CLERMONT.
CHAP. I.
Thoughts succeed thoughts, like restless troubled waves,
Dashing out one another.
After perusing her letter, Madame D'Alembert leaned her head upon her hand and continued silent many minutes as if absorbed in profound meditation; then raising it, "my love (she cried to Madeline, whose eyes, though she had retired to a window were fastened on her), my love, (motioning for her to take a seat by her), I am now going to put your friendship to the test."
"I trust, Madame, (said Madeline as she seated herself), you do not doubt its being able to bear any trial you can put it to."
"I have no reason indeed, (replied Madame, taking her hand) to doubt your affection or sincerity; but the request I am about making appears to me unreasonable, consequently I fear its appearing much more so to you." She paused a minute, and then, tho' with rather a hesitating voice, proceeded.
"Monsieur D'Alembert is coming to the chateau; the letter I have just received came by an express to announce his approach,—in the course of this day I expect him. Reasons of the most powerful nature, but reasons which I cannot, must not, dare not declare, make me wish to prevent his seeing you, at least while you are under my protection."
"Dearest Madam (then said Madeline with quickness), let me return immediately to my father; how could you imagine I should think your requesting me to do so unreasonable; I have long wished to see him, and my regret at quitting you will now be lessened by knowing Monsieur D'Alembert will be your companion."
"My dear girl (cried Madame) you totally mistake me; though I do not wish you to see Monsieur D'Alembert, I by no means wish you to return to your father; on the contrary, should you insist on doing so, you will pain me beyond expression."
"But how, Madame, (asked Madeline with much surprise) how will it be possible to avoid being seen by Monsieur if I do not quit the chateau."
"By consenting to seclude yourself from society (answered Madame) while he is in it; his stay he informs me will be but short—was it a long one I could not be so selfish as to attempt to keep you; tell me then, my Madeline—terminate my suspense—will you gratify, will you comply with my wishes?" She paused and looked earnestly at Madeline for a reply, but it was many minutes ere Madeline could give one.
Amazed by what she had heard, and learning that Madame D'Alembert had powerful reasons for concealing her from her husband, her whole soul was engrossed in trying to develop those reasons; but like the other mysteries which had tortured it, she vainly tried to do so.
"Ah! Madeline (said Madame D'Alembert, in a melancholy voice) I fear this silence bodes me no good."
"My dearest Madam, (cried Madeline) I would at once have answered you, could I at once have determined how to act; but I will acknowledge though my affection for you prompts me to comply with your request, my pride makes me revolt from the idea of becoming the unknown guest of any person; besides—besides (with some little hesitation) there is a kind of apprehension mingled with that pride. I recollect the particular, the impressive manner, in which my beloved benefactress bade me remember, that whenever Monsieur D'Alembert came to the chateau, she did not desire me to continue in it; and her words, together with those you have uttered, make me fear that Monsieur has some secret enmity against me, though for what cause I cannot possibly conceive, unacquainted as I am with him."
"What a wild idea, (exclaimed Madame), to suppose a person who is really ignorant of your existence, can have any enmity to you?"
"Good heaven! Madam, (cried Madeline) how you astonish me!"
"I repeat, (said her friend) that Monsieur D'Alembert, at this moment, knows not that such a being as Madeline Clermont exists: when he comes to the chateau he certainly must hear about you, but your real residence I shall take care to have concealed from him: Come, tell me, do you longer hesitate how to act?"
Madeline sighed deeply; she was unwilling to stay, and yet unwilling to go: unwilling from motives of affection, and a fear that if she did she should be deemed ungrateful; rightly considering that those who will not sometimes tax their feelings for a friend, are themselves unworthy of the appellation of one.
"No, Madam, (said she, after the silence of a few minutes) I no longer hesitate,—do with me as you please; I should ill requite your favors if I disobeyed your wishes."
"A thousand thanks, my Madeline, for your compliance; (cried her friend, tenderly embracing her) it has removed a heavy burden of uneasiness from me: and now, my dear girl, to inform you of the plan which I have concerted for your concealment; a plan which only to those immediately concerned in carrying it into execution I shall impart, in order to avoid any danger of a discovery, and to prevent idle curiosity: I shall immediately have it circulated through the family that you are going to pay a visit to a relation some leagues off, and order Lubin, (in whom, his old godmother, Agatha, and Floretta, I alone mean to confide) to prepare horses for the journey; as soon as you are out of sight of the chateau, he shall conduct you to the grotto by the lake, where as soon as it is dark, Floretta shall be sent to re-conduct you home, and by a private door bring you to the chamber of my mother, which I think better adapted than your own for concealing you, as her death is too recent to permit the servants to wish to enter it.
"I hope my love (seeing Madeline turn pale) you have no objection to it?"
Madeline was ashamed to acknowledge she had.—
"No, Madam, (answered she falteringly) I have not."
"Consider, my dear, (said her friend, who was not perfectly satisfied by this assurance) your seclusion in it will be but short; and while you continue in it, Agatha and Floretta shall pass as much time as possible with you; every opportunity too which occurs for visiting you, without danger of detection, I shall seize: retire now, my love to your chamber, and in order to give the appeaance we wish to my plan, put on a riding habit."
Madeline withdrew, but instead of changing her dress, she sat down to reconsider all that had passed, and the more she reflected on it, the more her heart recoiled from the idea of continuing in the chateau.
"If discovered (said she) I may be insulted as an intruder, and degraded not only in my own eyes, but those of the family; but can I retract the promise I have given to Madame D'Alembert? No, it is impossible to do so—I cannot appear fickle, I cannot disappoint her; sooner than do so I will run the risk even of indignity."
While thus engrossed in thought, Madame D'Alembert, followed by Agatha and Floretta, entered: Madeline started and attempted to apologize for not having put on the habit.
"You are an idle girl, (cried her friend) the horses are waiting, and no time is to be lost."
In a few minutes she was ready, and with Madame D'Alembert descended to the hall, where she found many of the old servants, (who loved her for the sake of their dear departed lady as well as for her own) assembled to bid her farewell; having received and returned that farewell, and also a parting embrace from her friend, she mounted her horse and set off at a smart pace with Lubin: they soon penetrated into the thickest of the wood, and after proceeding about a mile through it, they turned into a winding path leading to the lake; here they both alighted, and Madeline, being acquainted with the way, walked on, while Lubin slowly led the horses after her. This was the very path which de Sevignie had taken the last evening she beheld him, and the moment she entered it, the remembrance of that evening rushed upon her mind; she sighed heavily: "Ah! how different (she cried to herself) were my feelings then to what they are now!—then I imagined myself the beloved of de Sevignie's heart, then believed him entitled, not only from affection but worth, to the possession of mine; but now no idea of that kind remains, and to that which I once entertained I look back as to a delightful dream, from which I have only been awakened to misery and horror.
"Yet can de Sevignie (she continued, as she pursued her way), can de Sevignie, (as if only now she had conceived the doubt) be perfidious, be unworthy? Oh! impossible! (cried she, yielding to the suggestions of a tenderness, which, though opposed, had never been in the least degree conquered), Oh! impossible! Vice could never wear such a semblance of virtue as he wore; the alteration in his manner must have been owing to some circumstances which pride prevented his revealing, and I should, I ought at once to have believed so: surely I had done so, had I not obeyed, (let me whisper it to myself) the dictates of disappointed tenderness and offended pride."
On reaching the grotto she seated herself on the moss-covered stone before it; the very seat on which she had once been alarmed by de Sevignie; the very seat on which she had once, while the pale stars glimmered o'er her head, so impatiently waited his approach.
"Oh! what minutes were those, (she exclaimed) Oh! what the palpitation of that moment which brought him to my feet!—" Again she beheld him in idea, again saw his fine eyes beaming on her with mingled love, hope and sorrow; again felt the soft pressure of his cold trembling hand; again heard the sighs, with which he declared there was an unconquerable necessity for their separation.
"Oh! de Sevignie (she cried) to know you happier now than when that declaration was made, would relieve my heart of an almost intolerable weight of anguish: she wished she could learn whether he had yet left V———; but to enquire without betraying her motives for doing so was impossible, and from the idea of discovering them she shrunk with affright.
"What satisfaction (she asked herself) could I derive by knowing he was still there? No hope of seeing him could be derived by such a knowledge."
She continued engrossed by this idea till she felt the tears dropping upon her cheeks; these brought her to a sense of her weakness. "Is it by indulging such feelings as my present ones,—is it by dwelling on the remembrance of Sevignie, (said she) that I adhere to the resolution I formed not to think about him, that I obey the injunctions of my lamented benefactress, or what I know must be the wishes of my father: what folly! instead of trying to drive him from my heart, to try and establish him more firmly than ever within it, by still believing him amiable! Ah, had he been really so, never would he have formed plans which he did not mean to realize; never would he have condemned my opening my heart to such a friend as I was blessed with; and 'tis only a sudden impulse of weak and culpable tenderness which could make me again consider him in the light I once did, an impulse which I will endeavour never more to yield to: Yes, de Sevignie, more resolutely than ever I will try to expel you from my heart." She wiped away her tears, but felt at the moment how arduous was the task which she had imposed upon herself.—
How difficult it would be, in moments of security and quiet, to banish de Sevignie from her thoughts, when scenes of grief and terror, such as she had lately experienced, had not had power to do so.
"Heaven, however, (cried she) strengthens those who wish to do right; I wish to do so, and to do so I think I must forget de Sevignie."
Lubin, who had hitherto been engaged in securing the horses within a cavity of the mountain, now approached, and opening a small basket of nice provisions, which Agatha had given him, he spread a napkin on the grass before Madeline, and laid the contents of the basket on it.
"'Tis time for you to take something Mademoiselle (said he) I dare say 'tis now far beyond your usual dinner hour; do pray, Mademoiselle, do take something, you look faint indeed."
Madeline felt weak and tired, and did not resist his entreaty: after her little repast was over, he removed the things to a respectful distance, and sat down to refresh himself. The parents of Lubin had passed the principal part of their lives in the service of the Countess and her family, and at their death, which happened when he was very young, she had taken him entirely under her protection; his gratitude and fidelity amply repaid her kindness, and she had considered him as she did Agatha, infinitely above the rest of the servants.
With true French gaiety after he had finished his repast, he amused himself with singing the following
Song
Come, sweet Content, thou ever smiling maid,
Come, sit with me beneath this old tree's shade;
Or ramble with me round yon green-clad hill,
Adown whose side soft steals the silvery rill.
If thou'rt an inmate of my humble home,
I would not change it for a gilded dome;
If blessed with thee, my table shall be crown'd
With sweets, in riot's banquet never found;
Careless with thee I'd roam at early day,
And join the warblers on the waving spray;
Or gaily tend my fleecy bleating fold,
And kindly guard them from the wint'ry cold.
Oh! let me fold thee to this throbbing heart,
Which sighs for peace thou only canst impart;
And let me with thee ever humbly bend,
Before each trial heav'n may please to send.
Like some kind star that gives a cheering ray,
To lead benighted mortals on their way,
Do thou appear to check each anxious thought,
And give that blessedness so long I've sought.
"Is that your own composition, Lubin?" (asked Madeline) whose mind was amused by listening to him.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, (replied he) I pass many of the long winter nights in scribbling, and then I set my own words to my own music, and they answer my purpose as well as the best song in the world."
"The purpose of amusing you," said Madeline.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, and keeping care from my mind: life is so short that one should, according to the old saying, 'learn to live all the days of their life', which they never can do if they yield to fretting or vexation."
"True, (cried Madeline), those who think as you do, Lubin, are only truly happy."
Lubin now rambled away, and Madeline also arose and walked about.
The day was now far advanced,
"And in the western sky the downward sun
"Look'd out effulgent from amid the flush
"Of broken clouds, gay shifting to his beams."
Those beautiful clouds, and all his dazzling splendour were reflected in the clear bosom of the lake, along with its verdant banks; where the laurestine just beginning to blossom, and the arbutis already in bloom, reared high their beauteous heads, while its soft murmurs intermingled in the wild concert of woodland choristers: a thousand golden beams played upon the forest, heightening the richness of its autumnal shades, and as they illumined the distant mountains, discovering some of their most romantic recesses. The mind of Madeline was soothed by the charming scene, and she felt that while she retained her present taste for the works of nature, she could not be entirely insensible to pleasure. The wild flowers that grew about now emitted their choicest fragrance, and the evening gale bore to her ear the bleating of distant flocks, and the far off whistle of the peasant the welcome signal to his companions in industry, to retire from their labours.
At the appointed time Floretta came to her; in about an hour Lubin said he would follow them to the chateau.
"Well to be sure, Mademoiselle, (said Floretta, as they walked towards it) 'tis with fear and trembling I came for you to-night; Lord I hope this may be the last time I shall ever be sent to the grotto."
"Is Monsieur D'Alembert come?" asked Madeline.
"Come, yes, and in a way that was not expected; he has brought three coaches full of company along with him."
"Brought company along with him?" repeated Madeline, in a voice of astonishment.
"Yes, an equal number of ladies and gentlemen, and all gay souls I can assure you."
"Your lady's feelings must be extremely hurt," said Madeline.
"Aye to be sure; but if Monsieur never hurts them more severely, she will be very well off."
"This bringing so much company to the chateau seems as if he intended to make a long stay at it."
"Oh, no, Mademoiselle, (replied Floretta with quickness) I took care to inquire particularly from Lewis his valet de chambre, about his intentions, and he told me his master and his friends were taking a tour of pleasure, and the chateau lying in their way, had merely called at it for the purpose of resting themselves a few days."
"Or perhaps to request Madame D'Alembert's company," (said Madeline.)
"Not they indeed, (cried Floretta) she is quite too grave for my master, or the friends he likes, and tis a pity indeed that she should be so: Lord, what is the use of fine cloaths, or youth, or beauty, or fortune, if one lives moping and retired, as she does, for all the world like a hermit."
"Consider, Floretta, (said Madeline) the affliction your lady is at present in."
"And what does solitude do but increase that affliction; when a thing is over what is the good of lamenting it? Ah! Mam'selle, I have often thought what a fine figure I'd make if I had my lady's fine clothes, and jewels, and carriage to roll about in.
"I assure you, Mademoiselle, (continued she with a conceited simper) I could scarcely come to you to-night; Monsieur Lewis, whom I knew very well, when in Paris with my lady, would hardly let me leave him; he is one of the politest creatures in the world, and pays such pretty compliments; he says I am vastly improved by the country air, and that my natural roses would shame all the artificial ones in Paris. He and the other servants which accompanied him, have quite enlivened us again, all but poor Agatha; she has moped about ever since they came, but she is old, Mademoiselle, (proceeded Floretta, with a significant look) she is old, and that is the reason she cannot be animated like us."
"Poor Agatha!" exclaimed Madeline, who felt more attached than ever to the faithful creature, from finding she had feelings so congenial to her own.
She had now reached the chateau, and her heart palpitated with a fear of being discovered either by Monsieur D'Alembert, or some of his servants; but of this Floretta assured her there was no danger.
Through a private door in the rear of the castle, she led her up a flight of narrow stairs, seldom used, to the gallery, which was now gaily illumined by the lights that blazed in the hall: fearful of being discovered, Madeline hastened to the chamber, in which Floretta informed her she would find Agatha waiting to receive her; but ere she reached it, a shout of noisy laughter, ascended from an apartment contiguous to the hall, and shocked her, by making her feel as if an insult had been offered to the memory of the countess.
"If my feelings are so poignant upon the occasion, (said she to herself), ah, what must the feelings of her daughter be!—Surely, surely M. D'Alembert cannot have that sensibility which the husband of Viola should possess, or he would not thus have broken in upon the sacredness of her grief."
Floretta knocked softly at the chamber door and it was immediately opened by Agatha; but the moment Madeline entered it she started back, shocked and surprised at beholding it in the same state as when the remains of the countess were taken from it. Agatha took her hand, and, drawing her in, locked the door. "Pray be composed, dear Mademoiselle, (said she) my lady, who feared the sight of the hangings might affect you, would have had them removed had it been possible for me and Floretta to have taken them down; but as that was not the case, she she feared desiring the men to do so, lest it should excite suspicion."
"I own (cried Madeline, in a faint voice, with a face as pale as death) I own I would rather have continued in my own room; but if you or Floretta will have the goodness to pass the night in this with me, I shall not feel quite so reluctant to it."
"As to my staying with you, Mademoiselle, (exclaimed Floretta, instantly going to the door) that is utterly impossible; I have a thousand things to do, which Agatha, if she pleases can tell you of."
So saying she hastily unlocked the door, and departed without ceremony.
"For my part, (said Agatha, as soon as she had again secured it) I would stay with you with all my heart, but that I fear if I did I should be missed (as some of the maids rooms open into mine) and if I was, your being in the castle must be discovered, which I know would distress my lady exceedingly."
"And why should it distress her?" demanded Madeline with quickness, no longer able to suppress her curiosity.
"Why, (repeated Agatha, looking earnestly at her) because—dear Mademoiselle, (cried she as if suddenly recollecting herself) I am sure I can't tell you."
"Don't be alarmed, Agatha, (said Madeline, with affected composure), I shall not inquire into secrets, which I see your respect for your lady makes you solicitous to conceal; in silence I shall submit to her wishes, her kindness gives her a right to expect this from me."
Supper was prepared for Madeline, as was also provisions for the ensuing day, as till the next night, she was informed she could not be visited by any one. Agatha pressed her to sit down to table; she had no inclination to eat, she however complied with her entreaty, and made her also take a chair, being anxious to detain her as long as possible.
"Monsieur D'Alembert makes no long stay at the chateau, I understand, (said she), from Floretta."
"No, thank heaven, he soon quits it," replied Agatha.
"It seems he merely stopped to rest himself, and his party at it," resumed Madeline.
"So he and his good for nothing servants say, (cried Agatha) but I have reason to think he had some other motive for coming to it."
"Have you?" said Madeline eagerly.
"Yes; I imagine he came to it for the purpose of seeing what part of the estate would be the best to dispose of."
"Dispose of? (repeated Madeline, in amazement) surely Monsieur D'Alembert could not think of disposing of any part of it? surely his situation does not require his doing so?"
"'Tis a sign you know little of it, or you would not say so, (cried Agatha) his extravagance has long rendered him in want of money."
"His extravagance! (again repeated Madeline) Monsieur D'Alembert extravagant! Gracious heaven how you astonish me! By what means was the countess de Merville prevailed on to let her daughter marry a man of dissipation?"
"He appeared both to the Countess and her daughter a very different man before, to what he did after his marriage," answered Agatha.
"And to the too late discovery of his real character the melancholy of the Countess was to be imputed," said Madeline.
Agatha looked at her but made no reply.
A dreadful idea started in the mind of Madeline:—the words of Floretta, the solemn manner in which she had been bound by the countess to conceal the black transaction in the chapel, seemed to declare it was a just one: she grasped the arm of Agatha, she fastened her eyes upon her as if they would pierce into the very recesses of her soul.
"The horrible mystery then (said she) is explained;—Monsieur D'Alembert—the chapel—"
"Ha! (cried Agatha, starting from her chair and shaking off the hand of Madeline) what do you say? Beware, beware, Mademoiselle of what you utter; beware (with a dark frown) even of what you think. I know what you would have said, I know what you have imagined, but—"
"But I am not mistaken," said Madeline, in a hollow voice, and sinking against the back of the chair.
"You are; (exclaimed Agatha) you have done injustice to Monsieur D'Alembert."
"Heaven be praised, (cried Madeline, clasping her hands together) heaven be praised; had I continued much longer to believe the idea I formed of him a just one, I think I could not have preserved my reason."
"Dear heart, I am sure I should not have wondered if you had lost it directly, (said Agatha) it must have been horrible indeed to suppose that the husband of the daughter could have murdered the mother."
"Oh, horrible, most horrible!" exclaimed Madeline.
"Though Monsieur D'Alembert is gay and extravagant, and not the kind of man he appeared to be before his marriage, he is not such a villain as you supposed him," cried Agatha.
"I was not then mistaken in supposing that Madame D'Alembert had another cause for grief besides the death of her mother?" said Madeline.
"No, you were not mistaken as to that, (replied Agatha) poor thing she frets a great deal about Monsieur, and I am sure if he sells any part of the domain belonging to the chateau, it will go nigh to break her heart, for she loves every inch of it; and if any thing could raise my poor dear lady out of her grave, I am certain his doing so would."
"I hope he will not be so disrespectful to her memory, (said Madeline) as to do what he knows would have been contrary to her inclination, nor so inhuman to her daughter as to disregard her wishes."
"I fear he will, Mademoiselle: (cried Agatha) when once he takes a thing into his head, 'tis a difficult matter to make him give it up: but I hope when you see Madame you will not tell her any thing I have been saying."
"You may be assured I shall not," said Madeline.
"She means (resumed Agatha) to pay you a visit to-morrow night, if she can possibly steal from her company: poor soul tis very different company to what she has been accustomed to: Ah! Mademoiselle, if my dear lady had been living, such people would never have been permitted to enter the chateau. Alas! its glory and happiness are departed, and I shall never again behold such days as once I saw within it.
"Farewell Mademoiselle, (continued she, rising) tis time for me to leave you, for I hear the servants retiring to rest, heaven bless you and protect you."
Madeline locked the door after her with a trembling hand, and involuntarily shuddered as she turned from it at finding herself alone in a chamber so gloomy, and so remote from every one as her present one was. Her spirits were too much agitated, in consequence of her conversation with Agatha, to permit her to sleep; and, even if inclined to do so, she could not think of reposing on a bed where she had so lately seen the corpse of her friend; whenever she glanced at it, it was with a kind of terror, as if she almost expected to have beheld again upon it the same ghastly figure.
Within the chamber was a closet which contained a small selection of books; determined on sitting up the night, Madeline took one from it, with a hope that it would divert her thoughts and prevent her attention from dwelling on what distressed her; but this hope was a vain one, and the night wore heavily away. About the dawn of day she leaned back in the arm chair on which she was sitting, and slept for a little time; the ensuing hours were as tedious and melancholy as those she had recently passed; she waited most impatiently for the promised visit from some of her friends, particularly after it grew too dark for her to read. At length in about two hours after she had been compelled to lay aside her book, she heard a soft tap at the chamber door, she immediately opened it, and Floretta entered with a light, and a small basket of provisions. Madeline followed her to the table on which she laid them, as soon as she had re-locked the door, and then to her infinite amazement and terror first perceived that Floretta was weeping violently.