Clermont/Chapter 19
CHAP. IX.
It is the wretch's comfort still to have
Some small reserve of near and inward woe—
Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief,
Which they, unseen, may wail, and weep, and mourn.
Congreve
In her letter to her father, Madeline carefully guarded against dropping any hint of the event which had accelerated the Countess's death, well knowing that, if she gave the most distant intimation of it, she should prompt inquiries from him, which it would be difficult for her to evade. The news of the Countess's decease soon spread throughout the neighbourhood, and several of her acquaintance sent to the castle to learn the particulars of it; how Mademoiselle Clermont was, and whether Madame D'Alembert was expected?
The respect of the servants to the commands of their lady did not expire with her; and, in conformity to the last she had issued, they answered the inquiries concerning the cause of her death, by saying that it was owing to a severe cold.
A dead calm now reigned throughout the castle; the domestics had nothing to do but to lament, and Madeline passed her time in wandering about the castle, like a ghost round the scene of its former happiness, or in watching by the pale remains of her friend, alternately wishing, alternately fearing the arrival of Madame D'Alembert. Ere she came, Father Bertrand determined to have the body of the Countess secured within its coffin, trusting by this measure to conceal for ever the injury it had suffered; convinced, from the strong affection Madame D'Alembert bore her mother, that to let her know the real cause of her death, would be upon the "quarry of that murdered deer," to add the death of her.
Eight days elapsed without any tidings of Madame D'Alembert; and before their expiration, the remains of the Countess were consigned to the coffin, and hid for ever from every mortal eye. At the end of that period, a messenger came post one morning to the castle to announce the near approach of Madame D'Alembert, who came, he said, merely attended by a few domestics. Madeline was astonished to hear she was unaccompanied by Monsieur D'Alembert; but Agatha, to whom she expressed that astonishment, replied, that Monsieur was of a gay disposition, and did not, she supposed, choose to come to the castle till the grief of his lady had a little abated.
"But who (cried Madeline) so able to support her under the pressure of that grief as an affectionate husband."
Agatha shook her head, but did not answer; and Madeline descended to the hall (from the dressing-room of her departed friend, where she had been sitting) to receive Madame D'Alembert, whose carriage at that instant was heard. In the hall Madeline found Father Bertrand and most of the servants assembled, whom the good priest earnestly besought to command their feelings, in order, if possible, to prevent letting Madame D'Alembert know the melancholy event which had happened, until a little prepared for it.
In a few minutes Madame D'Alembert entered, leaning on her woman—a female figure so interesting Madeline had never before seen. To that dignity which excites involuntary respect, she united that light elegance, that harmony of form, which inspires the beholder with mingled pleasure and admiration; she seemed not yet to have attained the prime of her days, and though the rose upon her cheek was pale, and the lustre of her fine blue eyes was fled, her countenance still retained an expression so animated, that language was scarcely necessary to develop her feelings.
She advanced to the middle of the hall; then paused, as if involuntarily, and casting a look around at the old domestics who were ranged on each side, exclaimed, in a tremulous voice, "Am I come too late? Have I arrived in time to receive the last blessing of my mother?"—The servants, instead of answering, hung their heads in mournful silence. Madeline, who had hitherto stood at a distance, pale and trembling, now stepped forward, followed by Father Bertrand; but the moment she had reached Madame D'Alembert, the fortitude she had struggled to assume forsook her; and dropping on her knees, she clasped her arms about her, and burst into tears.
"I see (said Madame D'Alembert, in the hollow voice of despair, and raising her hands towards heaven) I see that all is over—she is gone, and it is a stroke too heavy for me to bear."
She tottered, and would have fallen, had not some of the attendants timely caught her; they conveyed her into an adjoining apartment, but it was many minutes ere she showed any signs of returning sense. When recovered, instead of heeding Father Bertrand, who hung over her, like the delegate of heaven, to administer compassion, instead of regarding Madeline, who knelt beside her, and whose tears evinced her sympathy in her distress, or the domestics who surrounded her with looks of love and pity: she wildly started up, and demanded whether they had yet interred her mother. When answered in the negative, she insisted on going to her chamber: any opposition Father Bertrand was convinced, would
be not only fruitless, but an aggravation of her grief.
He knew the violence of sorrow must, like that of the mountain torrent, have way, ere it can subside. Followed by him and Madeline, she ascended to the chamber, but when she reached the door, she stopped, or rather shrunk back, from a sensation of horror at only beholding the coffin, before which rows of tapers burned, every ray of day-light being excluded. In speechless agonies she leaned a minute upon the shoulders of Madeline, then raising her head, she looked at Father Bertrand; "had you the cruelty (she cried) to intend I never more should behold my mother?—never! never, will I acquiesce in such an intention. I command! (advancing into the room) I insist! nay, I entreat! (she continued, and tears, the first she had shed, began to steal down her cheeks) that the coffin may be opened; cold and inanimate as is the form it contains, it will sooth my sad heart once more to behold it. Oh, suffer the eyes of a child again to gaze upon an idolized parent! Oh let her tears of unutterable sorrow be shed over the dear, the lamented cause of them!"
"Impossible! impossible! (said Father Bertrand); the remains of my honoured friend must not be disturbed."
Madame D'Alembert, with a distracted air, now flung back the pall which was thrown over the coffin, as if she hoped herself to effect what she wished; but when the ghastly head of death, curiously engraved upon the lid, with the name and age of her parent, met her eye, she shivered, groaned, and sinking upon it, fainted away. They seized this opportunity to convey her to her chamber, where she was undressed and put to bed, which the female attendants declared was the properest place for her, as she had never stopped to rest from the commencement of her journey.
Father Bertrand now determined that the funeral of the Countess should take place that night, well knowing that, while her remains continued in the house, the feelings of her daughter would not subside, and accordingly issued the necessary orders for that purpose. Madeline staid by the bedside of Madame D'Alembert till the hour fixed on for the removal of the body, though, like every other person, she was totally unnoticed by her: the weakness she had been seized with, rendering her as unable, as from affliction she was unwilling to converse with any one. An express was sent for the surgeon who had attended the Countess, and he quieted the apprehensions of the family about her, by saying, that he trusted attention and time would restore her to her usual state of health. Madeline continued by her, as I have already said, till the hour for the funeral drew nigh; she then resigned her seat to Madame D'Alembert's woman, and descended to the hall, which was again lit up with all its usual splendour; but alas! how melancholy a scene did that light now display! in the centre lay the coffin, surrounded by a numerous body of monks from the neighbouring monastery, and the weeping domestics.
Madeline leaned, weeping, against a distant pillar, nor had power to move till the procession began; she then took a long mourning veil from Agatha, which she, knowing her intention of following the remains of her lady to the grave, had brought for her as soon as she entered the hall, and wrapping it round her, followed with the housekeeper.
The solemn requiem chanted by the monks, as they preceded the body, the glimmering light of the torches, carried by the servants, which as it fell in partial directions upon the old trees that canopied the garden walk through which they past to the valley, produced a thousand quivering and grotesque shadows; the melancholy notes of the birds, who, deceived by the light, started from their nests, and the low murmurs of the wind amongst the branches, altogether produced an effect upon Madeline that wrought her feelings up to agony.
Yet was that agony, if possible, increased when she entered the valley;—horror then seized her soul; and she shuddered as she thought she might, at that very moment perhaps, be treading in the steps of the Countess's murderers. The chapel was lighted up, but the light which gleamed from its windows, by rendering the decay and desolation of the building more conspicuous, served rather to increase than diminish its horrors; from its shattered towers the owls now hooted, and the ravens croaked amidst the surrounding trees, as if singing their nightly song of death, o'er the mouldering bodies which lay beneath them.
Father Bertrand met the procession as it entered the chapel; calmness and resignation in his look, but a more than usual paleness upon his cheek, on which Madeline also thought she could discover the traces of a tear. After meeting, he turned, and preceded the body to the grave, which was directly before the altar, and near those of the Count and his two sons. Madeline's heart felt bursting, and it was with difficulty she could prevent herself from breaking into lamentations; but when the solemn service begun—when she saw the coffin raised—when she saw it, by degrees, lowering into its last receptacle, she could no longer command herself, and a deep groan burst from her.—Father Bertrand paused in the sentence he was uttering over the body, and looked steadily at her; she instantly recollected herself, drew her veil entirely over her face, and buried her sobs in her bosom. He would then have proceeded, but as he attempted to speak, his voice faltered, the muscles of his face began to work, and a tear dropped from him into the grave of his benefactress; the weakness, however, which had overcome him was but momentary, and he resumed and finished the service with his usual steadiness; a solemn mass was then again said, for the soul of the departed, after which Father Bertrand pronounced a short and pathetic eulogium on her:—"The loss, my friends (said he, as he concluded it) which you have sustained by the death of this truly good woman, is indeed great; but man is born to suffer, and continually liable to such deprivations as you have experienced; murmur not therefore at the common lot, but, by patient resignation to the will of the Almighty, strive to deserve a continuance of your remaining blessings: instead of quitting this place with a vain sorrow, quit it with a noble resolution to perform your allotted parts, and to pursue, as far as lies in your power, the example of your lamented benefactress. So may you hope, at the last day, to ascend with her to life immortal."
The lights in the chapel, and the torches were now extinguished, and the monks repaired immediately from it to their convent, and Madeline and the servants returned to the castle. Agatha cried bitterly all the way back; " 'twas a grievous thing (she said to Madeline) to see the death of one's best, one's only friend; little did I imagine (she said) that I should ever have beheld the funeral of my lady—I who, when she was a nice prattling little girl, have often and often carried her about in my arms."
The moment Madeline re-entered the castle, she retired to her chamber, to give vent to that grief, which by being so long suppressed, had almost swelled her heart to bursting. When somewhat relieved by the tears she shed, she knelt down and implored heaven to strengthen her fortitude, that she might be enabled, not only to submit with patience to its divine will, but to pay proper attentions to the daughter of her lamented friend. "Regard not! (she cried with fervour) Oh, regard not! thou, from whom misery and happiness alike proceed, with any degree of displeasure, the sorrow of a weak creature, impressed with the sad idea of the world's being unable to make her any recompense for what she has lost."
In a short time she was sufficiently composed to be able to repair to the chamber of Madame D'Alembert, where she determined to pass the night. During that night, Madame D'Alembert continued almost in a state of insensibility, but on the morrow she appeared better, and again spoke. She asked, whether the interment of her mother had taken place? Father Bertrand desired, if such a question was asked, that he should be sent for to answer it, and for that purpose remained in the house; he was now called, and without hesitation informed her of the truth. The violence of her grief seemed renewed at this, and she reproached him with cruelty in not deferring the funeral till she was able to have attended it. He bore her reproaches with patience, with composure, and seized the first interval of silence to reason with her.
"For what purpose (cried he) would the interment have been delayed; merely to feed your grief, and continue your family in an unsettled state. Prove your affection to your departed parent, by striving to adhere to the precepts she always gave, to the example she always set you; with a sensibility as exquisite as your's, recall to mind the fortitude with which she bore the death of an idolized husband and two lovely sons, the darlings of her heart, the expected supporters of her noble house: instead of sinking into the supineness of sorrow, instead of withdrawing her cares from life, because that life had lost its brightest charms, she exerted herself to fulfil its incumbent duties; let the remembrance of those exertions inspire you to make similar ones; let it raise you from the bed of languor, let it rouse you from the torpor of affliction, let it animate you to perform your proper part, by tracing her steps; by doing as she has done, you will more truly prove your love, your reverence for her, than by passing years in fruitless lamentations over her tomb. Like her then, I again repeat, exert yourself; let the smile of your countenance again gladden the hearts of your friends, and your ear be again open to the voice of cheerfulness."
"She set me a glorious example indeed, (said Madame D'Alembert, on whom the language of the venerable man appeared to have made a deep impression); and in future I will strive to follow it."
"Do, (cried Father Bertrand) if you wish to retain your present blessings."
"My blessings!" repeated she mournfully.
"Yes, (resumed he) the many blessings you still possess."—Madame D'Alembert sighed deeply at those words, and shook her head with an air that seemed to imply a doubt of what he asserted.
"Amongst the least of these blessings (continued he, glancing at Madeline who sat beside the bed) I shall not rank the friend who now sighs to be presented to you."
"You would be wrong, I am sure, if you did," said Madame D'Alembert, raising herself a little upon her pillow, and extending her white hand, as if to receive Madeline's. Father Bertrand took it, and instantly put it into her's.—"You have both (said he, in a softened voice) lost a mother; be ye therefore as sisters to each other, a mutual comfort and support."
"I have long (cried Madame D'Alembert, turning her soft blue eyes on Madeline, and pressing her hand between her's) been prepared to love and to admire you; and she who prepared me to do so, I hoped would have introduced us to each other; but that hope, like many others, was indulged but to be disappointed." Madeline knelt down, and pressed her hand to her lips; Madame D'Alembert gently disengaged it, and throwing her arm round her neck, clasped her to a heart, whose strong emotions, for a few moments, overpowered her utterance. "Believe me (she cried, as soon as she had recovered her voice) when I declare, that the chief pleasure I look forward to, is that which I shall receive from your society; she who was beloved by my mother, and who loved her, must on these accounts, even if not possessed of half your powers of pleasing, be dear and precious to me; with the truest gratitude I now thank you for all your kind attentions to her."
"Ah Madam! (said Madeline, melting into tears) you surely must be ignorant of my great obligations to her, or you never could speak to me in this manner; did you know them, you would certainly think as I do, that I never did, never could do any thing adequate to the gratitude they excited; she was the only person from whom I ever received the tenderness of a mother, and as daughters must, I imagine, love their mothers, I loved her."
By degrees Madame D'Alembert grew composed, and the conversation then turned upon her deep regret at not arriving in time to behold her mother;—from Madeline, who, she understood, had attended her in her last moments, she entreated to hear the particulars of the disorder which had terminated so fatally. Father Bertrand, who had seated himself at the foot of the bed, now interposed his authority; he knew it would scarcely be possible for Madeline, if she complied with this entreaty, to avoid giving a too faithful narrative, and he therefore declared, that except she and Madame D'Alembert promised to converse no longer on the melancholy subject, they should be separated. "Why (said he, to the latter) do you feed your own grief, and augment her's, by dwelling on it?"
"I promise what you desire, (cried Madame D'Alembert) but Oh! let me be indulged by hearing, whether in her last moments my mother remembered her unhappy Viola!"
"Remembered! (repeated Madeline emphatically) Oh, Madam! after heaven you were her first consideration." She then, as far as it concerned Madame D'Alembert, related the conversation which had passed between the Countess and her the evening preceding her death.
"You will be my friend, my consoler then! (exclaimed Madame D'Alembert, from whom the relation drew floods of tears, extending her hand to Madeline as she spoke); I open my heart to receive your consolations; my mother wished me to do so, and as I perform what she wished, so do I hope that the blessing she left me, may draw another down."—Madeline sighed, and laid her face upon the hand she held, to conceal the feelings, which, for a few minutes stopped her utterance; fervently, though silently, she prayed for the fortitude which she now wanted, to perform the task enjoined her by her lamented friend. Yet, alas! she said to herself, as she had done in her letter to her father, how can I give to others that consolation which I want myself? Her evident inability to do so, rendered her, perhaps, a more soothing companion to Madame D'Alembert, than if the case had been reversed; it proved her deep and poignant sorrow more than any words could have done; and nothing perhaps attaches the heart of a mourner so soon, so truly, as a keen participation in its griefs. Madame D'Alembert eagerly enquired, whether she would not continue with her while she herself remained at the chateau? and whether she would not always accompany her to it, whenever she visited it alone? Madeline said, she believed she might promise to do so, as she was pretty certain her father would never refuse a request made by his honoured and lamented friend, or her daughter.
"How long Madam, (asked Father Bertrand), do you propose staying at the chateau?"
"About two months, (replied Madame D'Alembert); I shall then be obliged to return to Paris, where Monsieur D'Alembert proposes spending the winter."
"And how soon do you expect him here?" still interrogated Bertrand.
"I do not expect him at all, (answered Madame D'Alembert); he told me, just before we parted, that he was convinced some particular business, which prevented his accompanying me at the present melancholy juncture, would not be finished in time to permit him to follow me."
In two months then, thought Madeline, I shall be restored to the arms of my father; ah! how many distressing scenes have I gone through since I left them!
Father Bertrand now withdrew, but Madeline continued the remainder of the day with her friend, who, though unable at times to converse with her, seemed to derive pleasure from even looking at her. The following day, the exertions which Father Bertrand had animated her to make, enabled her to rise; and in two days more, the gentleman who attended her took his leave, declaring that time was the only physician whose aid she now required; but though health returned, cheerfulness still continued absent, nor had it more completely forsaken her breast than it had that of Madeline's.
The death of her benefactress, together with the disappointment she had experienced prior to it, left an impression of sadness upon her mind which she could not conquer;—had her efforts for doing so been aided by any external circumstance, they might perhaps, in some degree, have been successful; but her present companion and abode were gloomy in the extreme, and of themselves sufficient to have lowered even animated spirits.
Madame D'Alembert declined seeing any company; she received no visits but from Father Bertrand; and in answer to the compliments of condolence which she received from the neighbouring families, and which they anxiously wished to pay in person, she declared her utter inability of seeing them at present.
No more the feast of mirth and hospitality was spread within the hall of the chateau—no more its lofty roof re-echoed sounds of melody—no more the peasants danced upon the lawn, while Benevolence sat by in the form of the Countess, and smiled upon their sports. Solitude encompassed, and silence reigned within it; and the old domestics, whose grief for their lady knew no diminution, scrupled not to say, that the glory, the happiness of her house had, with her, forsaken it for ever.
So congenial was its gloom to the present feelings of Madame D'Alembert, that she never talked of quitting it without the deepest regret; exclusive of the above consideration, she was also attached to it from its having been the favourite residence of her parents, the place where the blossoms of her youth had blown. Here she wished to pass the remainder of her days—here, where she could be free from that restraint—that state—those tiresome ceremonies, which in a public situation the etiquette of the world obliged her to observe. Like the poet, she might have said,
"This shadowing desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopl'd towns.
Here I can sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale's complaining notes
Tune my distresses, and record my woes."
From words which sometimes dropped from Madame D'Alembert, Madeline was more than once led to imagine, that besides the death of her mother, she had another cause for sorrow; but whenever she reflected on her situation, that idea vanished, and she wondered how she could for a moment have harboured it; knowing, as she did, that Madame D'Alembert possessed those blessings, which in general are supposed to render life estimable—the affections of the man of her choice (for such Madeline always understood M. D'Alembert to be), friends who adored her, and even a superabundance of riches.
Those attentions, which pity for the afflicted Viola, and reverence for the commands of her benefactress, first prompted her to pay, Madeline now continued from affection.
Madame D'Alembert was a woman, whose temper and disposition, upon an intimacy, captivated the heart, as much as her beauty and elegance, at first sight, charmed the eye: besides, she treated Madeline exactly as a tender sister would have done, ordered the same mourning for her as for herself, nor suffered the servants to make any distinction between them.
In the course of the conversation Madeline discovered that Madame D'Alembert knew nothing of her or her father prior to her introduction at the chateau; and she felt from this circumstance more firmly convinced than ever that the private history of her father must be dreadful, when the Countess would not impart it even to her daughter.
A month elapsed without Madame D'Alembert's solitude being in the least interrupted, during which she and Madeline paid many visits to the grave of the Countess, which the latter could never approach without shuddering.
At the expiration of that period, as they sat at breakfast one morning, a letter was brought to Madame D'Alembert by her woman; who, as she put it into her hands, said, "From my master, Madam."
Her Lady turned pale at those words, and desiring her to retire, broke the seal with a trembling hand.
end of vol. ii.