembling steps she
followed La Luc, whom the keeper led towards that part of the prison
where his son was confined. It was now eight o'clock, the sentence was
not to be executed till twelve, but a guard of soldiers was already
placed in the court; and as this unhappy party passed along the narrow
avenues, they were met by several officers who had been to take a last
farewell of Theodore. As they ascended the stairs that led to his
apartment. La Luc's ear caught the clink of chains, and heard him
walking above with a quick irregular step. The unhappy father, overcome
by the moment which now pressed upon him, stopped, and was obliged to
support himself by the bannister. Louis fearing the consequence of his
grief might be fatal, shattered as his frame already was, would have
gone for assistance, but he made a sign to him to stay, I am better,
said La Luc; O God! support me through this hour!--and in a few minutes
he was able to proceed.

As the warder unlocked the door, the harsh grating of the key shocked
Adeline, but in the next moment she was in the presence of Theodore, who
sprung to meet her, and caught her in his arms before she sunk to the
ground. As her head reclined on his shoulder, he again viewed that
countenance so dear to him, which had so often lighted rapture in his
heart, and which, though pale and inanimate as it now was, awakened him
to momentary delight. When at length she unclosed her eyes, she fixed
them in long and mournful gaze upon Theodore, who pressing her to his
heart could answer her only with a smile of mingled tenderness and
despair; the tears he endeavoured to restrain trembled in his eyes, and
he forgot for a time every thing but Adeline. La Luc, who had seated
himself at the foot of the bed, seemed unconscious of what passed around
him, and entirely absorbed in his own grief; but Clara, as she clasped
the hand of her brother and hung weeping on his arm, expressed aloud all
the anguish of her heart, and at length recalled the attention of
Adeline, who in a voice scarcely audible entreated she would spare her
father. Her words roused Theodore, and supporting Adeline to a chair, he
turned to La Luc. My dear child! said La Luc, grasping his hand and
bursting into tears, my dear child! They wept together. After a long
interval of silence, he said, I thought I could have supported this
hour, but I am old and feeble. God knows my efforts for resignation, my
faith in his goodness.

Theodore by a strong and sudden exertion assumed a composed and firm
countenance, and endeavoured by every gentle argument to soothe and
comfort his weeping friends. La Luc at length seemed to conquer his
sufferings; drying his eyes, he said, My son, I ought to have set you a
better example, and have practised the precepts of fortitude I have so
often given you. But it is over; I know and will perform my duty.
Adeline breathed a heavy sigh, and continued to weep. Be comforted, my
love, we part but for a time, said Theodore as he kissed the tears from
her cheek; and uniting her hand with that of his father's, he earnestly
recommended her to his protection. Receive her, added he, as the most
precious legacy I can bequeath; consider her as your child: she will
console you when I am gone, she will more than supply the loss of your
son.

La Luc assured him that he did now, and should continue to regard
Adeline as his daughter. During those afflicting hours he endeavoured to
dissipate the terrors of approaching death by inspiring his son with
religious confidence. His conversation was pious, rational, and
consolatory; he spoke not from the cold dictates of the head, but from
the feelings of a heart which had long loved and practised the pure
precepts of Christianity, and which now drew from them a comfort such as
nothing earthly could bestow.

You are young, my son, said he, and are yet innocent of any great crime;
you may therefore look on death without terror, for to the guilty only
is his approach dreadful. I feel that I shall not long survive you, and
I trust in a merciful God that we shall meet in a state where sorrow
never comes; where the _Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing on
his wings!_ As he spoke he looked up; the tears still trembled in his
eyes, which beamed with meek yet fervent devotion, and his countenance
glowed with the dignity of a superior being.

Let us not neglect the awful moments, said La Luc rising, let our united
prayers ascend to Him who alone can comfort and support us! They all
knelt down, and he prayed with that simple and sublime eloquence which
true piety inspires. When he arose he embraced his children separately,
and when he came to Theodore he paused, gazed upon him with an earnest,
mournful expression, and was for some time unable to speak. Theodore
could not bear this; he drew his hand before his eyes, and vainly
endeavoured to stifle the deep sobs which convulsed his frame. At length
recovering his voice, he entreated his father would leave him. This
misery is too much for us all, said he, let us not prolong it. The time
is now drawing on--leave me to compose myself; the sharpness of death
consists in parting with those who are dear to us; when that is passed
death is disarmed.

I will not leave you, my son, replied La Luc; my poor girls shall go,
but for me, I will be with you in your last moments. Theodore felt that
this would be too much for them both, and urged every argument which
reason could suggest to prevail with his father to relinquish his
design: but he remained firm in his determination. I will not suffer a
selfish consideration of the pain I may endure, said La Luc, to tempt me
to desert my child when he will most require my support. It is my duty
to attend you, and nothing shall withhold me.

Theodore seized on the words of La Luc--As you would that I should be
supported in my last hour, said he, I entreat that you will not be
witness of it. Your presence, my dear father, would subdue all my
fortitude--would destroy what little composure I may otherwise be able
to attain. Add not to my sufferings the view of your distress, but leave
me to forget, if possible, the dear parent I must quit for ever. His
tears flowed anew. La Luc continued to gaze on him in silent agony. At
length he said, Well, be it so. If indeed my presence would distress
you, I will not go. His voice was broken and interrupted. After a pause
of some moments he again embraced Theodore--We must part, said he, we
_must_ part, but it is only for a time--we shall soon be reunited in a
higher world!--O God! thou seest my heart--thou seest all its feelings
in this bitter hour!--Grief again overcame him. He pressed Theodore in
his arms: and at length seeming to summon all his fortitude, he again
said, We _must_ part--Oh! my son, farewell for ever in this world!--The
mercy of Almighty God support and bless you!

He turned away to leave the prison, but quite worn out with grief, sunk
into a chair near the door he would have opened. Theodore gazed, with a
distracted countenance, alternately on his father, on Clara, and on
Adeline, whom he pressed to his throbbing heart, and their tears flowed
together. And do I then, cried he, for the last time look upon that
countenance!--Shall I never--never more behold it?--O! exquisite misery!
Yet once again--once more, continued he, pressing her cheek; but it was
insensible and cold as marble.

Louis, who had left the room soon after La Luc arrived, that his
presence might not interrupt their farewell grief, now returned. Adeline
raised her head, and perceiving who entered, it again sunk on the bosom
of Theodore.

Louis appeared much agitated. La Luc arose. We must go, said he;
Adeline, my love, exert yourself--Clara--my children, let us
depart.--Yet one last--last embrace, and then!----Louis advanced and
took his hand; My dear Sir, I have something to say; yet I fear to tell
it.--What do you mean? said La Luc with quickness: no new misfortune can
have power to afflict me at this moment; do not fear to speak.--I
rejoice that I cannot put you to the proof, replied Louis; I have seen
you sustain the most trying affliction with fortitude. Can you support
the transports of hope?--La Luc gazed eagerly on Louis--Speak! said he,
in a faint voice. Adeline raised her head, and, trembling between hope
and fear, looked as if she would have searched his soul. He smiled
cheerfully upon her. Is it--O! is it possible! she exclaimed, suddenly
reanimated--He lives! He lives!--She said no more, but ran to La Luc,
who sunk fainting in his chair, while Theodore and Clara with one voice
called on Louis to relieve them from the tortures of suspense.

He proceeded to inform them that he had obtained from the commanding
officer a respite for Theodore till the king's further pleasure could be
known, and this in consequence of a letter received that morning from
his mother, Madame de La Motte, in which she mentioned some very
extraordinary circumstances that had appeared in the course of a trial
lately conducted at Paris, and which so materially affected the
character of the Marquis de Montalt as to render it possible a pardon
might be obtained for Theodore.

These words darted with the rapidity of lightning upon the hearts of his
hearers. La Luc revived, and that prison so lately the scene of despair
now echoed only to the voices of gratitude and gladness. La Luc, raising
his clasped hands to heaven, said, Great God! support me in this moment
as thou hast already supported me!--If my son lives, I die in peace.

He embraced Theodore, and remembering the anguish of his last embrace,
tears of thankfulness and joy flowed to the contrast. So powerful indeed
was the effect of this temporary reprieve, and of the hope it
introduced, that if an absolute pardon had been obtained, it could
scarcely for the moment have diffused a more lively joy. But when the
first emotions were subsided, the uncertainty of Theodore's fate once
more appeared. Adeline forbore to express this; but Clara without
scruple lamented the possibility that her brother might yet be taken
from them, and all their joy be turned to sorrow. A look from Adeline
checked her. Joy was, however, so much the predominant feeling of the
present moment, that the shade which reflection threw upon their hopes
passed away like the cloud that is dispelled by the strength of the
sunbeam; and Louis alone was pensive and abstracted.

When they were sufficiently composed, he informed them that the contents
of Madame de La Motte's letter obliged him to set out for Paris
immediately; and that the intelligence he had to communicate intimately
concerned Adeline, who would undoubtedly judge it necessary to go
thither also as soon as her health would permit. He then read to his
impatient auditors such passages in the letter as were necessary to
explain his meaning; but as Madame de La Motte had omitted to mention
some circumstances of importance to be understood, the following is a
relation of the occurrences that had lately happened at Paris.

It may be remembered that on the first day of his trial, La Motte, in
passing from the courts to his prison, saw a person whose features,
though imperfectly seen through the dusk, he thought he recollected; and
that this same person, after inquiring the name of La Motte, desired to
be admitted to him. On the following day the warder complied with his
request, and the surprise of La Motte may be imagined when in the
stronger light of his apartment, he distinguished the countenance of the
man, from whose hands he had formerly received Adeline.

On observing Madame de La Motte in the room, he said he had something of
consequence to impart, and desired to be left alone with the prisoner.
When she was gone, he told De La Motte that he understood he was
confined at the suit of the Marquis de Montalt. La Motte assented.--I
know him for a villain, said the stranger boldly. Your case is
desperate. Do you wish for life?

Need the question be asked?

Your trial, I understand proceeds to-morrow. I am now under confinement
in this place for debt; but if you can obtain leave for me to go with
you into the courts, and a condition from the judge that what I reveal
shall not criminate myself, I will make discoveries that shall confound
that same Marquis; I will prove him a villain; and it shall then be
judged how far his word ought to be taken against you.

La Motte, whose interest was now strongly excited, desired he would
explain himself; and the man proceeded to relate a long history of the
misfortunes and consequent poverty which had tempted him to become
subservient to the schemes of the Marquis, till he suddenly checked
himself, and said. When I obtain from the court the promise I require, I
will explain myself fully; till then, I cannot say more on the subject.

La Motte could not forbear expressing a doubt of his sincerity, and a
curiosity concerning the motive that had induced him to become the
Marquis's accuser.--As to my motive, it is a very natural one, replied
the man: it is no easy matter to receive ill usage without resenting it,
particularly from a villain whom you have served.--La Motte, for his own
sake, endeavoured to check the vehemence with which this was uttered. I
care not who hears me continued the stranger, but at the same time he
lowered his voice; I repeat it--the Marquis has used me ill--I have kept
his secret long enough: he does not think it worth while to secure my
silence, or he would relieve my necessities. I am in prison for debt,
and have applied to him for relief; since he does not choose to give it,
let him take the consequence. I warrant he shall soon repent that he has
provoked me, and 'tis fit he should.

The doubts of La Motte were now dissipated; the prospect of life again
opened upon him, and he assured Du Bosse (which was the stranger's name)
with much warmth, that he would commission his advocate to do all in his
power to obtain leave for his appearance on the trial, and to procure
the necessary condition. After some further conversation they parted.




CHAPTER XXII


Drag forth the legal monster into light,
Wrench from his hand oppression's iron rod,
And bid the cruel feel the pains they give.


Leave was at length granted for the appearance of Du Bosse, with a
promise that his words should not criminate him, and he accompanied La
Motte into court.

The confusion of the Marquis de Montalt on perceiving this man was
observed by many persons present, and particularly by La Motte, who drew
from this circumstance a favourable presage for himself.

When Du Bosse was called upon, he informed the court, that on the night
of the twenty-first of April, in the preceding year, one Jean D'Aunoy, a
man he had known many years, came to his lodging. After they had
discoursed for some time on their circumstances, D'Aunoy said he knew a
way by which Du Bosse might change all his poverty to riches, but that
he would not say more till he was certain he would be willing to follow
it. The distressed state in which Du Bosse then was, made him anxious to
learn the means which would bring him relief; he eagerly inquired what
his friend meant, and after some time D'Aunoy explained himself. He said
he was employed by a nobleman (who he afterwards told Du Bosse was the
Marquis de Montalt) to carry off a young girl from a convent, and that
she was to be taken to a house a few leagues distant from Paris. I knew
the house he described well, said Du Bosse, for I had been there many
times with D'Aunoy, who lived there to avoid his creditors, though he
often passed his nights at Paris. He would not tell me more of the
scheme, but said he should want assistants, and if I and my brother, who
is since dead, would join him, his employer would grudge no money, and
we should be well rewarded. I desired him again to tell me more of the
plan, but he was obstinate; and after I had told him I would consider of
what he said, and speak to my brother, he went away.

When he called the next night for his answer, my brother and I agreed to
engage, and accordingly we went home with him. He then told us that the
young lady he was to bring thither was a natural daughter of the Marquis
de Montalt and of a nun belonging to a convent of Ursulines; that his
wife had received the child immediately on its birth, and had been
allowed a handsome annuity to bring it up as her own, which she had done
till her death. The child was then placed in a convent and designed for
the veil; but when she was of an age to receive the vows, she had
steadily persisted in refusing them. This circumstance had so much
exasperated the Marquis, that in his rage he ordered that if she
persisted in her obstinacy she should be removed from the convent, and
got rid of any way; since if she lived in the world her birth might be
discovered, and in consequence of this, her mother, for whom he had yet
a regard, would be condemned to expiate her crime by a terrible death.

Du Bosse was interrupted in his narrative by the counsel of the Marquis,
who contended that the circumstances alleged tending to criminate his
client, the proceeding was both irrelevant and illegal. He was answered
that it was not irrelevant, and therefore not illegal; for that the
circumstances which threw light upon the character of the Marquis,
affected his evidence against La Motte. Du Bosse was suffered to
proceed.

D'Aunoy then said that the Marquis had ordered him to dispatch her, but
that, as he had been used to see her from her infancy, he could not find
in his heart to do it, and wrote to tell him so. The Marquis then
commanded him to find those who would, and this was the business for
which he wanted us. My brother and I were not so wicked as this came to,
and so we told D'Aunoy; and I could not help asking why the Marquis
resolved to murder his own child rather than expose her mother to the
risque of suffering death. He said the Marquis had never seen his child
and that, therefore, it could not be supposed he felt much kindness
towards it, and still less that he could love it better than he loved
its mother.

Du Bosse proceeded to relate how much he and his brother had endeavoured
to soften the heart of D'Aunoy towards the Marquis's daughter, and that
they prevailed with him to write again and plead for her. D'Aunoy went
to Paris to await the answer, leaving them and the young girl at the
house on the heath, where the former had consented to remain, seemingly
for the purpose of executing the orders they might receive, but really
with a design to save the unhappy victim from the sacrifice.

It is probable that Du Bosse, in this instance, gave a false account of
his motive; since, if he was really guilty of an intention so atrocious
as that of murder, he would naturally endeavour to conceal it. However
this might be, he affirmed, that on the night of the twenty-sixth of
April, he received an order from D'Aunoy for the destruction of the
girl, whom he had afterwards delivered into the hands of La Motte.

La Motte listened to this relation in astonishment; when he knew that
Adeline was the daughter of the Marquis, and remembered the crime to
which he had once devoted her, his frame thrilled with horror. He now
took up the story, and added an account of what had passed at the abbey
between the Marquis and himself, concerning a design of the former upon
the life of Adeline, and urged, as a proof of the present prosecution
originating in malice, that it had commenced immediately after he had
effected her escape from the Marquis. He concluded, however, with
saying, that as the Marquis had immediately sent his people in pursuit
of her, it was possible she might yet have fallen a victim to his
vengeance.

Here the Marquis's counsel again interfered, and their objections were
again overruled by the court. The uncommon degree of emotion which his
countenance betrayed during the narrations of Du Bosse and De La Motte
was generally observed. The court suspended the sentence of the latter,
ordered that the Marquis should be put under immediate arrest, and that
Adeline (the name given by her fostermother) and Jean D'Aunoy should be
sought for.

The Marquis was accordingly seized at the suit of the crown, and put
under confinement till Adeline should appear, or proof could be obtained
that she died by his order; and till D'Aunoy should confirm or destroy
the evidence of De La Motte.

Madame, who at length obtained intelligence of her son's residence from
the town where he was formerly stationed, had acquainted him with his
father's situation, and the proceedings of the trial; and as she
believed that Adeline, if she had been so fortunate as to escape the
Marquis's pursuit, was still in Savoy, she desired Louis would obtain
leave of absence, and bring her to Paris, where her immediate presence
was requisite to substantiate the evidence, and probably to save the
life of La Motte.

On the receipt of her letter, which happened on the morning appointed
for the execution of Theodore, Louis went immediately to the commanding
officer to petition for a respite till the king's further pleasure
should be known. He founded his plea on the arrest of the Marquis, and
showed the letter he had just received. The commanding officer readily
granted a reprieve; and Louis, who, on the arrival of this letter had
forborne to communicate its contents to Theodore, lest it should torture
him with false hope, now hastened to him with this comfortable news.




CHAPTER XXIII


Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear lo grace his obsequies.

GRAY.


On learning the purport of Madame de La Motte's letter, Adeline saw the
necessity of her immediate departure for Paris. The life of La Motte,
who had more than saved hers, the life perhaps of her beloved Theodore,
depended on the testimony she should give. And she who had so lately
been sinking under the influence of illness and despair, who could
scarcely raise her languid head, or speak but in the faintest accents,
now reanimated with hope, and invigorated by a sense of the importance
of the business before her, prepared to perform a rapid journey of some
hundred miles.

Theodore tenderly entreated that she would so far consider her health as
to delay this journey for a few days: but with a smile of enchanting
tenderness she assured him, that she was now too happy to be ill, and
that the same cause which would confirm her happiness would confirm her
health. So strong was the effect of hope upon her mind, now that it
succeeded to the misery of despair, that it overcame the shock she
suffered on believing herself a daughter of the Marquis, and every other
painful reflection. She did not even foresee the obstacle that
circumstance might produce to her union with Theodore, should he at last
be permitted to live.

It was settled that she should set off for Paris in a few hours with
Louis, and attended by Peter. These hours were passed by La Luc and his
family in the prison.

When the time of her departure arrived, the spirits of Adeline again
forsook her, and the illusions of joy disappeared. She no longer beheld
Theodore as one respited from death, but took leave of him with a
mournful presentiment that she should see him no more. So strongly was
this presage impressed upon her mind, that it was long before she could
summon resolution to bid him farewell; and when she had done so, and
even left the apartment, she returned to take of him a last look. As she
was once more quitting the room, her melancholy imagination represented
Theodore at the place of execution, pale, and convulsed in death; she
again turned her lingering eyes upon him; but fancy affected her sense,
for she thought as she now gazed that his countenance changed, and
assumed a ghastly hue. All her resolution vanished; and such was the
anguish of her heart, that she resolved to defer her journey till the
morrow, though she must by this means lose the protection of Louis,
whose impatience to meet his father would not suffer the delay. The
triumph of passion, however, was transient; soothed by the indulgence
she promised herself, her grief subsided; reason resumed its influence;
she again saw the necessity of her immediate departure, and recollected
sufficient resolution to submit. La Luc would have accompanied her for
the purpose of again soliciting the king in behalf of his son, had not
the extreme weakness and lassitude to which he was reduced made
travelling impracticable.

At length, Adeline with a heavy heart quitted Theodore, notwithstanding
his entreaties that she would not undertake the journey in her present
weak state, and was accompanied by Clara and La Luc to the inn. The
former parted from her friend with many tears, and much anxiety for her
welfare, but under a hope of soon meeting again. Should a pardon be
granted to Theodore, La Luc designed to fetch Adeline from Paris; but
should this be refused, she was to return with Peter. He bade her adieu
with a father's kindness, which she repaid with a filial affection, and
in her last words conjured him to attend to the recovery of his health:
the languid smile he assumed seemed to express that her solicitude was
vain, and that he thought his health past recovery.

Thus Adeline quitted the friends so justly dear to her, and so lately
found, for Paris, where she was a stranger, almost without protection,
and compelled to meet a father, who had pursued her with the utmost
cruelty, in a public court of justice. The carriage in leaving Vaceau
passed by the prison; she threw an eager look towards it as she passed;
its heavy black walls, and narrow-grated windows, seemed to frown upon
her hopes--but Theodore was there, and leaning from the window: she
continued to gaze upon it till an abrupt turning in the street concealed
it from her view. She then sunk back in the carriage, and yielding to
the melancholy of her heart, wept in silence. Louis was not disposed to
interrupt it; his thoughts were anxiously employed on his father's
situation, and the travellers proceeded many miles without exchanging a
word.

At Paris, whither we shall now return, the search after Jean D'Aunoy was
prosecuted without success. The house on the heath, described by Du
Bosse, was found uninhabited, and to the places of his usual resort in
the city, where the officers of the police awaited him, he no longer
came. It even appeared doubtful whether he was living, for he had
absented himself from the houses of his customary rendezvous sometime
before the trial of La Motte; it was therefore certain that his absence
was not occasioned by any thing which had passed in the courts.

In the solitude of his confinement the Marquis de Montalt had leisure to
reflect on the past, and to repent of his crimes; but reflection and
repentance formed as yet no part of his disposition. He turned with
impatience from recollections which produced only pain, and looked
forward to the future with an endeavour to avert the disgrace and
punishment which he saw impending. The elegance of his manners had so
effectually veiled the depravity of his heart, that he was a favourite
with his sovereign; and on this circumstance he rested his hope of
security. He, however, severely repented that he had indulged the hasty
spirit of revenge which had urged him to the prosecution of La Motte,
and had thus unexpectedly involved him in a situation dangerous--if not
fatal--since if Adeline could not be found he would be concluded guilty
of her death. But the appearance of D'Aunoy was the circumstance he most
dreaded; and to oppose the possibility of this, he employed secret
emissaries to discover his retreat, and to bribe him to his interest.
These were, however as unsuccessful in their research as the officers of
police, and the Marquis at length began to hope that the man was really
dead.

La Motte meanwhile awaited with trembling impatience the arrival of his
son, when he should be relieved in some degree from his uncertainty
concerning Adeline. On this appearance he rested his only hope of life,
since the evidence against him would lose much of its validity from the
confirmation she would give of the bad character of his prosecutor; and
if the Parliament even condemned La Motte, the clemency of the king
might yet operate in his favour.

Adeline arrived at Paris after a journey of several days, during which
she was chiefly supported by the delicate attentions of Louis, whom she
pitied and esteemed, though she could not love. She was immediately
visited at the hotel by Madame La Motte: the meeting was affecting on
both sides. A sense of her past conduct excited in the latter an
embarrassment which the delicacy and goodness of Adeline would willingly
have spared her; but the pardon solicited was given with so much
sincerity, that Madame gradually became composed and reassured. This
forgiveness, however, could not have been thus easily granted, had
Adeline believed her former conduct was voluntary; a conviction of the
restraint and terror under which Madame had acted, alone induced her to
excuse the past. In this first meeting they forbore dwelling on
particular subjects; Madame La Motte proposed that Adeline should remove
from the hotel to her lodgings near the Chatelet; and Adeline, for whom
a residence at a public hotel was very improper, gladly accepted the
offer.

Madame there gave her a circumstantial account of La Motte's situation,
and concluded with saying, that as the sentence of her husband had been
suspended till some certainty could be obtained concerning the late
criminal designs of the Marquis, and as Adeline could confirm the chief
part of La Motte's testimony, it was probable that now she was arrived
the court would proceed immediately. She now learnt the full extent of
her obligation to La Motte; for she was till now ignorant that when he
sent her from the forest he saved her from death. Her horror of the
Marquis, whom she could not bear to consider as her father, and her
gratitude to her deliverer, redoubled, and she became impatient to give
the testimony so necessary to the hopes of her preserver. Madame then
said, she believed it was not too late to gain admittance that night to
the Chatelet; and as she knew how anxiously her husband wished to see
Adeline, she entreated her consent to go thither. Adeline, though much
harassed and fatigued, complied. When Louis returned from M. Nemours,
his father's advocate, whom he had hastened to inform of her arrival,
they all set out for the Chatelet. The view of the prison into which
they were now admitted, so forcibly recalled to Adeline's mind the
situation of Theodore, that she with difficulty supported herself to the
apartment of La Motte. When he saw her, a gleam of joy passed over his
countenance; but again relapsing into despondency, he looked mournfully
at her, and then at Louis, and groaned deeply. Adeline, in whom all
remembrance of his former cruelty was lost in his subsequent kindness,
expressed her thankfulness for the life he had preserved, and her
anxiety to serve him, in warm and repeated terms. But her gratitude
evidently distressed him; instead of reconciling him to himself, it
seemed to awaken a remembrance of the guilty designs he had once
assisted, and to strike the pangs of conscience deeper in his heart.
Endeavouring to conceal his emotions, he entered on the subject of his
present danger, and informed Adeline what testimony would be required of
her on the trial. After above an hour's conversation with La Motte, she
returned to the lodgings of Madame, where, languid and ill, she withdrew
to her chamber, and tried to obliviate her anxieties in sleep.

The Parliament which conducted the trial re-assembled in a few days
after the arrival of Adeline, and the two remaining witnesses of the
Marquis, on whom he now rested his cause against La Motte, appeared. She
was led trembling into the court, where almost the first object that met
her eyes was the Marquis de Montalt, whom she now beheld with an emotion
entirely new to her, and which was strongly tinctured with horror. When
Du Bosse saw her he immediately swore to her identity; his testimony was
confirmed by her manner; for, on perceiving him she grew pale, and an
universal tremor seized her. Jean D'Aunoy could no where be found, and
La Motte was thus deprived of an evidence which essentially affected his
interest. Adeline, when called upon, gave her little narrative with
clearness and precision; and Peter, who had conveyed her from the abbey,
supported the testimony she offered. The evidence produced was
sufficient to criminate the Marquis of the intention of murder, in the
minds of most people present; but it was not sufficient to affect the
testimony of his two last witnesses, who positively swore to the
commission of the robbery, and to the person of La Motte, on whom
sentence of death was accordingly pronounced. On receiving the sentence
the unhappy criminal fainted, and the compassion of the assembly, whose
feelings had been unusually interested in the decision, was expressed in
a general groan.

Their attention was quickly called to a new object--it was Jean D'Aunoy,
who now entered the court. But his evidence, if it could ever, indeed,
have been the means of saving La Motte, came too late. He was
reconducted to prison; but Adeline, who, extremely shocked by his
sentence, was much indisposed, received orders to remain in the court
during the examination of D'Aunoy. This man had been at length found in
the prison of a provincial town, where some of his creditors had thrown
him, and from which even the money which the Marquis had remitted to him
for the purpose of satisfying the craving importunities of Du Bosse, had
been insufficient to release him. Meanwhile the revenge of the latter
had been roused against the Marquis by an imaginary neglect, and the
money which was designed to relieve his necessities, was spent by
D'Aunoy in riotous luxury.

He was confronted with Adeline and with Du Bosse, and ordered to confess
all he knew concerning this mysterious affair, or to undergo the
torture. D'Aunoy, who was ignorant how far the suspicions concerning the
Marquis extended, and who was conscious that his own words might condemn
him, remained for some time obstinately silent; but when the _question_
was administered, his resolution gave way, and he confessed a crime of
which he had not even been suspected.

It appeared, that, in the year 1642, D'Aunoy, together with one Jaques
Martigny, and Francis Balliere, had way-laid and seized Henri, Marquis
de Montalt, half-brother to Philippe; and after having robbed him, and
bound his servant to a tree, according to the orders they had received,
they conveyed him to the abbey of St. Clair, in the distant forest of
Fontanville. Here he was confined for some time, till further directions
were received from Philippe de Montalt, the present Marquis, who was
then on his estates in a northern province of France. These orders were
for death, and the unfortunate Henri was assassinated in his chamber in
the third week of his confinement at the abbey.

On hearing this, Adeline grew faint: she remembered the MS. she had
found, together with the extraordinary circumstances that had attended
the discovery; every nerve thrilled with horror, and, raising her eyes,
she saw the countenance of the Marquis overspread with the livid
paleness of guilt. She endeavoured, however, to arrest her fleeting
spirits while the man proceeded in his confession.

When the murder was perpetrated, D'Aunoy had returned to his employer,
who gave him the reward agreed upon, and in a few months after delivered
into his hands the infant daughter of the late Marquis, whom he conveyed
to a distant part of the kingdom, where, assuming the name of St.
Pierre, he brought her up as his own child, receiving from the present
Marquis a considerable annuity for his secrecy.

Adeline, no longer able to struggle with the tumult of emotions that now
rushed upon her heart, uttered a deep sigh and fainted away. She was
carried from the court; and when the confusion occasioned by this
circumstance subsided, Jean D'Aunoy went on. He related, that on the
death of his wife, Adeline was placed in a convent, from whence she was
afterwards removed to another, where the Marquis had destined her to
receive the vows. That her determined rejection of them had occasioned
him to resolve upon her death, and that she had accordingly been removed
to the house on the heath. D'Aunoy added, that by the Marquis's order he
had misled Du Bosse with a false story of her birth. Having, after some
time, discovered that his comrades had deceived him concerning her
death, D'Aunoy separated from them in enmity; but they unanimously
determined to conceal her escape from the Marquis, that they might enjoy
the recompense of their supposed crime. Some months subsequent to this
period, however, D'Aunoy received a letter from the Marquis, charging
him with the truth, and promising him a large reward if he would confess
where he had placed Adeline. In consequence of this letter, he
acknowledged that she had been given into the hands of a stranger; but,
who he was, or where he lived, was not known.

Upon these depositions Philippe de Montalt was committed to take his
trial for the murder of Henri, his brother; D'Aunoy was thrown into a
dungeon of the Chatelet, and Du Bosse was bound to appear as evidence.

The feelings of the Marquis, who, in a prosecution stimulated by
revenge, had thus unexpectedly exposed his crimes to the public eye, and
betrayed himself to justice, can only be imagined. The passions which
had tempted him to the commission of a crime so horrid as that of
murder,--and what, if possible, heightened its atrocity, the murder of
one connected with him by the ties of blood, and by habits of even
infantine association--the passions which had stimulated him to so
monstrous a deed, were ambition and the love of pleasure. The first was
more immediately gratified by the title of his brother; the latter, by
the riches which would enable him to indulge his voluptuous
inclinations.

The late Marquis de Montalt, the father of Adeline, received from his
ancestors a patrimony very inadequate to support the splendour of his
rank; but he had married the heiress of an illustrious family, whose
fortune amply supplied the deficiency of his own. He had the misfortune
to lose her, for she was amiable and beautiful, soon after the birth of
a daughter, and it was then that the present Marquis formed the
diabolical design of destroying his brother. The contrast of their
characters prevented that cordial regard between them which their near
relationship seemed to demand. Henri was benevolent, mild, and
contemplative. In his heart reigned the love of virtue; in his manners
the strictness of justice was tempered, not weakened, by mercy; his mind
was enlarged by science, and adorned by elegant literature. The
character of Philippe has been already delineated in his actions; its
nicer shades were blended with some shining tints; but these served only
to render more striking by contrast the general darkness of the
portrait.

He had married a lady, who, by the death of her brother, inherited
considerable estates, of which the abbey of St. Clair, and the villa on
the borders of the forest of Fontanville, were the chief. His passion
for magnificence and dissipation, however, soon involved him in
difficulties, and pointed out to him the conveniency of possessing his
brother's wealth. His brother and his infant daughter only stood between
him and his wishes; how he removed the father has been already related;
why he did not employ the same means to secure the child, seems somewhat
surprising, unless we admit that a destiny hung over him on this
occasion, and that she was suffered to live as an instrument to punish
the murderer of her parent. When a retrospect is taken of the
vicissitudes and dangers to which she had been exposed from her earliest
infancy, it appears as if her preservation was the effect of something
more than human policy, and affords a striking instance, that justice,
however long delayed, will overtake the guilty.

While the late unhappy Marquis was suffering at the abbey, his brother,
who, to avoid suspicion, remained in the north of France, delayed the
execution of his horrid purpose from a timidity natural to a mind not
yet inured to enormous guilt. Before he dared to deliver his final
orders, he waited to know whether the story he contrived to propagate of
his brother's death would veil his crime from suspicion. It succeeded
but too well; for the servant, whose life had been spared that he might
relate the tale, naturally enough concluded that his lord had been
murdered by banditti; and the peasant, who, a few hours after, found the
servant wounded, bleeding, and bound to a tree, and knew also that this
spot was infested by robbers, as naturally believed him, and spread the
report accordingly.

From this period the Marquis, to whom the abbey of St. Clair belonged in
right of his wife, visited it only twice, and that at distant times,
till, after an interval of several years, he accidentally found La Motte
its inhabitant. He resided at Paris and on his estate in the north,
except that once a year he usually passed a month at his delightful
villa on the borders of the forest. In the busy scenes of the court, and
in the dissipations of pleasure, he tried to lose the remembrance of his
guilt; but there were times when the voice of conscience would be heard,
though it was soon again lost in the tumult of the world.

It is probable, that on the night of his abrupt departure from the
abbey, the solitary silence and gloom of the hour, in a place which had
been the scene of his former crime, called up the remembrance of his
brother with a force too powerful for fancy, and awakened horrors which
compelled him to quit the polluted spot. If it was so, it is however
certain that the spectres of conscience vanished with the darkness; for
on the following day he returned to the abbey, though, it may be
observed, he never attempted to pass another night there. But though
terror was roused for a transient moment, neither pity nor repentance
succeeded; since, when the discovery of Adeline's birth excited
apprehension for his own life, he did not hesitate to repeat the crime,
and would again have stained his soul with human blood. This discovery
was effected by means of a seal bearing the arms of her mother's family,
which was impressed on the note his servant had found, and had delivered
to him at Caux. It may be remembered, that having read this note, he was
throwing it from him in the fury of jealousy; but, that after examining
it again, it was carefully deposited in his pocket-book. The violent
agitation which a suspicion of this terrible truth occasioned, deprived
him for awhile of all power to act. When he was well enough to write, he
dispatched a letter to D'Aunoy, the purport of which has been already
mentioned. From D'Aunoy he received the confirmation of his fears.
Knowing that his life must pay the forfeiture of his crime, should
Adeline ever obtain a knowledge of her birth, and not daring again to
confide in the secrecy of a man who had once deceived him, he resolved,
after some deliberation, on her death. He immediately set out for the
abbey, and gave those directions concerning her which terror for his own
safety, still more than a desire of retaining her estates, suggested.

As the history of the seal which revealed the birth of Adeline is rather
remarkable, it may not be amiss to mention, that it was stolen from the
Marquis, together with a gold watch, by Jean D'Aunoy: the watch was soon
disposed of, but the seal had been kept as a pretty trinket by his wife,
and at her death went with Adeline among her clothes to the convent.
Adeline had carefully preserved it, because it had once belonged to the
woman whom she believed to have been her mother.




CHAPTER XXIV


While anxious doubt distracts the tortured heart.


We now return to the course of the narrative, and to Adeline, who was
carried from the court to the lodging of Madame de La Motte. Madame was,
however, at the Chatelet with her husband, suffering all the distress
which the sentence pronounced against him might be supposed to inflict.
The feeble frame of Adeline, so long harassed by grief and fatigue,
almost sunk under the agitation which the discovery of her birth
excited. Her feelings on this occasion were too complex to be analysed.
From an orphan, subsisting on the bounty of others, without family, with
few friends, and pursued by a cruel and powerful enemy, she saw herself
suddenly transformed to the daughter of an illustrious house, and the
heiress of immense wealth. But she learned also that her father had been
murdered--murdered in the prime of his days--murdered by means of his
brother, against whom she must now appear, and in punishing the
destroyer of her parent, doom her uncle to death.

When she remembered the manuscript so singularly found, and considered
that when she wept to the sufferings it described, her tears had flowed
for those of her father, her emotion cannot easily be imagined. The
circumstances attending the discovery of these papers no longer appeared
to be a work of chance, but of a Power whose designs are great and just.
O, my father! she would exclaim, your last wish is fulfilled--the
pitying heart you wished might trace your sufferings shall avenge them.

On the return of Madame La Motte, Adeline endeavoured, as usual, to
suppress her own emotions, that she might soothe the affliction of her
friend. She related what had passed in the courts after the departure of
La Motte, and thus excited, even in the sorrowful heart of Madame, a
momentary gleam of satisfaction. Adeline determined to recover, if
possible, the manuscript. On inquiry she learned that La Motte, in the
confusion of his departure, had left it among other things at the abbey.
This circumstance much distressed her, the more so because she believed
its appearance might be of importance on the approaching trial; she
determined, however, if she could recover her rights, to have the
manuscript sought for.

In the evening Louis joined this mournful party: he came immediately
from his father, whom he left more tranquil than he had been since the
fatal sentence was pronounced. After a silent and melancholy supper they
separated for the night; and Adeline, in the solitude of her chamber,
had leisure to meditate on the discoveries of this eventful day. The
sufferings of her dead father, such as she had read them recorded by his
own hand, pressed most forcibly to her thoughts. The narrative had
formerly so much affected her heart, and interested her imagination,
that her memory now faithfully reflected each particular circumstance
there disclosed. But when she considered that she had been in the very
chamber where her parent had suffered, where even his life had been
sacrificed, and that she had probably seen the very dagger, seen it
stained with rust, the rust of blood! by which he had fallen, the
anguish and horror of her mind defied all control.

On the following day Adeline received orders to prepare for the
prosecution of the Marquis de Montalt, which was to commence as soon as
the requisite witnesses could be collected. Among these were the abbess
of the convent, who had received her from the hands of D'Aunoy; Madame
La Motte, who was present when Du Bosse compelled her husband to receive
Adeline; and Peter, who had not only been witness to this circumstance,
but who had conveyed her from the abbey that she might escape the
designs of the Marquis. La Motte and Theodore La Luc were incapacitated
by the sentence of the law from appearing on the trial.

When La Motte was informed of the discovery of Adeline's birth, and that
her father had been murdered at the abbey of St. Clair, he instantly
remembered, and mentioned to his wife, the skeleton he found in the
stone room leading to the subterranean cells. Neither of them doubted,
from the situation in which it lay, hid in a chest in an obscure room
strongly guarded, that La Motte had seen the remains of the late
Marquis. Madame, however, determined not to shock Adeline with the
mention of this circumstance till it should be necessary to declare it
on the trial.

As the time of this trial drew near, the distress and agitation of
Adeline increased. Though justice demanded the life of the murderer, and
though the tenderness and pity which the idea of her father called
forth, urged her to revenge his death, she could not without horror
consider herself as the instrument of dispensing that justice which
would deprive a fellow-being of existence; and there were times when she
wished the secret of her birth had never been revealed. If this
sensibility was, in her peculiar circumstances, a weakness, it was at
least an amiable one, and as such deserves to be reverenced.

The accounts she received from Vaceau of the health of M. La Luc did not
contribute to tranquillize her mind. The symptoms described by Clara
seemed to say that he was in the last stage of a consumption, and the
grief of Theodore and herself on this occasion was expressed in her
letters with the lively eloquence so natural to her. Adeline loved and
revered La Luc for his own worth, and for the parental tenderness he had
shown her; but he was still dearer to her as the father of Theodore and
her concern for his declining state was not inferior to that of his
children. It was increased by the reflection that she had probably been
the means of shortening his life; for she too well knew that the
distress occasioned him by the situation in which it had been her
misfortune to involve Theodore, had shattered his frame to its present
infirmity. The same cause also withheld him from seeking in the climate
of Montpellier the relief he had formerly been taught to expect there.
When she looked around on the condition of her friends, her heart was
almost overwhelmed with the prospect; it seemed as if she was destined
to involve all those most dear to her in calamity. With respect to La
Motte, whatever were his vices, and whatever the designs in which he had
formerly engaged against her, she forgot them all in the service he had
finally rendered her; and considered it to be as much her duty, as she
felt it to be her inclination, to intercede in his behalf. This,
however, in her present situation, she could not do with any hope of
success; but if the suit, upon which depended the establishment of her
rank, her fortune, and consequently her influence, should be decided in
her favour, she determined to throw herself at the king's feet, and when
she pleaded the cause of Theodore, ask the life of La Motte.

A few days preceding that of the trial, Adeline was informed a stranger
desired to speak with her; and on going to the room where he was, she
found M. Verneuil. Her countenance expressed both surprise and
satisfaction at this unexpected meeting, and she inquired, though with
little expectation of an affirmative, if he had heard of M. La Luc. I
have seen him, said M. Verneuil; I am just come from Vaceau: but, I am
sorry I cannot give you a better account of his health; he is greatly
altered since I saw him before.

Adeline could scarcely refrain from tears at the recollection these
words revived of the calamities which had occasioned this lamented
change. M. Verneuil delivered her a packet from Clara. As he presented
it, he said, besides this introduction to your notice, I have a claim of
a different kind, which I am proud to assert, and which will perhaps
justify the permission I ask of speaking upon your affairs.--Adeline
bowed; and M. Verneuil, with a countenance expressive of the most tender
solicitude, added, that he had heard of the late proceedings of the
Parliament of Paris, and of the discoveries that so intimately concerned
her. I know not, continued he, whether I ought to congratulate or
condole with you on this trying occasion. That I sincerely sympathize in
all that concerns you I hope you will believe, and I cannot deny myself
the pleasure of telling you that I am related, though distantly, to the
late Marchioness your mother--for that she _was your mother_ I cannot
doubt.

Adeline rose hastily and advanced towards M. Verneuil; surprise and
satisfaction reanimated her features. Do I indeed see a relation? said
she in a sweet and tremulous voice; and one whom I can welcome as a
friend? Tears trembled in her eyes; and she received M. Verneuil's
embrace in silence. It was some time before her emotion would permit her
to speak.

To Adeline, who from her earliest infancy had been abandoned to
strangers, a forlorn and helpless orphan; who had never till lately
known a relation, and who then found one in the person of an inveterate
enemy; to her this discovery was as delightful as unexpected. But, after
struggling for some time with the various emotions that pressed upon her
heart, she begged of M. Verneuil permission to withdraw till she could
recover composure. He would have taken leave, but she entreated him not
to go.

The interest which M. Verneuil took in the concerns of La Luc, which was
strengthened by his increasing regard for Clara, had drawn him to
Vaceau, where he was informed of the family and peculiar circumstances
of Adeline. On receiving this intelligence he immediately set out for
Paris, to offer his protection and assistance to his newly-discovered
relation, and to aid, if possible, the cause of Theodore.

Adeline in a short time returned, and could then bear to converse on the
subject of her family. M. Verneuil offered her his support and
assistance, if they should be found necessary. But I trust, added he, to
the justice of your cause, and hope it will not require any adventitious
aid. To those who remember the late Marchioness, your features bring
sufficient evidence of your birth. As a proof that my judgment in this
instance is not biassed by prejudice, the resemblance struck me when I
was in Savoy, though I knew the Marchioness only by her portrait; and I
believe I mentioned to M. La Luc that you often reminded me of a
deceased relation. You may form some judgment of this yourself, added M.
Verneuil, taking a miniature from his pocket. This was your amiable
mother.

Adeline's countenance changed; she received the picture eagerly, gazed
on it for a long time in silence, and her eyes filled with tears. It was
not the resemblance she studied; but the countenance--the mild and
beautiful countenance of her parent, whose blue eyes, full of tender
sweetness, seemed bent upon hers, while a soft smile played on her lips;
Adeline pressed the picture to hers, and again gazed in silent reverie.
At length, with a deep sigh, she said. This surely _was_ my mother. Had
she _but_ lived--O, my poor father! you had been spared. This reflection
quite overcame her, and she burst into tears. M. Verneuil did not
interrupt her grief, but took her hand and sat by her without speaking,
till she became more composed. Again kissing the picture, she held it
out to him with a hesitating look. No, said he, it is already with its
true owner. She thanked him with a smile of ineffable sweetness; and
after some conversation on the subject of the approaching trial, on
which occasion she requested M. Verneuil would support her by his
presence, he withdrew, having begged leave to repeat his visit on the
following day.

Adeline now opened her packet, and saw once more the well known
characters of Theodore: for a moment She felt as if in his presence, and
the conscious blush overspread her cheek. With a trembling hand she
broke the seal, and read the tenderest assurances and solicitudes of his
love. She often paused that she might prolong the sweet emotions which
these assurances awakened; but while tears of tenderness stood trembling
on her eyelids, the bitter recollection of his situation would return,
and they fell in anguish on her bosom.

He congratulated her, and with peculiar delicacy, on the prospects of
life which were opening to her; said, every thing that might tend to
animate and support her, but avoided dwelling on his own circumstances,
except by expressing his sense of the zeal and kindness of his
commanding officer, and adding that he did not despair of finally
obtaining a pardon.

This hope, though but faintly expressed, and written evidently for the
purpose of consoling Adeline, did not entirely fail of the desired
effect. She yielded to its enchanting influence, and forgot for awhile
the many subjects of care and anxiety which surrounded her. Theodore
said little of his father's health; what he did say was by no means so
discouraging as the accounts of Clara, who, less anxious to conceal a
truth that must give pain to Adeline, expressed without reserve all her
apprehension and concern.




CHAPTER XXV


...... Heaven is just!
And, when the measure of his crimes is full,
Will bare its red right arm, and launch its lightnings.

MASON.


The day of the trial so anxiously awaited, and on which the fate of so
many persons depended, at length arrived. Adeline, accompanied by M.
Verneuil and Madame La Motte, appeared as the prosecutor of the Marquis
de Montalt; and D'Aunoy, Du Bosse, Louis de La Motte, and several other
persons, as witnesses in her cause. The judges were some of the most
distinguished in France, and the advocates on both sides men of eminent
abilities. On a trial of such importance the court, as may be imagined,
was crowded with persons of distinction, and the spectacle it presented
was strikingly solemn, yet magnificent.

When she appeared before the tribunal, Adeline's emotion surpassed all
the arts of disguise; but, adding to the natural dignity of her air an
expression of soft timidity, and to her downcast eyes a sweet confusion,
it rendered her an object still more interesting; and she attracted the
universal pity and admiration of the assembly. When she ventured to
raise her eyes, she perceived that the Marquis was not yet in the court;
and while she awaited his appearance in trembling expectation, a
confused murmuring rose in a distant part of the hall. Her spirits now
almost forsook her; the certainty of seeing immediately, and
consciously, the murderer of her father, chilled her with horror, and
she was with difficulty preserved from fainting. A low sound now ran
through the court, and an air of confusion appeared, which was soon
communicated to the tribunal itself. Several of the members arose, some
left the hall, the whole place exhibited a scene of disorder, and a
report at length reached Adeline that the Marquis de Montalt was dying.
A considerable time elapsed in uncertainty: but the confusion continued;
the Marquis did not appear, and at Adeline's request M. Verneuil went in
quest of more positive information.

He followed a crowd which was hurrying towards the Chatelet, and with
some difficulty gained admittance into the prison; but the porter at the
gate, whom he had bribed for a passport, could give him no certain
information on the subject of his inquiry, and not being at liberty to
quit his post, furnished M. Verneuil with only a vague direction to the
Marquis's apartment. The courts were silent and deserted; but as he
advanced, a distant hum of voices led him on, till, perceiving several
persons running towards a staircase which appeared beyond the archway of
a long passage, he followed thither, and learned that the Marquis was
certainly dying. The staircase was filled with people; he endeavoured to
press through the crowd, and after much struggle and difficulty he
reached the door of an ante-room which communicated with the apartment
where the Marquis lay, and whence several persons now issued. Here he
learned that the object of his inquiry was already dead. M. Verneuil,
however, pressed through the ante-room to the chamber where lay the
Marquis on a bed surrounded by officers of the law, and two notaries,
who appeared to have been taking down depositions. His countenance was
suffused with a black and deadly hue, and impressed with the horrors of
death. M. Verneuil turned away, shocked by the spectacle; and on inquiry
heard that the Marquis had died by poison.

It appeared that, convinced he had nothing to hope from his trial, he
had taken this method of avoiding an ignominious death. In the last
hours of life, while tortured with the remembrance of his crime, he
resolved to make all the atonement that remained for him; and having
swallowed the potion, he immediately sent for a confessor to take a full
confession of his guilt, and two notaries, and thus establish Adeline
beyond dispute in the rights of her birth: and also bequeathed her a
considerable legacy.

In consequence of these depositions she was soon after formally
acknowledged as the daughter and heiress of Henri, Marquis de Montalt,
and the rich estates of her father were restored to her. She immediately
threw herself at the feet of the king in behalf of Theodore and of La
Motte. The character of the former, the cause in which he had risked his
life, the occasion of the late Marquis's enmity towards him, were
circumstances so notorious and so forcible, that it is more than
probable the monarch would have granted his pardon to a pleader less
irresistible than was Adeline de Montalt. Theodore La Luc not only
received an ample pardon, but, in consideration of his gallant conduct
towards Adeline, he was soon after raised to a post of considerable rank
in the army.

For La Motte, who had been condemned for the robbery on full evidence,
and who had been also charged with the crime which had formerly
compelled him to quit Paris, a pardon could not be obtained; but, at the
earnest supplication of Adeline, and in consideration of the service he
had finally rendered her, his sentence was softened from death to
banishment. This indulgence, however, would have availed him little, had
not the noble generosity of Adeline silenced other prosecutions that
were preparing against him, and bestowed on him a sum more than
sufficient to support his family in a foreign country. This kindness
operated so powerfully upon his heart, which had been betrayed through
weakness rather than natural depravity, and awakened so keen a remorse
for the injuries he had once meditated against a benefactress so noble,
that his former habits became odious to him, and his character gradually
recovered the hue which it would probably always have worn had he never
been exposed to the tempting dissipations of Paris.

The passion which Louis had so long owned for Adeline was raised almost
to adoration by her late conduct; but he now relinquished even the faint
hope which he had hitherto almost unconsciously cherished; and since the
life which was granted to Theodore rendered this sacrifice necessary, he
could not repine. He resolved, however, to seek in absence the
tranquillity he had lost, and to place his future happiness on that of
two persons so deservedly dear to him.

On the eve of his departure, La Motte and his family took a very
affecting leave of Adeline; he left Paris for England, where it was his
design to settle; and Louis, who was eager to fly from her enchantments,
set out on the same day for his regiment.

Adeline remained some time at Paris to settle her affairs, where she was
introduced by M. Verneuil to the few and distant relations that remained
of her family. Among these were the Count and Countess D----, and the
Monsieur Amand who had so much engaged her pity and esteem at Nice. The
lady whose death he lamented was of the family of De Montalt; and the
resemblance which he had traced between her features and those of
Adeline, her cousin, was something more than the effect of fancy. The
death of his elder brother had abruptly recalled him from Italy; but
Adeline had the satisfaction to observe, that the heavy melancholy which
formerly oppressed him, had yielded to a sort of placid resignation, and
that his countenance was often enlivened by a transient gleam of
cheerfulness.

The Count and Countess D----, who were much interested by her goodness
and beauty, invited her to make their hotel her residence while she
remained at Paris.

Her first care was to have the remains of her parent removed from the
abbey of St. Clair, and deposited in the vault of his ancestors. D'Aunoy
was tried, condemned, and hanged, for the murder. At the place of
execution he had described the spot where the remains of the Marquis
were concealed, which was in the stone room already mentioned belonging
to the abbey. M. Verneuil accompanied the officers appointed for the
search, and attended the ashes of the Marquis to St. Maur, an estate in
one of the northern provinces. There they were deposited with the solemn
funeral pomp becoming his rank; Adeline attended as chief mourner; and
this last duty paid to the memory of her parent, she became more
tranquil and resigned. The MS. that recorded his sufferings had been
found at the abbey, and delivered to her by M. Verneuil, and she
preserved it with the pious enthusiasm so sacred a relique deserved.

On her return to Paris, Theodore La Luc, who was come from Montpellier,
awaited her arrival. The happiness of this meeting was clouded by the
account he brought of his father, whose extreme danger had alone
withheld him from hastening the moment he obtained his liberty to thank
Adeline for the life she had preserved. She now received him as the
friend to whom she was indebted for her preservation, and as the lover
who deserved and possessed her tenderest affection. The remembrance of
the circumstances under which they had last met, and of their mutual
anguish, rendered more exquisite the happiness of the present moments,
when, no longer oppressed by the horrid prospect of ignominious death
and final separation, they looked forward only to the smiling days that
awaited them, when hand in hand they should tread the flowery scenes of
life. The contrast which memory drew of the past with the present,
frequently drew tears of tenderness and gratitude to their eyes; and the
sweet smile which seemed struggling to dispel from the countenance of
Adeline those gems of sorrow, penetrated the heart of Theodore, and
brought to his recollection a little song which in other circumstances
he had formerly sung to her. He took up a lute that lay on the table,
and touching the dulcet chords, accompanied it with the following
words:--


SONG

The rose that weeps with morning dew,
And glitters in the sunny ray,
In tears and smiles resembles you,
When Love breaks sorrow's cloud away.

The dews that bend the blushing flower
Enrich the scent--renew the glow;
So Love's sweet tears exalt his power,
So bliss more brightly shines by woe!


Her affection for Theodore had induced Adeline to reject several suitors
whom her goodness, beauty, and wealth, had already attracted, and who,
though infinitely his superiors in point of fortune, were many of them
inferior to him in family, and all of them in merit.

The various and tumultuous emotions which the late events had called
forth in the bosom of Adeline were now subsided; but the memory of her
father still tinctured her mind with a melancholy that time only could
subdue; and she refused to listen to the supplications of Theodore, till
the period she had prescribed for her mourning should be expired. The
necessity of rejoining his regiment obliged him to leave Paris within
the fortnight after his arrival; but he carried with him assurance of
receiving her hand soon after she should lay aside her sable habit, and
departed therefore with tolerable composure.

M. La Luc's very precarious state was a source of incessant disquietude
to Adeline, and she determined to accompany M. Verneuil, who was now the
declared lover of Clara, to Montpellier, whither La Luc had immediately
gone on the liberation of his son. For this journey she was preparing,
when she received from her friend a flattering account of his amendment;
and as some further settlement of her affairs required her presence at
Paris, she deferred her design, and M. Verneuil departed alone.

When Theodore's affairs assumed a more favourable aspect, M. Verneuil
had written to La Luc, and communicated to him the secret of his heart
respecting Clara. La Luc, who admired and esteemed M. Verneuil, and who
was not ignorant of his family connexions, was pleased with the proposed
alliance. Clara thought she had never seen any person whom she was so
much inclined to love; and M. Verneuil received an answer favourable to
his wishes, and which encouraged him to undertake the present journey to
Montpellier.

The restoration of his happiness and the climate of Montpellier did all
for the health of La Luc that his most anxious friends could wish, and
he was at length so far recovered as to visit Adeline at her estate of
St. Maur. Clara and M. Verneuil accompanied him, and a cessation of
hostilities between France and Spain soon after permitted Theodore to
join this happy party. When La Luc, thus restored to those most dear to
him, looked back on the miseries he had escaped, and forward to the
blessings that awaited him, his heart dilated with emotions of exquisite
joy and gratitude; and his venerable countenance, softened by an
expression of complacent delight, exhibited a perfect picture of happy
age.




CHAPTER XXVI


Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:--

They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with mirth a gay fantastic round.

ODE TO THE PASSIONS.


Adeline, in the society of friends so beloved, lost the impression of
that melancholy which the fate of her parent had occasioned: she
recovered all her natural vivacity; and when she threw off the mourning
habit which filial piety had required her to assume, she gave her hand
to Theodore. The nuptials, which were celebrated at St. Maur, were
graced by the presence of the Count and Countess D----; and La Luc had
the supreme felicity of confirming on the same day the flattering
destinies of both his children. When the ceremony was over, he blessed
and embraced them all with tears of fatherly affection. I thank thee, O
God! that I have been permitted to see this hour, said he; whenever it
shall please thee to call me hence, I shall depart in peace.

Long, very long, may you be spared to bless your children! replied
Adeline. Clara kissed her father's hand and wept: Long, very long! she
repeated in a voice scarcely audible. La Luc smiled cheerfully, and
turned the conversation to a subject less affecting.

But the time now drew nigh when La Luc thought it necessary to return to
the duties of his parish, from which he had so long been absent. Madame
La Luc too, who had attended him during the period of his danger at
Montpellier, and hence returned to Savoy, complained much of the
solitude of her life; and this was with her brother an additional motive
for his speedy departure. Theodore and Adeline, who could not support
the thought of a separation, endeavoured to persuade him to give up his
chateau, and to reside with them in France; but he was held by many ties
to Leloncourt. For many years he had constituted the comfort and
happiness of his parishioners; they revered and loved him as a
father--he regarded them with an affection little short of parental. The
attachment they discovered towards him on his departure was not
forgotten either; it had made a deep impression on his mind, and he
could not bear the thought of forsaking them now that Heaven had
showered on him its abundance. It is sweet to live for them, said he,
and I will also die amongst them. A sentiment also of a more tender
nature,--(and let not the stoic profane it with the name of weakness, or
the man of the world scorn it as unnatural)--a sentiment still more
tender attached him to Leloncourt,--the remains of his wife reposed
there.

Since La Luc would not reside in France, Theodore and Adeline, to whom
the splendid gaieties that courted them at Paris, were very inferior
temptations to the sweet domestic pleasures and refined society which
Leloncourt would afford, determined to accompany La Luc and Monsieur and
Madame Verneuil abroad. Adeline arranged her affairs so as to render her
residence in France unnecessary; and having bid an affectionate adieu to
the Count and Countess D----, and to M. Amand, who had recovered a
tolerable degree of cheerfulness, she departed with her friends for
Savoy.

They travelled leisurely, and frequently turned out of their way to view
whatever was worthy of observation. After a long and pleasant journey
they came once more within view of the Swiss mountains, the sight of
which revived a thousand interesting recollections in the mind of
Adeline. She remembered the circumstances and the sensations under which
she had first seen them--when an orphan, flying from persecution to seek
shelter among strangers, and lost to the only person on earth whom she
loved--she remembered this, and the contrast of the present moment
struck with all its force upon her heart.

The countenance of Clara brightened into smiles of the most animated
delight as she drew near the beloved scenes of her infant pleasures; and
Theodore, often looking from the windows, caught with patriotic
enthusiasm the magnificent and changing scenery which the receding
mountains successively disclosed.

It was evening when they approached within a few miles of Leloncourt,
and the road winding round the foot of a stupendous crag, presented them
a full view of the lake, and of the peaceful dwelling of La Luc. An
exclamation of joy from the whole party announced the discovery, and the
glance of pleasure was reflected from every eye. The sun's last light
gleamed upon the waters that reposed in "crystal purity" below, mellowed
every feature of the landscape, and touched with purple splendour the
clouds that rolled along the mountain tops.

La Luc welcomed his family to his happy home, and sent up a silent
thanksgiving that he was permitted thus to return to it. Adeline
continued to gaze upon each well known object; and again reflecting on
the vicissitudes of grief and joy, and the surprising change of fortune
which she had experienced since last she saw them, her heart dilated
with gratitude and complacent delight. She looked at Theodore, whom in
these very scenes she had lamented as lost to her for ever; who, when
found again, was about to be torn from her by an ignominious death; but,
who now sat by her side her secure and happy husband, the pride of his
family and herself; and while the sensibility of her heart flowed in
tears from her eyes, a smile of ineffable tenderness told him all she
felt. He gently pressed her hand, and answered her with a look of love.

Peter, who now rode up to the carriage with a face fall of joy and of
importance, interrupted a course of sentiment which was become almost
too interesting. Ah! my dear master! cried he, welcome home again. Here
is the village, God bless it! It is worth a million such places as
Paris. Thank St. Jaques, we are all come safe back again.

This effusion of honest Peter's joy was received and answered with the
kindness it deserved. As they drew near the lake, music sounded over the
water, and they presently saw a large party of the villagers assembled
on a green spot that sloped to the very margin of the waves, and dancing
in all their holiday finery. It was the evening of a festival. The elder
peasants sat under the shade of the trees that crowned this little
eminence, eating milk and fruits, and watching their sons and daughters
frisk it away to the sprightly notes of the tabor and pipe, which was
joined by the softer tones of a mandolin.

The scene was highly interesting; and what added to its picturesque
beauty was a group of cattle that stood, some on the brink, some half in
the water, and others reposing on the green bank, while several peasant
girls, dressed in the neat simplicity of their country, were dispensing
the milky feast. Peter now rode on first, and a crowd soon collected
round him, who, learning that their beloved master was at hand, went
forth to meet and welcome him. Their warm and honest expressions of joy
diffused an exquisite satisfaction over the heart of the good La Luc,
who met them with the kindness of a father, and could scarcely forbear
shedding tears to this testimony of their attachment. When the younger
part of the peasants heard the news of his arrival, the general joy was
such, that, led by the tabor and pipe, they danced before his carriage
to the chateau, where they again welcomed him and his family with the
enlivening strains of music. At the gate of the chateau they were
received by Madame La Luc,--and a happier party never met.

As the evening was uncommonly mild and beautiful, supper was spread in
the garden. When the repast was over, Clara, whose heart was all glee,
proposed a dance by moonlight. It will be delicious, said she; the
moonbeams are already dancing on the waters. See what a stream of
radiance they throw across the lake, and how they sparkle round that
little promontory on the left. The freshness of the hour too invites to
dancing.

They all agreed to the proposal.--And let the good people who have so
heartily welcomed us home be called in too, said La Luc: they shall
_all_ partake our happiness: there is devotion in making others happy,
and gratitude ought to make us devout. Peter, bring more wine, and set
some tables under the trees. Peter flew; and while chairs and tables
were placing, Clara ran for her favourite lute, the lute which had
formerly afforded her such delight, and which Adeline had often touched
with a melancholy expression. Clara's light hand now ran over the
chords, and drew forth tones of tender sweetness, her voice accompanying
the following:


AIR

Now at Moonlight's fairy hoar,
When faintly gleams each dewy steep,
And vale and mountain, lake and bower,
In solitary grandeur sleep;

When slowly sinks the evening breeze,
That lulls the mind in pensive care,
And Fancy loftier visions sees,
Bid music wake the silent air:

Bid the merry merry tabor sound,
And with the Fays of lawn or glade
In tripping circlet beat the ground
Under the high trees' trembling shade.

"Now at Moonlight's fairy hour"
Shall Music breathe her dulcet voice,
And o'er the waves, with magic power,
Call on Echo to rejoice!


Peter, who could not move in a sober step, had already spread
refreshments under the trees, and in a short time the lawn was encircled
with peasantry. The rural pipe and tabor were placed, at Clara's
request, under the shade of her beloved acacias on the margin of the
lake; the merry notes of music sounded, Adeline led off the dance, and
the mountains answered only to the strains of mirth and melody.

The venerable La Luc, as he sat among the elder peasants, surveyed the
scene--his children and people thus assembled round him in one grand
compact of harmony and joy--the frequent tear bedewed his cheek, and he
seemed to taste the fulness of an exalted delight.

So much was every heart roused to gladness, that the morning dawn began
to peep upon the scene of their festivity, when every cottager returned
to his home, blessing the benevolence of La Luc.

After passing some weeks with La Luc, M. Verneuil bought a chateau in
the village of Leloncourt; and as it was the only one not already
occupied, Theodore looked out for a residence in the neighbourhood. At
the distance of a few leagues, on the beautiful banks of the lake of
Geneva, where the waters retire into a small bay, he purchased a villa.
The chateau was characterized by an air of simplicity and taste rather
than of magnificence, which, however, was the chief trait in the
surrounding scene. The chateau was almost encircled with woods, which
formed a grand amphitheatre, swept down to the water's edge, and
abounded with wild and romantic walks. Here nature was suffered to sport
in all her beautiful luxuriance, except where, here and there, the hand
of art formed the foliage to admit a view of the blue waters of the
lake, with the white sail that glided by, or of the distant mountains.
In front of the chateau the woods opened to a lawn, and the eye was
suffered to wander over the lake, whose bosom presented an ever-moving
picture, while its varied margin sprinkled with villas, woods, and
towns, and crowned beyond with the snowy and sublime Alps, rising point
behind point in awful confusion, exhibited a scenery of almost
unequalled magnificence.

Here, contemning the splendour of false happiness, and possessing the
pure and rational delights of love refined into the most tender
friendship, surrounded by the friends so dear to them, and visited by a
select and enlightened society--here, in the very bosom of felicity,
lived Theodore and Adeline La Luc.

The passion of Louis de La Motte yielded at length to the powers of
absence and necessity. He still loved Adeline, but it was with the
placid tenderness of friendship; and when, at the earnest invitation of
Theodore, he visited the villa, he beheld their happiness with a
satisfaction unalloyed by any emotions of envy. He afterwards married a
lady of some fortune at Geneva; and resigning his commission in the
French service, settled on the borders of the lake, and increased the
social delights of Theodore and Adeline.

Their former lives afforded an example of trials well endured--and their
present, of virtues greatly rewarded; and this reward they continued to
deserve--for, not to themselves was their happiness contracted, but
diffused to all who came within the sphere of their influence. The
indigent and unhappy rejoiced in their benevolence, the virtuous and
enlightened in their friendship, and their children in parents whose
example impressed upon their hearts, the precepts offered to their
understandings.