CHAP. IX.
Endure and conquer: Jove will soon dispose
To future good your past and present woes.
Resume your courage, and dismiss your care;
An hour will come, with pleasure to relate
Your sorrows past; as benefits of fate
Endure the hardships of your present state;
Live, and reserve yourselves for better fate.
The elder D'Alembert was son to the Marquis of Montmorenci's sister, and heir to his titles and fortunes if he died without children. He was brought up with a taste for pleasure and extravagance—a taste which, on becoming his own master, a circumstance that took place at a very early period in life, he indulged to the utter derangement of his paternal income. From the distresses which he was consequently involved in, and which his assumed character of steadiness and propriety prevented his disclosing to his uncle, he extricated himself by an union with an opulent heiress, whom the elegance and insinuation of his manners captivated, and was thus enabled again to set forward in the career of dissipation which his embarrassments had a little interrupted. Lafroy, the son of his nurse, his companion from the cradle, and attendant from the time he required an attendant, was the confident of all his profligate pursuits, and assisted him in the expenditure of such sums as materially injured his income, and again plunged him in distress.
To reveal that distress, he was now more unwilling than ever to do, from a conviction, that now more than ever he should be condemned for the dissipation which had involved him in it: he therefore set his wits to work to contrive ways and means for supplying his emergencies, and concealing it.
Knowing as he did, that if the Marquis of Montmorenci was without a son, he should, as his heir, gain what credit he required, he could not look upon the young Philippe but with eyes of envy and malignancy—as upon a person who prevented his being extricated from his difficulties. Philippe, however, was of a delicate constitution; and he indulged a hope, that if he once entered the world without the watchful eye of a parent over him, he might be led into such courses as would eventually destroy his health, and terminate his existence: it was a hope derived from a self-experience of the dangerous situation in which a young man of rank and fashion stands when unacquainted with the world, and unguarded by any friend. As a means of poisoning his mind, he had often wished to get Lafroy into his service; he knew of no person better calculated for sowing the seeds of vice, and leading the unwary into the flowery paths of dissipation. Accordingly, on a continental tour being settled for Philippe, he offered Lafroy to the Marquis for his son: having already made that tour himself, he said he knew the necessity there was for a young man being accompanied in it by some person on whom he could depend; he therefore recommended Lafroy as such a person, as one whose principles no temptation could warp, and whose integrity would be a guard for him against the designs of the artful.
The Marquis, who believed the offer of D'Alembert (as he himself indeed declared it) to be suggested by the purest friendship, accepted it with the most heartfelt gratitude, and Lafroy was taken into the suite of his son.
From Italy Lafroy wrote an account of all his operations to D'Alembert; and with the utmost chagrin, one declared, and the other heard, that the mind of Philippe was too well fortified by virtue and reflection to be led astray.
Notwithstanding the ill success of his plan, and the inconveniences he was often subjected to from the loss of Lafroy, D'Alembert would not recall him, still trusting that time and perseverance would sap the foundation which had hitherto resisted all the attacks that were made upon it.
So silent, so imperceptible were those attacks, that Philippe never was alarmed by them; they were like the sting of the asp,
That best of thieves, who with an easy key
Dost open life, and unperceiv'd by us,
Ev'n steal us from ourselves, discharging so
Death's dreadful office better than himself;
Touching our limbs so gently into slumber,
That Death stands by, deceived by his own image,
And thinks himself but sleep.
Lord Philippe returned to France without the smallest alteration in his principles; and the hopes of D'Alembert died away—hopes, however, which revived on Philippe's declaring his resolution of going back to Italy, when he had been but a few months returned from it. Something more than a mere inclination to travel he was convinced attracted him so immediately from home; and he gave the necessary instructions to Lafroy to watch him narrowly.
Lafroy suspected an attachment between him and Lady Elenora Dunlere; and his suspicions were confirmed by Lord Philippe's passing that time at the castle of her father, which, on quitting his own home, he had declared he would spend in Italy. To know the nature of the attachment, what kind of connexion it had formed, or was likely to form, between them, he laid himself out to gain the confidence of Blanche, with whose perfect knowledge of all that passed in the family he was acquainted. Ignorant, innocent, the very child of simplicity, Blanche was not long proof to his artifices—artifices which were aided by every blandishment that had power to touch a susceptible heart, and her virtue and promised secrecy to her ladies were soon sacrificed to him. From being taken into the family of the Earl when quite a child, and brought up in a great degree with his daughters, Blanche was treated more as an humble friend than servant, and entrusted with the most important secrets. Her protectors doubted not the principles which they had implanted, nor the sincerity of the attachment which their tenderness deserved, and she professed. With the marriage of both her ladies, with the relationship between their husbands, and the concealment of Lord Philippe's marriage from his brother, she was acquainted, and all those particulars she communicated to Lafroy, who transmitted them to his employer.
Scarcely were they known to D'Alembert ere they suggested a most horrid and complicated scheme of baseness and cruelty to him; a scheme of which there appeared every probability of success. That Lausane, the injured son of the Marquis, could easily be worked up to the destruction of a brother, who deprived him of his right, he could not doubt; and if Philippe fell, it would surely, he thought, be an easy matter to get rid of Lausane. On Lafroy's return to the Castle of Montmorenci, he finally adjusted and arranged his plans. The manner in which they were executed and accomplished is already known. Josephe, at whose cottage Lausane lodged, was, as has been already mentioned, the brother of Lafroy, and Claude was a companion and particular friend, whom D'Alembert, on parting with him, took at his recommendation to supply his place.
D'Alembert charged Lafroy to secure Blanche, lest any after-repentance should tempt her to betray them: he accordingly inveigled her from the castle, by representing the delights she would experience if she went to Paris; and immediately after the fatal rencounter between the brothers, he put her into the hands of Claude, who conveyed her thither to the house of Madame Fleury. D'Alembert also charged him to destroy the son of Philippe, whose existence interfered as much with his prospects, as that of the father's had done. Lafroy promised obedience to all his commands; but the last was one he never meant to fulfil. He was so great a villain himself, he could place no confidence in others; and therefore believed, that if he had no tie upon D'Alembert, he never should receive the rewards he had been promised, and thought his services entitled to. He therefore determined to preserve the infant: nor was he stimulated to his preservation by a mere distrust of D'Alembert; another motive equally powerful influenced him, namely the aggrandizement of his own family through his means. Proud, ambitious, and disdainful of his dependant situation, he resolved on bringing up the son of Lord Philippe as his own nephew, the child of his brother Josephe; and at a proper age, insisting on an union taking place between him and the daughter of D'Alembert; "when supposed to be allied to the proud House of Montmorenci (said he), I shall no longer be permitted to be a dependant in it; the family will then enrich, will then ennoble me and mine."
As soon as he had securely lodged the child in the hands of Josephe, who, immediately after the departure of Lausane from his cottage, repaired to the Alps for the purpose of receiving it, and easily prevailed on his wife to acknowledge it as her's; he disclosed his scheme to D'Alembert, solemnly declaring at the moment he did so, that if he did not acquiesce in it, he would betray him to the Marquis. This threat—a threat which, from the disposition of Lafroy, D'Alembert doubted not his putting into execution if incensed, conquered all opposition to it; and he agreed, at a proper age, to give his daughter to the supposed son of Josephe.
But he was still more in the power of Lafroy than he imagined: Lafroy and Claude had watched the meeting between the brothers; and on Lausane's flying from the bleeding body of Philippe, they hastened to it. As they bent over it with a kind of savage triumph at the success of the execrable scheme they had been concerned in, they suddenly beheld it tremble. Lafroy was startled, and laid his hand upon the breast; he felt the heart faintly flutter; "Lausane (he exclaimed), has but ill-performed the work we gave him."
"I'll try if I cannot do it better," said Claude, and he snatched up the dagger, with which Lausane had stabbed Lord Philippe, and which lay beside him.
"Hold! (cried Lafroy, catching his arm as he raised it for the purpose of striking Lord Philippe to the heart), a thought strikes me—we had better endeavour to preserve than destroy his existence;—the life of his son is precarious; if our schemes relative to him are accomplished, we can easily destroy the father; if they are disappointed, our declaring his existence will at all times compel D'Alembert to comply with our demands, be they ever so extravagant."
"True (cried Claude); but how will you conceal him, or manage about his wounds?"
"There is an extensive cave (replied Lafroy), contiguous to the vaults of the castle, known but to few, and which Blanche showed to me; the former inhabitants of the castle used it as a place for depositing treasure in, and accordingly fortified it with iron doors. Thither, with your assistance, I can now convey him; and, as I have a knowledge of surgery, I shall dress his wound, and from the castle bring whatever I deem necessary for him:—for the purpose of attending him, I shall continue here till Josephe has left the child with his wife; he shall then return to supply my place; and as his affinity affinity to me is not known, his appearance can excite no suspicion."
"But inhabited as the castle is (said Claude), you cannot, without danger of detection, secrete him long within the cave."
"No (replied Lafroy), I cannot; as soon, therefore, as he regains sufficient strength to enable him to bear the fatigue of the journey, I shall return hither, and with your assistance and Josephe's convey him elsewhere."
This cruel scheme, which doomed the unfortunate Philippe to worse than death, to lingering misery, was put into practice without farther hesitation; and Claude was then dispatched for Blanche, who waited impatiently to commence her journey with him to Paris.
No sooner was D'Alembert informed of the death of Philippe, than he devised a scheme for the destruction of Lausane. This, it may be supposed, he meant easily to effect accusing him of murder, and consequently drawing upon him the vengeance of an enraged and afflicted father. But this was not by any means his intention;—an open accusation would, he knew, occasion a public trial, at which there could be no doubt but Lausane would declare the artifices which had instigated him to the destruction of his brother—a declaration that might, that would indeed, in all probability, D'Alembert feared, raise suspicions against himself. To prevent, therefore, all danger of such suspicions, he determined to have him privately destroyed; for which purpose, he meant to dispatch some of his well-tried emissaries to the habitation of Lord Dunlere, habited as officers of justice, to demand Lausane as a murderer; whom, on getting into their hands, they were to convey to a proper place for such a deed of horror, and put to death, but in such a manner, that his death should seem the effect of some sudden disorder. To aid in this diabolical plan, he himself travelled in disguise to the Alps, with his emissaries; and he was the person who alarmed the good monk so much by declaring his intention of searching every where for Lausane. The story invented in consequence of that declaration, completely frustrated his designs; and he returned not a little delighted to his home, at the idea of Death's having proved such a friend to him, by freeing him both from the trouble and danger of putting Lausane out of the way himself. With him died away all apprehension of detection, and all fears of disappointment relative to the estates of Montmorenci; and his dissipation, in consequence of the certainty of his expectations being realized, was unbounded.
Lafroy still remained in the service of the Marquis, who felt strongly attached to him from an idea of his having been a faithful and affectionate servant to his son. That unfortunate son recovered from his wound; and, as soon as he was able to bear a removal, was conveyed in the dead of the night by Josephe, Lafroy, and their partner in iniquity, Claude, to a lonely cottage at some distance from the castle, and well calculated, from its frightful solitude, for the purpose for which it was taken. Here, under the care of Josephe, he remained till after the death of Lord Dunlere; he was then re-conveyed to the castle, which Lafroy had art enough to prevail on D'Alembert to purchase, by pretending he should like it for a future habitation. In reality, he knew no place so well calculated for concealing the unhappy Philippe, no place in which he could so easily make away with him, when he should find his existence no longer necessary. As it was not possible to keep Josephe longer from his home without exciting suspicions and enquiries, he dispatched him to it, and placed in the castle a sister of their's and her husband, whose dispositions too much resembled his own to make him fear any thing from them.
Every thing now went smoothly on with D'Alembert: his wife, whom he had never loved, died shortly after the supposed death of the two brothers, and every one considered, and treated him with additional respect in consequence of that consideration, as the heir of Montmorenci. The unhappy Marquis, tortured with remorse, and anxious to expiate his crimes by atoning to those he had injured, made the most diligent enquiries after his eldest son—enquiries in which D'Alembert, with the warmest zeal appeared to join, but which in reality he baffled, wishing, for obvious reasons, to conceal from the Marquis every thing relative to him. The only drawback he had upon his happiness, was the idea of the degradation he should suffer by the union of his daughter with the supposed son of Josephe, a peasant upon the Montmorenci estate. But as he knew this was a measure which could not be avoided without the exposure of his iniquities, he tried to reconcile himself to it by a hope, that his rank and fortune would stifle at least the open censures of the world. The consequence which he knew he should lose by his daughter's connexion, he determined to try and re-acquire by the marriage of his son; and for this purpose, looked out amongst the most illustrious for a partner for him. His choice soon devolved upon the young and lovely heiress of the Count de Merville, who was then just presented at the French Court by her mother, and was the most admired object at it. Her heart was not gained without difficulty; but when gained, her hand soon followed it. The prize attained, the tendernesses and attentions by which it was won, were soon discontinued; and the mask of gentleness and sensibility cast aside, discovered to the unhappy mother and daughter features of the utmost deformity and horror. To reform, instead of reproach, was however the ardent wish of both—a wish which they were soon convinced was not to be accomplished; and with unutterable anguish, the Countess beheld her amiable and beloved child united to a hardened libertine. To try and alleviate her bitter destiny, she remained with her a considerable time after her marriage, till driven from her residence by the insulting treatment of D'Alembert, whose expenses far exceeded both the fortune of his wife, and the income allowed by his father, made him demand supplies from her, which she refusing, provoked him to language and conduct not more wounding to her as a woman to receive, than degrading to him as a man to use. She refused those supplies, not only because she thought it a sin to furnish vice with the means of gratifying itself, but because she wished to reserve something like an independence for her daughter, in case she was ever plunged into pecuniary distresses (of which she beheld every probability) by the thoughtless and unbounded extravagance of her husband.
During her own life this independence could only be acquired, for at her death her fortune, which, in right of her father she enjoyed, was entailed upon her daughter; and would, she was convinced, on devolving to her, be swept, like all her other possessions, into the vortex of dissipation.
To avoid the insults of D'Alembert, and to diminish her expenses, she was hastening to her chateau at the time she met with the accident which introduced her to the cottage of Clermont. No sooner was she acquainted with his situation, than she formed the resolution of taking his daughter under her protection, and dividing with her whatever she could save, and meant to have appropriated solely to Madame D'Alembert's use.
Her departure from the habitation of D'Alembert did not exempt her from his solicitations, or reproaches on finding those solicitations still unsuccessful. A letter from him, couched in a more insulting stile than any she had before received from him, was the occasion of the illness and dejection which shocked and alarmed Madeline so much on her return from Madame Chatteneuf's—an illness and dejection, for which the Countess would never assign the real cause. To conceal domestic troubles—troubles which could not be remedied, she always conceived to be the wisest plan; rightly considering, that the world always took a divided part; and, though convinced one side was culpable, never exempted the other entirely from blame.
Enraged, disappointed, and distressed by her continued refusals, D'Alembert formed the horrible resolution of assassinating her—a resolution which he scrupled not to avow to his father, who had ever been his abettor in all his villainous schemes and profligate pursuits. His father did more than sanction it by silence; he commended it as a proof of real spirit, which would not quietly submit to ill-treatment; and recommended Claude, who still continued in his service, as a proper person for assisting in such a scheme: of this young D'Alembert was already convinced, having before tried his abilities in one scarcely less iniquitous than the present. Disguised, they both travelled to the chateau, and in the ruined monastery acted the dreadful scene which has been already described. Notwithstanding her injuries, the just resentment she must have felt for them, the Countess determined never to reveal their author; the consequence of doing so would, she was convinced, be either death or distraction to her daughter. She died, imploring heaven to forgive him as she had done, and for ever conceal from his wife her having fallen by the hand of her husband.
Her solemn injunction to Madeline upon her death bed, not to continue in the house if he came to it, was occasioned by her perfect knowledge of his libertine disposition. Beauty like her's could not fail, she was sure, of exciting his regards: she was equally sure that he would not hesitate going any length to gratify his passions. She therefore, though without informing Madeline of the danger she dreaded on her account, earnestly conjured her to avoid it. Of his baseness and profligacy she had had a fatal proof during her residence beneath his roof.
Soon after his marriage, ere they were thoroughly acquainted with his disposition, she and Madame D'Alembert took under their protection a young and lovely girl, the orphan of a noble but reduced family, with whom they had been well acquainted. They took her with an intention of amply providing for her, and still keeping her amongst the circles she had been accustomed to. Long she had not been under their care, ere her charms attracted the admiration of D'Alembert; and, in defiance of the laws of hospitality, honour, and humanity, he insulted her with the basest proposals, and threatened revenge when he found them treated with the contempt they merited. Tenderness for her patronesses made her long conceal his conduct: at length she grew alarmed, and revealed it. In consequence of this disclosure, they determined to send her to a convent in Dauphine, and lodge her there till they could hear of a respectable family who would receive her as a boarder, and under whose protection she could with safety and propriety again enjoy some of the pleasures of life. Under the care of proper attendants she commenced her journey; but how great was the horror, the consternation of the Countess and Madame D'Alembert, when those attendants returned to inform them, that from the inn where they had stopped for the night, she had eloped.
The idea of her having eloped was not for an instant conceived either by the Countess or Madame D'Alembert; they knew the innocence of the unhappy girl—they knew her total ignorance of all with whom they were not acquainted, and suspicion immediately glanced at D'Alembert: they hesitated not to inform him of that suspicion; they did more—they declared their positive conviction of his having had her carried off by means of some of his agents: he denied the justice of the charge—he resented it; and, in reply to their threats (for supplications they soon found unavailing), said he was ready to deny before any tribunal they might cite him to, the crime they accused him of. His declarations of innocence gained no credit with them; they were convinced of his guilt, but could not prove it; and the unfortunate Adelaide, who had no friends out of their family interested about her, was never after heard of by them, notwithstanding their diligent and unceasing enquiries, and promises of liberally rewarding any one who could give the smallest intelligence concerning her.
As fearful as her mother of having Madeline seen by her husband, yet unwilling to relinquish her society, Madame D'Alembert determined, instead of sending her from it, to secrete her in the chateau when Monsieur D'Alembert so unexpectedly announced his intention of coming to it, for the purpose, as Agatha suspected, of seeing what part of the estate would be the best to dispose of. Amongst the domestics who attended Madame D'Alembert to the chateau, was a young female, whose principles her master had entirely perverted. His improper influence over her was, however, carefully concealed from her mistress, over whom he placed her as a kind of spy, an office she too faithfully executed. She overheard the conversation between Madame D'Alembert and Madeline, and communicated it to D'Alembert almost immediately after his arrival at the chateau. Eager to behold beauty so extolled, he rested not till he had gained access to the chamber in which Madeline was concealed, and which he effected by means of a sliding-door in the closet, with which she was unacquainted.
The moment he beheld her, he was captivated by her, and determined to leave no means untried of securing charms which he had never seen equalled. For the purpose of concerting a plan for the accomplishment of his wishes, he appointed an interview in the ruined monastery with his female confidant. The shock which Madeline received in consequence of that interview, is already known. As she lay senseless at his feet, instead of being moved to pity by her situation, he conceived the horrid idea of availing himself of it; and determined to send to the chateau for some of his emissaries to carry her off, when the unexpected approach of his wife and Lubin frustrated this intention. Not knowing who were approaching, he and his companion fled at the first sound of their steps, and thus lost the conversation which took place between Madeline and her friend.
He returned the next morning to the monastery, and explored every part of it for her; the chateau next underwent a search. When convinced she was gone, his rage knew no bounds; he openly accused his wife of perfidy, of meanness; insisted she had infringed her duty in having had any concealment from him; and peremptorily commanded her to tell him (if she hoped for his forgiveness), whither she had sent her lovely charge; this she as peremptorily refused doing. Words, in consequence of that refusal, grew high between them; and the party which had accompanied him to the chateau, were dismissed abruptly from it by him. As a justification of his conduct, and an excuse for it, he assured them that his wife's temper would not permit him to have them with pleasure to themselves any longer under his roof.
When freed from their observation, and the little restraint which they had imposed upon him, he treated the unhappy Madame D'Alembert with the utmost brutality. To avoid his inhumanity, she never stirred from her chamber, except compelled to do so by his commands; and now endeavoured to beguile her wretchedness by beginning her promised narrative to Madeline—a narrative, however, which she doubted ever having the power of sending to her, as D'Alembert solemnly swore she never should be permitted to leave the chateau, or hold converse of any kind with any person out of it, till she had communicated to him all he desired to know concerning her lovely friend.
His temper, it may be supposed, was not improved when his father arrived at the chateau to inform him of the existence of Clermont, and his being acknowledged as the son and rightful heir of the Marquis of Montmorenci. This was a blow not more unexpected than dreadful—a blow which completely demolished all his hopes of independence, all his hopes of being extricated from his difficulties. He raved, and imprecated curses upon the memory of those who had deceived his father relative to Clermont. His rage and regret at not having secured Madeline, were augmented when he understood that she was the daughter of Clermont; and reflected, that had she been carried off by him, the discovery relative to her father would never, in all probability, have taken place.
"How unfortunate (exclaimed old D'Alembert, in reply to what he had said concerning her), how unfortunate that you are not at liberty to offer your hand, and thus gratify your love and your ambition. Were you free, I am convinced I could soon effect a marriage between you and St. Julian's daughter."
His son started; a flush of savage joy overspread his countenance—"I can easily regain my liberty (said he); I have long sighed for it; a noble soul will ever try to break chains which are oppressive. My wife is but a mortal; the hand which gave a quietus to the mother, can easily give the same to the daughter. We can manage the affair between us so secretly, that no soul shall know of it, no eye behold it."
His father sighed heavily, and shook his head. Remorse had lately begun to visit his breast; and he trembled to think there was an eye over all their actions—an eye which could not be deceived. "I like not the shedding of blood," said he.
"You were not always averse to it," cried his son with a malignant sneer.
"True, because my designs could be by no other means accomplished; where mercy can be shown, I wish to be merciful; you can get rid of your wife without destroying her: the report of her death will as effectually serve your purposes as if she had really died; and in the castle on the Alps she can be too securely lodged ever to have an opportunity of proving the fallacy of that report."
D'Alembert detested his wife; and could not, without the utmost reluctance, think of sparing her life; when his father at length prevailed upon him to promise to do so. They soon concerted their schemes relative to her. It was determined that he should apologize to her for his unkindness; and, as an atonement for it, insist upon her accompanying him to Bareges, in order to try and recover her health, which to herself alone he should acknowledge his fears of having injured. Their plans arranged, they immediately separated. Old D'Alembert was in haste to return to his house from whence he had privately departed for the purpose of consulting his son on the sudden change in their prospects; Claude alone knew of his departure, and was ordered to detain the Marquis's messenger, and invent a plausible excuse for the letter he brought not being answered directly.
The purport of the letter which D'Alembert wrote in reply to it has been already mentioned. After writing it, he had a private interview with Lafroy, to whom he imparted the new scene of cruelty and baseness he and his son were about acting; and gave such instructions as he deemed necessary. These instructions were merely to do every thing which could gain the favour and confidence of St. Julian, and render him unsuspicious of the designs upon his daughter. To forward which designs, it was determined that all the horrors of superstition should be awakened in his breast; when once infected, once enervated by them, he might easily, D'Alembert believed, be made the dupe of art and villainy. For the purpose of exciting those horrors, Lafroy secreted himself in the chamber of Lord Philippe, to which he gained access by a way not known to many of the family, and forgotten by those who did know it, from its being long disused. Immediately behind the bedstead was a small door which opened into a dark closet, communicating with a flight of back stairs; those stairs, and this closet, previous to his residence at the castle, had been shut up, and chance first discovered them to him. A valuable ring of his Lord's was mislaid one day, and, in searching for it, he pushed aside the bedstead, and perceived the door; curiosity made him eagerly unbar it, and explore the places beyond it. Of those long deserted places he determined to avail himself when the plan of alarming St. Julian was first suggested, and his was the hand which, extended through the tapestry, had so greatly shocked and terrified Madeline.
The rage of D'Alembert at her obstinate refusal of his son, was even greater than he expressed; he soon found that solicitations were vain, and that stratagem alone could effect his purposes. The stratagem he called in to his aid is already known: but whilst exulting at the idea of the success with which there was every appearance of its being crowned, he was suddenly plunged into despair by the intelligence of his daughter-in-law's existence being discovered to Madeline and her father—a despair, however, from which the ready genius of Lafroy soon relieved him.
The letter which Madeline received relative to her friend, was written and delivered by Claude. A fit of illness, which endangered his life, effected a thorough reformation in his principles; and he rose from the bed of sickness resolved to make every atonement in his power for his former enormities. To openly declare the existence of Madame D'Alembert and the unfortunate Philippe, would be, he was convinced, to occasion their immediate destruction; for so well was he acquainted with the hardened wickedness of D'Alembert, his son, and Lafroy, that he doubted not their declaring such an assertion the assertion of a madman, and instantly dispatching some of the well-tried and diabolical agents, by which they were surrounded, to destroy Philippe and Viola ere any person from the Marquis could be deputed to search for them. He knew the necessity therefore there was for going secretly to work, and, having once gained access to the castle, to warn Madeline of her danger, determined to set out alone for the Alps. He learned from a domestic of D'Alembert's who was sent home, that Madeline confined herself to her chamber; and, acquainted as he was with every avenue in the castle, he found it no difficult matter to steal to her unperceived by any of the family.
His letter, which St. Julian, in the full conviction of his fidelity, imparted to Lafroy, was immediately shown by him to D'Alembert. For leaving him so abruptly, Lafroy apologized to St. Julian by saying he wished to be alone in his chamber, in order to consider what was to be done.
D'Alembert, on reading the letter, struck his forehead in a frenzy, and exclaimed that all was lost. Lafroy, however, soon convinced him to the contrary. The conversation which passed between him and Madeline, and which has already been related, sufficiently explains his plot.
St. Julian, instead of meeting a friendly guide at the extremity of the forest, as he had been taught to expect, was met by two ruffians, who rudely seized him, and forced him into a chaise, in which he was conveyed to Madame Fleury's, where too late he discovered, that by the person in whom he had most confided, he had been most deceived.
Josephe, Lafroy's brother, was the person who accompanied Madeline to Paris, under the assumed name of Oliver. An express from the Castle of Montmorenci informed young D'Alembert of all the transactions at it, and of St. Julian and his daughter being consigned to the care of Madame Fleury till he had determined their fate. He immediately conceived the idea of passing himself as the nephew of Madame Fleury, and under that assumed character, offering his hand to Madeline, falsely imagining her friendless situation would make her readily embrace any offer which gave her a promise of protection. When tired of her, which he doubted not being soon the case, he resolved on destroying her, as a sure method of preventing another disappointment relative to the fortune of Montmorenci: her father's death he would not have delayed an hour, but that he was withheld from it, by considering, if artifice failed with Madeline, fears for her father might accomplish his designs. In the house of Madame Fleury, he knew any scene of iniquity might be acted with impunity. She was a woman of the most infamous description, and avowedly kept a house for the encouragement of vice. Beneath her roof the innocent and lovely Adelaide lost her life; bribed to the horrid deed by D'Alembert, the owner of the inn at which she slept put her into his power, and, on finding no other way of escaping his violence, she stabbed herself to the heart with a knife which she concealed about her; her body was thrown into a vault beneath the house; and it was the traces of her blood which had so much alarmed Madeline. Blanche, the once faithful servant of her mother's, was the unhappy penitent she discovered before the crucifix: the seeds of virtue which had been early implanted in her mind, the artifices of Lafroy had not been able entirely to destroy; and ere she was many months with Madame Fleury, Blanche bitterly regretted her misconduct, and wished to leave her. This was a wish, however, which Madame Fleury was peremptorily commanded by D'Alembert not to gratify, lest her releasement should occasion the discovery of his crimes.
The resemblance which Madeline bore to Lady Geraldine immediately struck her; the effect it had upon her has been already described. On Madeline's quitting her, she followed her to the head of the gallery, and heard the scene which passed between her and D'Alembert. Whilst he was pursuing Madeline, she stepped into his chamber, and read his letters, which clearly explained the real name of Madeline, and the situation of her and her father—a situation which, on discovering who they really were, Blanche was determined to run every risk to rescue them from. She was acquainted with all the passages in the house, and knew she never was suspected of leaving her chamber; she therefore flattered herself she could easily effect their delivery. As soon as it grew dark, she unlocked the door of St. Julian's prison, who had by that time entirely recovered from the effects of the opiate, and briefly informed him of her wishes and intention to serve him. He heard her with grateful transport; and was conducted by her to the vault communicating with the court, from whence she ascended to bring his daughter to him.
During this transaction D'Alembert was seated quietly with Madame Fleury, exulting at the probability there was of his schemes being now successful in consequence of the terror into which he had thrown Madeline, whom he meant shortly to visit, and inform that the officers of justice were coming to the house to seize her father. But great as was his exultation, it was trifling compared to that which his father experienced, who, on the removal of St. Julian and Madeline from the Castle of Montmorenci, had not a fear remaining of any future disappointment. Till Madeline was secured, he deemed it unsafe to say any thing about her father to the Marquis; he therefore made him believe, till she had departed, that his unfortunate son, oppressed with the deepest melancholy, wandered about the forest to indulge it the whole day, and only returned at night to take some trifling refreshment, and go to bed.
As soon as Madeline was consigned to the care of Josephe, a letter was presented to the Marquis, which exactly imitated the writing of his son, and was signed with his name. This letter contained a full confession of the murder of his brother, and went on as follows:—"It was a murder to which I was stimulated by revenge at the usurpation of my rights, and a hope, that if he was once out of the way, you would not be averse to doing me justice. That hope has been realized, but without yielding me happiness. Since my arrival at the castle, remorse has been awakened by means not more awful than mysterious, in my breast; and, in consequence of that remorse, I have determined to resign all claim to the fortunes of Montmorenci, and seclude myself for ever from the world. Nor shall my daughter enjoy them; they would entail misery instead of happiness upon her: a convent is her doom; to her God I shall devote her; the offering I trust will be acceptable, and cause him to look with an eye of compassion and forgiveness upon my miseries and crimes."
The feelings of the Marquis on perusing this letter were too dreadful to be described; he accused himself as the cause of death to one son, and guilt to the other; and all idea of vengeance for the murder of Philippe was lost in the reflection of his having occasioned that murder himself. His life, in all probability, would have been terminated in a few days by the anguish he suffered, had not that Being, who accepts our penitence as an atonement for our errors, unexpectedly relieved him from the horrors of despair.
D'Alembert dispatched two emissaries after Claude for the purpose of destroying him. Fatigued by his exertions, he had stepped aside to rest himself in a little grotesque hollow at some distance from the road they took, and thus escaped falling into their merciless hands. From his concealment he had a perfect view of them, and the moment he beheld them, he conjectured their horrible designs. All hope of succouring Madame D'Alembert now died away; all hope of escaping the vengeance of her husband and his father; for whether he advanced or retreated, he was confident equal danger awaited him. Overwhelmed with fear and anguish, he flung himself despairingly on the ground, determined rather to die there, than by stirring from the spot, expose himself to the hand of an assassin. In this situation he heard a party of travellers approaching; he was in that desperate state which tempts a man to adventure every thing. He accordingly started up, and resolved on applying to them for protection for himself, and assistance for Madame D'Alembert. The instant they drew near, he threw himself before them, and in a supplicating voice, besought them to stop and listen to a story calculated to awaken all the feelings of compassion, and to interest every generous heart. His words and manner claimed immediate attention, and he began his strange narrative. Scarcely had he concluded it, when a sudden exclamation of mingled grief and indignation burst from some of the party, which convinced him he had applied to the friends of Madame D'Alembert in her behalf. To her most tender, most affectionate friends he had indeed applied—to Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter, who were returning from Italy to France, accompanied by an Italian Nobleman, (to whom a few days before the commencement of her journey, Olivia had given her hand), his friend, and a numerous retinue of servants. To the dreary castle they immediately bent their course, and rescued the unhappy Viola from worse than death—from lingering misery!
Her safety ensured, Claude mentioned the imprisonment of Philippe. His reason for not declaring it to Madeline was owing to his doubts of the existence of the unhappy captive at the time he set out for the Alps, having heard a few days before that he was in so weak a state, his life was despaired of: he therefore feared raising expectations in the breast of Madeline which might be disappointed, being well convinced, that if Philippe died ere he reached the castle, the assertion of his having lived to that period, would be considered as the mere fabrication of his brain. To the gloomy tower in which he was confined, he led the way, and found him, as he had been taught to expect, on the very brink of the grave—that grave to which he had long wished himself consigned; for, torn as he was from all that could render life desirable, life was a burden which he ardently wished to resign! But with the change in his prospects, an immediate change took place in his sentiments, and the soothing attentions of compassion—attentions to which he had been long a stranger; the joy of unexpected deliverance, and rapturous idea of beholding his son, soon effected such an alteration in his appearance, as not more delighted than astonished his friends, gave them every hope of his speedy recovery, and enabled them, even sooner than they had expected, to proceed to the castle of Montmorenci. Within a little way of it, all the carriages but Madame Chatteneuf's, stopped and, accompanied by her son-in-law, she proceeded to it, and demanded a private interview with the Marquis. After the first ceremonies of meeting were over, she told him she had something to relate to him not more affecting than interesting; but declared she could not commence her relation till he had given orders for Monsieur D'Alembert and Lafroy being secured.
Strange as was this desire, the impressive manner in which it was delivered, would not permit the Marquis to hesitate about obeying it. He accordingly summoned some of the domestics he most confided in, and gave them a strict charge to have an eye over D'Alembert and Lafroy, and inform him if they attempted to quit the castle.
Madame Chatteneuf then began her promised narrative;—nothing but the knowledge which the Marquis had of her character, could have prevented him from interrupting her in the midst of it, and declaring his doubts of its truth. When she had concluded the recital of the injustice which had been done to Madame D'Alembert, and her sufferings in consequence of it, she paused—paused from the emotions she experienced at the idea of those which the fond father would feel when informed the long-lamented darling of his heart was about being restored to his arms. She approached him with eyes swimming in tears, and taking his hand, pressed it between her's. "A yet greater, a yet more affecting surprise than that received by hearing of Madame D'Alembert's existence, awaits you (cried she); Oh! endeavour to bear it with composure—endeavour to hear with moderation—that he, whom long you have mourned, still lives—lives to demand a father's blessing, and recompense the bitter sorrow he has occasioned."
Great joy and great sorrow are often alike in their effects. Madame Chatteneuf had scarcely uttered the last word, ere the Marquis fainted in her arms. She directly desired a servant to be dispatched for the rest of her party; and the first object the Marquis beheld on recovering, was his long-lost Philippe. The scene which followed can better be conceived than described; it was such as drew tears from every spectator. Yet amidst the Marquis's raptures, the keenest pangs of anguish seized his heart at beholding the devastation which suffering had made upon his son, no more he beheld eyes darting fire, cheeks painted with the liveliest bloom of health, and a form graceful and elastic. "But happiness (he exclaimed), happiness never is perfect in this life!"
When Philippe grew a little more composed, he mentioned his son, and besought him to be sent for. This was a new surprise, a new source of delight to the Marquis; and an express was directly dispatched to the cottage of Josephe for him. Orders were also given for the confinement of D'Alembert and Lafroy.
Ignorant of the late transactions at the castle, de Sevignie, whilst he obeyed the summons to it, could not otherwise account for that summons, than by supposing his residence near Madeline had been discovered by her father, and awakened his apprehensions of their attachment being renewed in consequence of their vicinity to each other; to prevent which, he had sent for him to request he would go elsewhere. "If he makes such a request, I will obey it (cried de Sevignie, as in a melancholy manner he followed the messenger); go where I will, I shall still retain the idea of Madeline; and, though my situation cannot gain the approbation, my conduct shall merit the esteem, of her father."
Oh! how impossible to describe the feelings of Philippe when he presented himself to his view? How equally impossible to do justice to those of the Marquis, when, in the youthful Henri, he beheld the exact resemblance of his beloved son—his resemblance, when all the graces, all the charms of elegance and youth were his. Surprised by the reception he met with, by the emotions with which he was alternately clasped to the bosom of Lord Philippe and the Marquis, de Sevignie looked the very picture of astonishment. He was not permitted to remain long in ignorance of his real situation; and with a delight not inferior to that experienced by his new-found relatives, he knelt to receive their blessing. But short was the duration of his joy when informed of Madeline and her father having been spirited away from the castle; informed of the too probable dangers which surrounded them, the most dreadful anguish pervaded his soul; and striking his hand distractedly against his forehead, he exclaimed, that happiness was lost for ever!
D'Alembert and Lafroy had been brought into the apartment, taxed with their guilt, and strictly interrogated concerning St. Julian and his daughter; to which interrogations both had hitherto observed a profound silence—a silence the former determined to persevere in, from a fiend-like wish of rendering others as miserable as himself; but which the latter resolved on breaking if he could, by doing so, escape the punishment he merited. In reply, therefore, to what de Sevignie had said, he declared there was still a chance of happiness being restored to him.
"If (cried he), the Marquis will promise to pardon me, and not cast me without provision upon the world, I will, without delay, reveal the place to which the Count and his daughter have been taken."
"Oh! promise him all he asks (exclaimed de Sevignie, grasping the arm of the Marquis); promise him pardon—promise him wealth, protection, if he but declares the situation of Madeline and her father."
"Solemnly I promise to grant him all he desires," said the Marquis.
"May his information come too late! (cried D'Alembert, who, finding his baseness could not even be palliated, determined no longer to conceal the deformity of his soul); may his information come too late! ere this, I trust, the fate of the father and daughter is decided—the dreadful fate to which they both were doomed."
"Infernal monster! (exclaimed de Sevignie, catching him by the breast, then suddenly flinging him from him); you are a defenceless man (he exclaimed), that consideration alone saves you from my fury. Villain as you are, I will not strike where there can be no resistance. Oh! tell me (he continued, turning to Lafroy), Oh! tell me whither I can fly to rescue Madeline and her father."
Lafroy, having made his conditions, informed him without hesitation, and the Count Manfredonia, the husband of Olivia, and his friend Count Durasso, both declared their resolution of accompanying him directly to Paris.
Whilst the carriages were preparing, the Marquis wrote a hasty letter to a nobleman of high rank and power there, requesting him to give whatever authority was necessary to de Sevignie for searching the house of Madame Fleury. De Sevignie never stopped till he reached Paris, except when compelled to do so for the purpose of changing horses.
The moment the nobleman to whom the Marquis's letter was addressed, had perused it, he procured proper officers to accompany de Sevignie to Madame Fleury's. She and D'Alembert were immediately secured, and the house searched for Madeline and her father. But when de Sevignie found it searched in vain, no language could describe what he felt; he flew to the prisoners, and implored them to reveal the place to which they had conveyed the unfortunate St. Julian and his daughter. They heard his supplications unmoved: what he asked they could not indeed have granted; yet, in order to torture him, they pretended that they could. Though unable to account for the escape of St. Julian and Madeline, they yet believed they had effected it, and rejoiced at the idea, not only on the account of the anguish which they perceived the uncertainty of their fate gave to de Sevignie, but from a hope that they might be able to extricate themselves from his power, and regain the fugitives.
De Sevignie was sinking beneath the horrors of despair, when the subterraneous chambers were mentioned by the officers; thither he directly fled, and there discovered the objects of his search; from thence he bore the senseless Madeline to the parlour, which was cleared for her reception. Oh! how utterly impossible to describe her feelings when, on recovering, she perceived de Sevignie—when, as he pressed her to his throbbing heart, from his lips she received an assurance of her safety and her father's: but great as was the rapture of those feelings, it was faint compared to that which she experienced on being informed of the existence of Philippe. At first she doubted the reality of what she heard, and accused de Sevignie of an intention of deceiving her; then besought him, if he wished to be credited, to give a solemn assurance of the truth of his assertion. This solemn assurance was instantly given, and received by Madeline with a wild scream of joy: then, flying to her father, who, on the first mention of his brother, had sunk motionless upon a chair, she flung herself into his arms; her caresses restored him to sensibility. He disengaged himself from her, and knelt down—"Oh! God (he cried, his uplifted hands folded together), accept my thanks—accept my thanks for preventing me from being in reality a murderer, a fratricide. In adversity I besought thee to give me fortitude to bear it; in prosperity I now beseech thee to give me moderation to sustain it; Oh! teach, teach me to support with composure this sudden reverse of situation!"
"Oh! ecstasy (cried Madeline, kneeling beside him), to know your guiltless brother lives; to know you have nothing more to fear, repays me amply for all my sufferings."
When they grew a little composed, de Sevignie continued his narration.
"The web of deceit is at length unravelled (said St. Julian, as soon as he had concluded it), and the ways of Providence are justified to man. We now perceive, that however successful the schemes of wickedness may be at first, they are, in the end, completely defeated and overthrown. We now perceive, that God wounds but to heal, strikes but to save, punishes us in this life, but to correct our passions, and render us deserving of happiness in that which is to come."
Blanche, who had followed them to the parlour, shared their transports, and now made herself known; for time and sorrow had so altered her, that St. Julian had not the smallest recollection of her. He freely granted the pardon she asked for the part she had had in his sufferings, and he promised to send her to the place of her nativity, where she earnestly wished to end her days.
Anxious to terminate the anxiety of his friends, it was determined that the journey to the Castle of Montmorenci should be commenced at the dawn of day. Accordingly at the settled time they left the detested mansion of Madame Fleury, leaving her and D'Alembert in it under the care of the officers of justice, till it should be known whether the charges against them would occasion their being confined elsewhere. They travelled with the utmost expedition, nor slackened their speed, till within a short distance of the castle, in order to send forward a servant to inform the Marquis of their approach, lest their appearance, if unexpected, should affect him too much; but, notwithstanding this precaution, the emotions he felt on beholding them—on beholding the long separated brothers folded in the arms of each other, were such as nearly overcame him, and "shook his frame almost to dissolution."
In the most affecting language St. Julian implored Lord Philippe's pardon, which he, in terms not less affecting, granted.
"My sons (said a reverend Monk from a neighbouring convent, the same to whom the Marquis had given such particular directions about his eldest son before he was discovered), take my advice, and let a veil be drawn over past transactions, never to be raised except it is for the purpose of instructing youth, by displaying to them the fearful scenes which uncontrolled passions may occasion—uncontrolled passions I repeat, for to such were all your miseries owing. The Marquis, by gratifying his love at the expense of honour and humanity, entailed remorse upon himself, and all the horrors which must ever attend our conviction of being under the immediate displeasure of heaven: and you (addressing St. Julian), by madly following the bent of resentment, plunged yourself, to all appearance, into an abyss of guilt, from whence you scarcely dared to raise your eyes to heaven to implore its protection against the designs of the cruel, and the punishment you thought you had merited; whilst your brother, by gratifying the impulse of inclination, without obtaining, or trying to obtain, the sanction of a parent, left himself exposed to the most base designs, and, by practising deceit himself, taught others to practise it upon him. In the course of your sufferings, I dare say you have often accused fate of being the occasion of them; when, in reality, had you properly reflected, you would have found they entirely originated with yourselves: that they are terminated can scarcely excite more pleasure in your hearts than in mine: may your happiness never again know diminution, and your past sorrows, if mentioned, only be mentioned for the purpose of keeping alive a fervent gratitude to that Being who so wonderfully dispersed them!
"From your strange and eventful story, the virtuous may be convinced that they should never despair—the guilty, that they should never exult, as the hour of deliverance to one, and retribution to the other, often arrives when least expected: both should also learn by it, that a merciful God makes allowances for human frailty, and accepts sincere repentance as an atonement for error." In the words of the poet the holy man might have concluded,
Heaven has but
Our sorrows for our sins, and then delights
To pardon erring man. Sweet mercy seems
Its darling attribute, which limits justice,
As if there were degrees in Infinite,
And Infinite would rather want perfection,
Than punish to extent.
"The affection subsisting between my sons (said the Marquis), prevents my feeling that uneasiness I should otherwise experience at the idea of leaving one almost wholly depending upon the other."
"We will know no difference of fortune (exclaimed St. Julian); all that I could do for my brother, all that I could bestow upon him, could never be a sufficient recompense for the sufferings I occasioned him."
"Most amply can you recompense them," said Philippe.
"In what manner?" cried St. Julian with eagerness.
"Need I explain my meaning? (said Philippe, and he glanced alternately at Madeline and de Sevignie, whose attachment he had been previously informed of); need I say that it is by giving your daughter to my son, you can make me amends for all my sorrows."
"That I shall readily make such amends, you will believe (cried St. Julian), when I tell you, that by so doing, I shall ensure my own happiness; in seeing the precious offspring of Elenora and Geraldine united, the most ardent wishes of my heart will be accomplished: in giving her to de Sevignie, I give her to a man, in whose favour I felt a predilection, excited not only by his manner, but his strong resemblance to you. Take her (he continued, presenting her hand to de Sevignie), take her with the fond blessing of her father; and may the felicity you both deserve, be ever your's!"
The feelings of de Sevignie and Madeline were such as language could not have done justice to; but their eyes, more eloquently than any words could have done, expressed them.
Sorrow now seemed removed from every heart but that of Madame D'Alembert's; with the deepest melancholy she ruminated over her sad prospects, and resolved to retire from the castle of Montmorenci to a convent, as soon as some settlement had taken place relative to her husband and his iniquitous father. On her account (well knowing, notwithstanding her abhorrence to them she would sensibly feel their exposure to public disgrace), the Marquis determined not to give them up to the punishment they merited, provided they solemnly promised, ere he liberated them, never more to molest her, or attempt injuring the property she inherited in right of her mother. He had already spoken on the subject to D'Alembert, but could not extort a reply from him; he therefore resolved on sending an express to the son, to inform him of the conditions on which he would restore him to liberty.
On the evening of this happy day which restored them to the Castle of Montmorenci, de Sevignie and Madeline wandered into the forest, and there he informed her of all he had suffered on her account. "In a manner very different from the family to which I was supposed to belong (said he), I was brought up, by the desire, it was said, of Monsieur D'Alembert, my godfather. Not qualified from my education to partake of the amusements, or join in the pursuits of my family, I found home unpleasant, and early conceived a passion for wandering about; which passion the presents I received from D'Alembert, and the indulgence of my father, permitted me to gratify. In the course of my wanderings, I beheld and became acquainted with you: the feelings you inspired, what followed that acquaintance must have already explained. Though formed to adorn the highest station, I yet flattered myself the unambitious disposition of your father would incline him to bestow you on me, provided I could prove myself possessed of a competency, and worthy, from my past conduct, of his approbation. To do the latter would, I knew, be easy; and to do the former, would, I trusted, be scarcely more difficult, for D'Alembert had always promised to secure me a handsome establishment, and I now hoped he might be prevailed on to fulfil his promises. I wrote to my father, opened my whole heart to him, and besought him to apply to D'Alembert in my behalf. I received an immediate answer to this letter, in which my father charged me, except I wished to incur his severest malediction, never to think more about you, declaring that my sole prosperity in life depended on my union with D'Alembert's daughter, who, in my visits to the chateau, he said, had conceived a partiality for me, which her father, rather than destroy her peace, had determined to gratify. My resolution, on perusing this letter, was instantly formed: I resolved never to marry a woman I disliked, nor unite myself to one I loved, except assured I could add to, instead of injure, her happiness. Notwithstanding my determination, I lingered in your house till the altered looks of your father plainly convinced me he wished for my departure: the pangs which rend soul and body, could not, I am sure, have been greater than those I endured on tearing myself from you.
"I returned to my father's house; he treated me ill, and I resumed my wanderings, with a hope that change of scene might alleviate my anguish; but this hope was disappointed; no change of scene could change the feelings of my soul; no company could amuse, no prospect delight; upon the loveliest productions of Nature I often gazed with a vacant eye—prospects which, in the early days of youth, when expectation sat smiling at my heart, I had often contemplated with a degree of rapturous enthusiasm which seemed to raise me from earth to heaven, and inspiring me with a sublime devotion, made me look up through Nature's works to Nature's God.
"Not all the attention, the hospitality I received at V———, to which chance alone conducted me, could dissipate the thoughts that corroded my peace; but, as if I had a presentiment of your coming to it, I could not bring myself to leave it. Strange and inconsistent you found me: that strangeness, that inconsistency, was owing to a passion which I wished to conquer, yet could not forbear nourishing—which I wished, yet dreaded, to have returned, conscious as I was that that return would plunge the object of my love in sorrow.
"But how weak is the mind of man, how frail his best resolves! When I found I had an interest in that tender heart, every idea but of felicity fled from me; and I was tempted to ask you to unite your destiny to mine: a sudden interruption to our conversation alone prevented my doing so. Scarcely however, had I left your presence, ere Reason resumed her empire, and represented the baseness of what I had intended. Shall I then persevere in such an intention? (I cried); shall I take advantage of her tenderness?—shall I requite it by plunging her into difficulties—by transplanting her from the genial soil in which she has flourished, to one of penury?—shall I sink, instead of exalting, my love?—shall I requite the humanity of the father, by blasting the hopes he entertains about his child?—Oh! no, (I exclaimed, maddening at the idea), I will not be such a villain; I will not, Madeline, merit your after-reproaches and my own by such conduct; every hope relative to you—hopes which but now raised my soul to heaven, I will relinquish. How I acted in consequence of this determination you know; but you know not, nor can I give you any adequate idea of the anguish which I endured in consequence of it—the anguish which I felt at observing the resentment that glowed upon your cheek, and sparkled in your eye at the idea of my being either deceitful or capricious; scarcely on witnessing it, could I withhold myself from kneeling at your feet, and fully explaining the motives of my conduct. You may wonder, perhaps, at my not revealing myself on hearing of the Countess de Merville's kind intentions towards me; I was prevented doing so, by an idea of her being, notwithstanding all her worth, too proud, like the rest of the French noblesse, to think of bestowing her Madeline—she, whose graces, whose loveliness fitted her for the most exalted station, upon the son of a peasant, when once she had discovered his origin: to disclose my situation I therefore deemed unnecessary. After our parting I lingered some time longer at V———, and might not perhaps have left it so soon as I did, had I not received a positive command from my father to return home:—on doing so, he renewed his importunities for a marriage with D'Alembert's daughter; I told him my positive determination relative to her, and he behaved with outrage. I should immediately have quitted home, had he not assured me, if I did so, his curses would pursue me. Though I considered his conduct unjustifiable, I shrunk from his malediction, and accordingly obeyed him. Chance first produced the discovery of my vicinity to her who engrossed all my thoughts. Ah! little did I think, when I first heard of the newly-acknowledged son of the Marquis of Montmorenci, that Clermont was that son: Ah! little did I think, when I heard of the beauty, the goodness of his daughter, that it was to the praises of Madeline I was listening.
"I saw you one day in the forest; surprise riveted me to the spot, nor had I power to move till you disappeared. A domestic belonging to the castle was passing me at the moment; I enquired from him about you, and heard your real situation. From that period I haunted the forest in hopes of catching a glimpse of you; and you may recollect seeing me one evening near the monumental pillar.
"Great have been my sufferings, but amply are they recompensed; my present felicity is such as, in the most sanguine moments of expectation, I never could have thought of experiencing. To find myself allied to beings congenial to my heart—to find myself on the point of being united to the woman I adore, is a happiness which requires the utmost efforts of reason to bear with any moderation."
As he spoke, they heard an approaching step, and the next instant St. Julian appeared before them:—he looked agitated; and Madeline, in a voice of alarm, enquired the cause of that agitation;—he briefly informed her.
An express, he said, had just arrived from Paris to announce the death of young D'Alembert. Maddened at finding his schemes discovered, and his hopes defeated, in a paroxysm of fury he had stabbed himself; but scarcely had he committed the rash act ere he repented it, and implored immediate assistance; this assistance was procured but to confirm his apprehensions of the wound being mortal. After suffering excruciating pangs of body and mind, he endeavoured to ease the latter by a full avowal of all his enormities. He accordingly confessed his having occasioned the death of a young girl, called Adelaide St. Pierre; his having assassinated the Countess de Merville, and poisoned her house-keeper, Agatha, for fear of her betraying him; after which confession he shortly expired.
Madeline was so shocked by hearing of his crimes, that it was many minutes ere she had power to move. At length the fond caresses of her father and attentions of de Sevignie, restored her in some degree to herself.
Her father then informed her he had sought her for the purpose of bringing her to the castle, in order to assist him in breaking the affair to Madame D'Alembert. "Though all affection for her husband must long since (cried he), have been destroyed by his unworthy conduct, I am yet convinced, from her feelings, she will be shocked to hear of his dying by his own hand. His confession I mean carefully to conceal from her; for to know her mother was murdered—murdered by her husband, would, I am confident, entail horror and wretchedness upon her days."
Madeline now hastened to the castle, and D'Alembert's death was communicated with the utmost caution to Madame D'Alembert;—it filled her with horror; but, as St. Julian had said, all affection for him having long before ceased, every hope was entertained of the melancholy impression which it made upon her mind being soon erased. On his father it had the most dreadful effect, the moment he heard it; the proud disdainful silence which he had observed from the first discovery of his baseness, vanished, and he vented his misery in groans and exclamations, accusing himself of being the cause of his son's destruction. Every attention which humanity could dictate was paid him, but paid in vain. Attentions from those he had injured, rather aggravated than soothed his feelings; and in about two days after his son's death, he declared his resolution of renouncing the world. He accordingly withdrew from the castle of Montmorenci to La Trappe, the most rigid of all the religious houses in France, where he soon ended a miserable existence. Immediately after his departure Lafroy was dismissed, having first, according to the promise that was made him, received a handsome provision, which, by giving him the power of gratifying his inordinate passions, soon occasioned his death. Josephe, his iniquitous brother, was compelled to retire from the vicinity of the castle; but though he deserved punishment and misery, the Marquis was too generous to permit him to feel any inconvenience in consequence of this measure. Claude and Blanche, alike penitent, were, by their own desire, sent to the places from whence they originally came, amply secured from the ills of poverty. Thus did the Marquis and his sons fulfil every promise they had made, and by the mercy they extended to others, proved their gratitude to heaven for that which they had themselves experienced.
As soon as tranquillity was restored to the inhabitants of the castle, the nuptials of de Sevignie and Madeline were solemnized; after which they accompanied Madame D'Alembert, (who with her friend Madame Chatteneuf and her party, had only waited to see them united, ) to the Chateau de Valdore. Without mingled emotions of pain and pleasure Madeline could not re-enter it, nor could de Sevignie, without experiencing similar ones, behold the walks where he had often wandered to watch for Madeline, and despairingly sigh forth her name. A constant intercourse was kept up between the families of Madame D'Alembert and Madame Chatteneuf, in the course of which Count Durasso, who from the first interview had been captivated by her graces, made the impression he wished upon the heart of Viola. To the softness of the Italian he united the vivacity of the French, and was in every respect worthy of her. Till the happy period which united them, de Sevignie and Madeline divided their time alternately between the Castle of Montmorenci and the Chateau de Valdore.
With Durasso, Viola enjoyed a long course of uninterrupted happiness—happiness which could only be equalled by that which her beloved friends de Sevignie and Madeline experienced.
Having now, to use the words of Adam, brought "my story to the sum of earthly bliss," I shall conclude with an humble hope, that however unworthy of public favour it may be deemed, its not aspiring to fame will guard it from severity.
finis