Clermont/Chapter 22
CHAP. III.
"Forlorn and lost I tread,
"With fainting steps and slow,
"Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
"Seem length'ning as I go.
"I hope, Mademoiselle, (said Lubin, on hearing her sigh as she turned from the chateau) you are not frightened at the idea of going through the wood?"
"No;" replied Madeline.
"So much the better, so much the better, (said Lubin) but indeed I should not wonder if you were."
"Why, (cried Madeline) is it dangerous?"
"Not over safe indeed, but don't be frightened, Mademoiselle, (on seeing her suddenly stop) I shall bring you the shortest path through it."
"And when we get to the road we shall be safe, (cried Madeline) as there are cottages scattered all along it?"
"Yes, (said Lubin) but if you were in danger and expected any assistance from their inhabitants, you would be sadly disappointed, for those kind of people are so fatigued after their day's labour, that when once they get to bed one might as well try to waken the dead, as waken them: but don't be frightened, Mademoiselle."
"Frightened! (repeated Madeline) it is scarcely possible to be otherwise from the manner in which you talk; you have really made me tremble so that I can scarcely move."
"If you would condescend to accept my arm, Mademoiselle, we could make infinitely more haste than we do at present."
Madeline accepted the offer of Lubin, nor did they again pause till they had reached the cottage they were bound to; they found it shut up for the night, and Lubin knocked loudly with his stick against the door, but without effect.
"You see, Mademoiselle, (said he, after the silence of a few minutes) I was right in saying it was next to impossible to waken these cottagers."
"Poor people, (cried Madeline) it is a pity to disturb them."
"Oh, not at all, (said Lubin) they can go to bed immediately again, you know, and I warrant they will not rest the worse for having had their slumbers interrupted."
He now repeated the knocks with a violence that shook the door: at last a window was opened, and an old man, putting out his head, asked who came there. "Why, a friend, (replied Lubin) and a devilish time he has been trying to gain admittance: Come, come, Mr. Colin, you may open the door without any grumbling, for by the time I have taken to waken you it is pretty evident you have had a good spell."
"Pray what brings you here at this time of night?" cried a shrill female voice.
"I am come by the command of my lady to borrow two horses, (answered Lubin) I must get them directly, and without being asked whither I am going with them; pray make haste, I have a lady waiting with me for them."
"A lady!" the old couple repeated, and both thrust their heads together out of the window, to see whether he spoke truth or not.
The door was now opened in a minute, and the nurse invited Madeline into the cottage, while her husband went forth with Lubin to a little shed adjoining it, to prepare the horses: she had seen Madeline before at the cottage, and almost immediately recollected her; she was all amazement at now beholding her, nor could forbear inquiring the reason of it. Madeline waved the discourse, and expressed her regret at her having been disturbed.
The horses were ready in a few minutes, and the good couple having received a strict caution against mentioning her to any one, she was assisted by Lubin to mount, and they set off at a smart pace.
"How very curious old Colin and his wife were! (said Lubin) I dare say they would have given half they were worth to know the cause of our travelling by night, and not getting horses at the chateau."
"I don't wonder at their being so," cried Madeline.
"No, nor I neither, Mademoiselle; 'tis a comical thing to be sure our rambling about at night; it puts me in mind of the Fairy Tales I have read; heaven be praised our journey is but a short one."
They did not slacken their pace till they reached the gloomy forest, in which the gothic castle of Montmorenci stood; the heart of Madeline sunk as she approached it, and she trembled as she entered amidst its awful shades, and heard the breeze sweeping over them with a hollow murmur: the courage of Lubin too seemed a little to fail him.
"I wish with all my soul Mademoiselle, (said he) that the house we are going to was at this side of the forest instead of the other."
"I wish it was, (cried Madeline) or that we could get shelter elsewhere."
"That is impossible, Mademoiselle, (replied he) so we must only make what haste we can to it; Lord how glad I shall be when I find myself there; so will you, I dare say, Mademoiselle."
"Undoubtedly, (replied Madeline) the recollection of past danger will heighten present pleasure."
"I wish all our dangers were over, and our pleasures come, (cried Lubin) but Lord, Mademoiselle, the very worst of our way is still before us; the middle of the forest, which we have not yet reached, is a grand rendezvous, they say, for a gang of banditti, that have long infested the country; there they meet as soon as it grows dark, and settle their plans for the night. Well, of all places in the world I should not like to be robbed in a forest, it would be such an easy matter afterwards to murder one."
"Pray, Lubin, (said Madeline) do not talk any more in this manner, for if you do you'll make me tremble so I shall not be able to keep my seat."
"I ask your pardon, Mademoiselle; I am sure the last thing in the world I meant to do was to frighten you: To be sure I wish I had brought a pocket pistol or two with me from the chateau, instead of this rusty sword, to defend you; though, after all, what would avail my single arm against a whole gang? Heaven help us if they meet us! poor Colin may then go whistle for his horses; though upon recollection my Lady would certainly recompense him for their loss."
"Drop this dreadful subject I entreat you," said Madeline, in a tremulous voice.
"Come cheer up, Mademoiselle (exclaimed Lubin, who was now thoroughly convinced he had alarmed Madeline) we will keep as near as possible to the extremity of the forest, and if we ride fast we shall soon reach the house."
As fast as the intricacies of the path would permit them to go, they went, and at last reached in safety their destined goal.
Here Madeline, who had hitherto with difficulty kept her seat, alighted; but how impossible to describe her disappointment, and the disappointment of her companion, when after repeatedly knocking at the door they were at length convinced that the house was uninhabited. They stood for some minutes looking at each other, in a consternation that deprived them of speech.
Lubin was the first who broke silence.
"What's to be done, Mademoiselle?" said he.
"I am sure I can't tell," answered Madeline in a faint voice, and leaning against the wall.
"Faith, (cried Lubin) I have a good mind to break open the door and obtain shelter for the night, though, to my sorrow, I can't get a good supper; I meant to have ordered a nice omelet, the moment I arrived."
"For heaven's sake do not attempt to break open the door, (exclaimed Madeline) the consequences of such an action might be dreadful."
"What's to be done then I again ask? (said Lubin) you would not wish, I suppose, to sit down here without any shelter for the remainder of the night; neither would you, I suppose, like to mount your horse and go ten miles farther in search of another habitation, and nearer you need not expect to find one that would receive you."
"I am not able to go in search of another, (replied Madeline) the shocks I received and the fatigue I have gone through this night have quite overpowered me."
"Lord (cried Lubin, starting) perhaps the Marquis of Montmorenci may be come to his castle, only you were afraid Mademoiselle of that part of the forest, we might have past it, and been able perhaps to have discovered."
"And even if we had (said Madeline) what benefit should we have derived from that circumstance?"
"Why we should certainly have obtained a lodging in his castle."
"I should be afraid to disturb the family at this late hour," cried Madeline hesitatingly.
"Lord I am sure (cried Lubin) it is better to disturb them than run the risque of being murdered here."
"But suppose they are not there?" said Madeline.
"Why then, Mademoiselle, (cried Lubin hastily) we will try to find some niche about the wall where we can shelter ourselves for the night, since you are so scrupulous about the door of this house."
"But, (said Madeline) though the family may not be come to the castle, there may be inhabitants in it."
"Oh! I understand you, Mademoiselle, (interrupted Lubin) you are afraid that some of the banditti I was telling you of may have taken up their quarters there; but of that I am sure there's no danger, the castle was too well secured for them to gain admittance; so that except we find the right inhabitants in it, I am confident we shall not find any: come, Mademoiselle, let's lose no time, will you accept my arm, or would you choose to mount again?"
"No, (replied she) I would rather walk."
"Go before me then, (said he) and I will lead the horses."
Madeline obeyed him though with difficulty, for she felt so agitated that she could scarcely drag her weary limbs along. As she approached the castle her eyes were anxiously fastened on it, in hopes of discovering a light or some other sign of inhabitation, but all was dark and dreary around.
"I am afraid, Lubin, (said she, stopping and mournfully shaking her head) I am afraid the family have not yet returned."
"I do not quite despair about that, Mademoiselle, (replied Lubin); at so very late an hour as this you know we could not expect to have found any of them up."
"How shall we make ourselves heard by them then?" asked Madeline.
"Why I suppose we shall find a great bell at the gate, which I shall ring."
"But if the Marquis's family (cried Madeline, shuddering at the very idea) should not be in the castle, may not the ringing of that bell expose us to destruction? Do you forget the banditti you told me infested this forest?"
"Lord (said Lubin) that's true, the bell would certainly alarm them—well Mademoiselle, I'll tell you what we can do: I recollect taking notice last spring as I passed this castle, of the very bad repair in which the court wall was, so we will search about it for some gap to clamber through."
He accordingly fastened the horses to the gate, and had not long searched about 'ere he found a place which Madeline easily got over.
Immediately opposite this spot was an arched gateway, which led through a wing of the building to another court; to this Lubin conducted Madeline, who trembled so she could scarcely stand, but the moment she entered it she shrunk back, affrighted at the desolation she beheld, and fancied in the hoarse murmurs of the wind that sighed thro' the shattered buildings surrounding it, she heard portentous sounds.
On each side of the gateway were several doors; Lubin perceived one of them open, and through this he led his trembling companion: they then found themselves in a spacious stone hall, light with one gothic window, through which the twilight now cast a dim religious light, and opposite to which was a folding door, of heavy workmanship: there was a damp smell in this hall, which proclaimed it long deserted, and struck cold to the very heart of Madeline.
"Shall I go now, Mademoiselle, (asked Lubin) and try whether there is any one within the castle?"
"Not yet, (replied Madeline, sitting down upon a little bench which ran round the hall) "not yet," said she in a faint voice, and involuntarily leaning her head against his arm for support.
Lubin was terrified, he almost believed her dying.
"Dear, dear, Mademoiselle, (said he) cheer up, I shall not be long absent; and whether there is or is not any one in the castle, we are secure for the night."
Madeline grew a little better, and no longer opposed his going. It was some time 'ere he could open the folding door; when he did it disclosed to his view a long dark passage, down which the anxious eyes of Madeline pursued him till slowly closing, the door hid him from her view.
Scarcely was she left to herself 'ere she regretted not having accompanied him, for as her eye timidly glanced around, she shuddered at the profound gloom in which she was involved; never had she felt more forlorn, scarcely ever more disconsolate: the manner in which her first journey had been taken recurred to her recollection, and the contrast she drew between her situation now and then, heightened all the horrors of the present: so true is it, that the remembrance of past joys aggravates our present miseries.
From her melancholy retrospection she was roused by the opening of the door, tho' expecting Lubin, her spirits were so weak she involuntarily started from her seat.
"Don't be frightened Mademoiselle, (cried Lubin, in a whispering voice, as he softly closed the door after him) 'tis only I."
"Well, Lubin, (said Madeline, almost gasping for breath through agitation) what intelligence—did you see any one?"
"I can't tell you now, Mademoiselle, (cried he) we must be gone."
"Oh, heavens! (said Madeline) is there any danger."
"This is no time to ask questions, (replied Lubin) no place I can assure you to answer them; I again repeat it—we must be gone!"
To move was scarcely in the power of Madeline, so much was she overpowered by the terror Lubin's words had given her, she gave him her hand however, and he led her from the hall: but scarcely had they proceeded a few yards down the gateway, 'ere he started, suddenly stopped, and in a low voice exclaimed,
"There are some of them!"
"Gracious heaven! (cried Madeline) what do you mean?"
To repeat her question was unnecessary, for at that instant she beheld two men crossing the court. Lubin now drew, or rather carried her back to the hall, for her tremor had increased to such a degree that she could not stand, and he was compelled to support her upon the seat on which she sunk.
In a voice of agony she now conjured him to tell her what they had to fear, declaring that no certainty almost of danger could be more dreadful than the suspense she at present endured.
"Since you must know, Mademoiselle, (said he) we have nothing more to fear than being robbed and murdered!"
"Good heaven! (exclaimed Madeline) do you think the men we just beheld are murderers?"
"Yes," replied Lubin, ruefully shaking his head.
"What reason have you for so horrible a suspicion?" asked Madeline.
"Why you must know, Mademoiselle, I had not proceeded far down the dark passage 'ere I heard a noise, which sounded to me like the clattering of arms. A sudden panic instantly seized me, and I had a great mind to return directly and lead you from the castle: this, however, was but the thought of a minute, for when I reflected there was no probability of getting a lodging elsewhere, and how dismal a thing it would be to pass the remainder of the night in the open air, I resolved on going forward and trying to discover whether there were friends within.
"I accordingly proceeded till I came to the foot of a narrow flight of stairs, down which a faint light glimmered; up these I softly ascended to a half open door, from which the light issued, and peeping in I beheld a large ill-furnished chamber, with half a dozen men in it, as ill looking dogs as ever I beheld, before a huge fire, cleaning some fire arms: but that was not all—in one corner of the chamber lay the body of a man dreadfully mangled. The dogs laughed as they pursued their work, and talked of the exploits they had achieved and still hoped to achieve with their arms; in short, it was soon evident to me, that the banditti I had mentioned to you had thought proper to make free with the castle in the Marquis's absence, so I made the best of my way back to you, in order to take you directly from it; an intention which the rogues have disappointed."
"The horses will betray us," said Madeline in an agony.
"Aye, so I fear, (cried Lubin) it was devilish unlucky my fastening them to the gate."
"Hark! (exclaimed Madeline) do you not hear a noise?"
Both were instantly silent, and then clearly heard a violent shouting in the outer court. The dreadful fears it excited were soon however a little appeased by its growing fainter, as if the persons it came from had moved to a greater distance.
"I think, (cried Lubin, after the silence of a few minutes, and gasping for the breath he had before suppressed) I think I will now have another peep to try whether or not the coast is clear."
Madeline rising declared she would accompany him, that if there was an opportunity for escaping, not a moment might be lost.
Again therefore they quitted the hall, but had scarcely done so 'ere they once more retreated to it with precipitation, on hearing the shouting in the court renewed with double violence.
"The horses have, I am sure, as you feared, betrayed us; (cried Lubin) and I make no doubt search is now making for us."
"Oh! Lubin, (said Madeline) is there no way of escaping the impending danger?"
"None that I know of, (answered he) but don't be so frightened Mademoiselle, I promise you (he continued, grasping his rusty sword) those that attempt to harm you shall pay dearly for doing so: the villains perhaps may not be such villains as you imagine, they may have some little mercy in their hearts."
As he spoke the gateway resounded with the shouting, and a light glimmered beneath the door opening from it.
Madeline turned her eyes with dreadful expectation towards it; the next minute it was flung open, and several men entered: Her first impulse was to fall at their feet, and supplicate their mercy, but as she attempted to rise her senses totally receded, and she fell fainting upon the out stretched arm of Lubin.
When her reason returned she found herself supported between two women, and surrounded by men, amongst whom Lubin stood talking with earnestness. She looked round her wildly, too much disordered to understand the words of Lubin, or observe whether the appearance of the men was calculated to remove or confirm her fears.
Her clear perception was however soon restored by Lubin, who almost as soon as he saw her senses restored, exclaimed
"Come, cheer up, Mademoiselle, after all our fright we are in no danger; the noble owner of the castle has returned to it, and the fine fellows I saw cleaning the fire-arms, and whom I took, humbly begging their pardons, for robbers, which to be sure was a great wonder, seeing what honest countenances they have, were some of his Lordship's servants."
Madeline raised her eyes in thankfulness to heaven, and Lubin proceeded to inform her that the body he had seen had been one of the banditti, who the night before had made an unsuccessful attempt upon the castle, and that the tumult in the court originated from the domestics suspecting, in consequence of finding the horses fastened to the gate, that they were again lurking about it.
"Now that you find yourself in no dishonorable hands, I hope, Madam, you will speedily recover your spirits," said an elderly man, whose looks and manner denoted a conscious superiority over the rest of his companions.
Madeline thanked him for the hope he had expressed, and was going to explain the cause of her coming to the castle, when Lubin hastily interrupted her by saying, he had already explained every circumstance.
"My Lord (cried the man who had before addressed her, respectfully bowing as he spoke) has been already apprised of your situation, and has commissioned me, Madam, to present his compliments to you, and to entreat you to have the goodness to excuse his not doing the honors of his house himself, which the weak state of his health and spirits prevents: he also desired me to request you would honor his servants by your commands, and not think of quitting the castle till perfectly recovered from your late fatigue and fright."
Madeline felt truly grateful for this politeness, and rather happy than otherwise at not being introduced to the Marquis de Montmorenci, as her exhausted strength and spirits left her little inclination or ability to converse with a stranger.
The housekeeper, who was one of the women that had supported her, now conducted her down the passage, Lubin had before explored, to a large apartment near its termination; where, in a few minutes, a table was covered with refreshments. Lubin was taken to the servants hall, and Madeline, somewhat cheered by the knowledge of her safety, partook of the things provided for her: she found her companion extremely loquacious, and so she talked, not much caring whether it was questions she asked or answered.
Madeline inquired how long the Marquis had been indisposed.
"Many, many years, (replied the housekeeper, with a melancholy shake of the head) after the heavy afflictions he has sustained, it would be a wonder indeed if he had retained either his health or spirits."
Madeline, who perfectly recollected the account she had already heard of him, now made no inquiry concerning the nature of those afflictions; but of her own accord the housekeeper gave her a narrative of them.
"The Count St. Julian, his son, (continued she) was certainly one of the finest youths I ever beheld; his death undoubtedly caused that of my Lady Marchioness: 'tis generally imagined he fell by the hands of banditti, but some people have their doubts about that, and I own I am one of them."
"Good heaven! (cried Madeline) who but banditti could be suspected of murdering him?"
The housekeeper shook her head—
"There were people, Mademoiselle, but"—as if suddenly recollecting herself, "it does not become me to tell family secrets."
The curiosity of Madeline was highly raised, but into secrets which indeed she thought properly withheld, she could not think of prying.
"Would not the sympathizing society of friends be of some service to your Lord?" asked Madeline, after the pause of a minute.
"I scarcely think it would, Madam, (answered the housekeeper) but at any rate he will not try whether it would have any effect upon him; he lives the most strange and solitary life imaginable, rambling about from one seat to another, and never admitting any one to his presence, except his attendants, and now and then a kinsman, who lives some leagues from this, and will be his heir. This castle, in the life time of my Lady, was one of the finest and gayest places perhaps you can conceive; and 'tis a grievous thing to any one who knew it in it's glory, to see it now going to rack and ruin for want of a little repair, its courts full of rubbish, and its fine old towers mouldering away; but my Lord seems pleased at beholding its decay."
"Does he never go about the domain?" asked Madeline.
"No: he generally confines himself to a great lonely apartment, where he scarcely suffers a ray of the blessed day-light to enter, and frequently passes whole nights within the chapel, where he has caused a magnificent monument to be erected to the memory of his lady and son."
The conversation into which she had entered cast an involuntary gloom over the mind of Madeline, and by again depressing her spirits made her soon betray symptoms of languor and weariness.
The housekeeper then offered to conduct her to her chamber, an offer which she gladly accepted, and was accordingly led up a flight of stairs, at the end of the passage, to a gallery immediately over it; here she found a comfortable room prepared for her.
Too much fatigued to converse any longer with pleasure, Madeline would have been pleased if her companion had now retired, but the good woman was so fond of talking that she declared she would not leave her till she had seen her to bed.
Madeline had scarcely begun to undress when she missed her father's picture. Struck with consternation and regret at its loss, she threw herself on a chair, with a countenance so full of concern, that the housekeeper hastily demanded what was the matter: On being informed, she begged Madeline not to be so much distressed, at least till convinced she could not find it, declaring there was every probability of its being dropped in the hall at the time they were trying to recover her.
Madeline instantly started up with an intention of going in quest of it, but was prevented by the housekeeper, who assured her, that she herself would make a diligent search after it. This assurance however was not sufficient to prevent Madeline from wishing to join in it, till told that if she went now to the hall, she would run the chance of encountering the Marquis, who always passed through it in his way to the chapel, which he frequently visited at this hour.
As the housekeeper spoke somebody tapped at the door; she demanded who it was, and a voice which Madeline immediately recollected to be that of the Marquis's valet, who had so politely addressed her in the hall, replied,
"'Tis Lafroy.—My Lord presents his compliments to the young lady, and begs she may have the goodness to come to him for a few minutes."
"Lord have mercy upon me! (exclaimed the housekeeper, with uplifted hands and eyes) what can be the meaning of this?—Why, Lafroy (eagerly opening the door) you have quite astonished me!"
The surprise of Madeline, if possible, surpassed her companions; besides, with her's was intermingled something like fear.
"Aye, (cried Lafroy, in reply to the housekeeper) I don't wonder, indeed, Mrs. Beatrice, at your being astonished, 'tis quite a marvel to have my Lord desire to see a stranger, when he won't permit his own friends to come to him."
"But, pray, Lafroy, did he give no reason for desiring to see the young lady?"
"Why as I was lighting him to the chapel which, according to his usual custom, whenever he finds himself in very bad spirits, he was going to, he found in the hall a little picture, which he directly concluded must belong to the young lady; so instead of repairing to the chapel, he immediately returned to his apartment, declaring he must himself restore it to her."
"Dear heart, (cried Mrs. Beatrice) well, I protest he is very complaisant."
'Twas a complaisance, however, which Madeline would gladly have excused, and which she wondered a mind so afflicted as his could ever have thought of.
"I never saw my Lord more disturbed than he was just after finding the picture, (said Lafroy) I thought when he returned to his apartment he would have fainted."
"Since so disordered 'tis a greater wonder than ever that he should desire to see a stranger," cried the housekeeper.
"Aye, so I think too," said Lafroy.
Madeline saw he was impatient to conduct her to his Lord, and, though with a reluctance she could scarcely conceal, she did not hesitate to accompany him immediately.
He led her through a circuitous gallery to a very magnificent one, as well as she could discern by the faint light which glimmered through it; at the extreme end of which was the apartment the Marquis sat in: the moment he introduced her to it he retired, closing the door after him.
The Marquis sat at the head of the room; he bowed without rising at her entrance, and motioned for her to take a chair on his right hand.
Tremblingly, Madeline approached him, and obeyed his motion. It was some minutes 'ere he spoke, and as his eyes were bent upon the ground the timid ones of Madeline surveyed a form which inspired her with mingled reverence and pity, and which, though bent by age and sorrow, still retained traces of majesty and captivating beauty.
"Young lady, (said he, at last, raising his eyes to hers) I hope you had the goodness to excuse my not doing the honors of my house myself; affliction, (added he, with a deep sigh) has long rendered me unable to perform the rites of hospitality, to fulfil the claims of society."
"The rites of hospitality were so amply fulfilled towards me, my Lord, (cried Madeline) that I should deem myself highly remiss if I neglected this opportunity of assuring your Lordship of my heartfelt gratitude."
"Does this picture, young lady, (said he, displaying her father's, which he had hitherto concealed within his hand, and looking earnestly at her) belong to you?"
"It does my Lord," replied Madeline.
"Will you be so obliging (said he, still retaining it) as to inform me how it came into your possession?"
The strangeness of this question, and the look which accompanied it, threw Madeline into an agitation that made her tremble, and took from her all power of replying.
"You are surprised at my question, (proceeded he) nor do I wonder at your being so, but I trust you will excuse it, when I inform you I have important reasons for it: tell me therefore, I entreat, I conjure you, (he continued, with a vehemence Madeline did not think him capable of) how this picture became your's?"
"My father gave it to me, my Lord," answered Madeline.
"Your father!———Gracious heaven!—(He paused, as if overcome by strong emotions, but almost immediately recovering his voice, ) his name I entreat!"
"Clermont, my Lord," said Madeline, with increasing wonder.
"Clermont! (repeated he, with a look strongly expressive of disappointment; then after the silence of some minutes) do you know by what means he obtained it?"
"It is his own, my Lord," replied Madeline.
"His own! (repeated the Marquis, with a wild and eager look) his own!—All gracious powers!" he arose and walked with disordered steps about the room.
Madeline amazed at all she saw and heard, remained trembling on her chair.
The Marquis suddenly stopped before her, and looked at her with an earnestness that made her droop her head.
"Yes, (cried he) I see traces in that face of one—which no time can wear from my remembrance."
He resumed his seat.—
"In what manner does your father live?" asked he.
"He lives in obscurity, my Lord," replied Madeline.
"What is his family?"
"It consists but of me, my Lord."
"You are acquainted I suppose with his real name, and the misfortunes which drove him to obscurity?"
"No, my Lord, I am not; I never knew he had a right to any name but that of Clermont; never knew he had been in a situation different from his present one."
"Tenderness to you made him, I suppose, conceal his misfortunes, (said the Marquis.) I see, (he continued, gazing upon Madeline, whose pale countenance was expressive of terror as well as agitation) that I have disturbed you; a curiosity raised as to your's has been, yet ungratified, is sufficient indeed to give you uneasiness; be satisfied, however, by an assurance that the present mystery shall perhaps, when least expected, be explained."
The too evident uneasiness of Madeline however was not solely owing to the cause he imputed it to. Ignorant of her father's connexions in life, she knew not whether to consider the Marquis as a friend or foe, and her uncertainty threw her into agony.
"No, my Lord, (she cried, determined if possible to terminate her suspense) 'tis not the pain of ungratified curiosity that now distresses my mind; 'tis the fear—she paused, trembled, and bent her eyes to the ground,—'tis the fear—resumed she in a few minutes, and summoning all her courage to her aid—that my father perhaps may have reason to regret the discovery of his residence."
"Never! (said the Marquis warmly) never will he have reason to regret my discovering it; no, never will he have reason to regret your seeking shelter beneath the roof of Montmorenci Castle. Accept my hand, (continued he, offering it to her) accept it as a pledge of friendship to you and your father."
Madeline received the proffered pledge with transport, and the Marquis, after gently pressing her hand between his, restored her father's picture.
He now told he would no longer detain her from the rest she appeared so much to require, and expressed his hopes, that 'till perfectly recovered from the effects of her late fright and fatigue, she would not quit the castle.
Madeline thanked him for his kind consideration about her, but said she was pretty sure she should be able to re-commence her journey the ensuing day.
The Marquis rung for Lafroy to reconduct her to her chamber, and cautioned her against mentioning the conversation which had passed between them to any one but her father.
Lafroy appeared in a few minutes, and Madeline on returning to her chamber found the housekeeper still there, all amazement and curiosity.
"Well, Mademoiselle, upon my word, (she exclaimed, the moment Madeline entered) you have had a long conversation with my Lord."
"Yes," said Madeline, who scarcely knew what she uttered, so much was her mind engrossed by wonder.
"And pray, Mademoiselle, how do you like him?" asked the inquisitive Mrs. Beatrice.
"Very well," replied Madeline, beginning to undress in order to get rid of her troublesome companion.
"Aye, (said Mrs. Beatrice) he is even now sometimes to be liked; in his youth there could not be a finer gentleman; he was so complaisant, and one of the best dancers I ever beheld."
She continued to extol what his Lordship had been 'till Madeline was in bed, she then bade her good-night, and desired her, when she chose to rise, to ring for a servant.
But solitude could not calm the agitation of Madeline's mind; the more she reflected on the conversation that had passed between her and the Marquis, the more her perplexity increased; she at last, however, endeavoured to compose herself by reflecting on the promise she had received from him of having the mystery explained, and his assurance of friendship to her father.
"Should that friendship (she cried), be something more than bare profession; should it have power to mitigate the sorrows he too visibly labours under, for ever blessed shall I consider the hour in which I entered Montmorenci Castle."
Exhausted by mental as well as bodily fatigue, she at last sunk to repose, from which she did not awaken till the morning was far advanced: she was ready to leave her chamber 'ere she rung for a servant, a maid immediately obeyed her summons, and informed her breakfast was already prepared for her by the housekeeper.
Through a number of winding passages Madeline was conducted to the grand staircase, which she descended to the hall. Here she involuntarily paused to examine the ancient ornaments surrounding her, which spoke of the splendour and the taste of other days: but with the admiration they excited, was intermingled a degree of sadness at the neglect and even desolation so every where apparent; the shields and other war-like trophies which hung upon the stately pillars of the hall, were covered with dust and cobwebs, the fine historical pictures which stretched from the side of the staircase to the ceiling, were discoloured by damp and dropping from the walls; and a great folding door half open, discovered the inner court strewed with rubbish, and encompassed by decaying buildings, before which the high grass waved in rank luxuriance, unbent by any foot.
"How dreary, how desolate, (said Madeline to herself) is this scene; but to this state every work of man sooner or later comes: who then should vaunt of possessions, which, like the hand that raised them, are doomed to swift decay? Like the Poet she said,
"Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day, yet a few years and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in the empty court, and whistles round thy half worn shield."
The voice of Lubin roused her from her melancholy meditation. He came to inquire whether she was able to continue her journey that day. She immediately assured him she was, and desired him to have the horses ready against she had breakfasted.
She was then shown into a parlour adjoining the hall, where she found the housekeeper waiting at the breakfast-table to receive her. Mrs. Beatrice apologized for her Lord's not appearing, but said, for many years past he had not risen till the day was far advanced.
Directly after breakfast Madeline bade an adieu to Montmorenci Castle; as she did so, she requested Mrs. Beatrice to present her sincere acknowledgments to the Marquis for the politeness and hospitality she had received beneath his roof.
Lubin would gladly have chatted as they travelled, but the mind of Madeline was too much agitated to permit her to converse, and he was forced to amuse himself by whistling and singing.
The nearer Madeline drew to the habitation of her father, the more her agitation increased; all the scenes she had gone thro' since her separation from him recurred to her memory, and she feared his inquiries concerning them would be too minute; she trembled lest she should discover, notwithstanding all her precaution, the real state of her heart, discover that its affections were abused, its pride mortified, its expectations disappointed; well she knew such a discovery would wound him to the soul.
"And, Oh! (she cried) to add sorrow to his sorrow, to increase his misery already too oppressive, would be indeed to aggravate my own."
At the entrance of the valley, in which the cottage of her father stood, she alighted and desired Lubin to lead the horses after her.
Had her mind been less disturbed than it now was, she would have been enraptured with the lovely prospect she beheld: it was the autumnal season, and the promise of the spring was amply fulfilled by the luxuriance of the harvest; the grapes she had left in embryo, were now ripened into purple clusters, and the toils of the vintage had already commenced; a profusion of gay flowers enameled the bright sword of the valley, and the yellow mantle of Ceres covered the little vales that intersected many of the hills, and o'er the waving woods that hung upon those hills soft and solemn tints were just beginning to steal.
Madeline reached the valley when the sun had attained its meridian, an hour when the cattle lay pensively ruminating, and
—————————"The daw,
"The rook and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks
"That the calm village in their verdant arms
"Shelt'ring, embrace, direct their lazy flight;
"Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd
"All the hot noon, 'till cooler hours arise:
"Faint, underneath, the household fowls convene;
"And, in a corner of the buzzing shade,
"The house-dog, with the vacant grey-hound, lie
"Out-stretch'd and sleepy.
"The children of industry have had their hopes amply fulfilled, (cried Madeline, as she cast her eyes around) mine, she sighed, mine, when I left this place, were, though different, as flattering as their's."
To describe her feelings when she came in sight of her beloved cottage would be impossible; they were such as almost swelled her heart to bursting; pain and pleasure were so intermingled, that it would have been hard to determine which was predominant. Her pleasure at the idea of beholding her father was damped by reflecting in how very different a manner she expected to have returned to him. She stopped at the little gate which opened into the grove, and leaned upon it, in order to try and gain some composure 'ere she should appear before him: old Bijou, the house dog, who lay slumbering beside it, woke at her approach, and instantly set up a cry of joy, which denoted his perfect recollection of her; as she patted his head, she endeavoured to quiet him, but without effect: the noise he made disturbed Jaqueline at her work, and excited her curiosity.
"What is the matter, you noisy rogue? (said she, coming from the cottage) what possesses you, Bijou, to keep such a barking?"
She approached the gate, stopped, screamed, and retreated—then again advanced—again retreated: at last she exclaimed,
"If you do not wish to deprive me of my senses, you will at once tell me whether or not you are Mademoiselle Madeline?"
"Do you doubt your eyes," cried Madeline, stretching out her hand.
Jaqueline instantly pulled open the gate, but instead of taking the proffered hand of Madeline, she clasped her arms about her, and for some minutes by her caresses prevented her from speaking.
"Is my father well?" at last asked Madeline, disengaging herself from the enraptured Jaqueline.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, very well; but how did you travel?—Bless me, looking over the gate, and perceiving Lubin with the horses) surely you did not ride?"
"Is my father within?" asked Madeline, not attending to this question.
"No, he is in the vineyard; I will run and inform him of your arrival."
"Do not be too precipitate, (said Madeline) break it to him by degrees for he does not expect me."
To practise any caution, however, was totally out of the power of Jaqueline; she flew to the vineyard; and Madeline all the way heard her exclaiming,
"She is come, she is come—O, Monsieur, Mademoiselle Madeline is come."
Madeline entered the parlour, she sat down, and tried to compose herself against the approaching interview; but she tried in vain. In a few minutes she heard the voice of her father; her heart throbbed as if it would burst her bosom: she rose, but had not power to meet him. Pale, disordered he rushed into the room, and Madeline sunk almost fainting into his extended arms.
It was some time 'ere either of them could speak. Clermont at last raised his eyes,
"Do I again behold you, my child, my Madeline, (he exclaimed) welcome, thrice welcome to my arms."
He held her to a distance from him; he gazed upon her; the alteration in her looks seemed to strike him to the very heart: the rose that had bloomed upon her cheek when they parted,—the lustre that had brightened her eye was fled, and sadness had taken entire possession of her.
"Oh! my child, (said he, looking mournfully at her) I fear, I fear, you have too bitterly lamented the death of our inestimable friend."
Madeline burst into tears.
"Our loss (resumed Clermont) is great indeed, but our grief is selfish: death to her was a removal to unutterable felicity; stem therefore these strong emotions in pity to me, check them, remember you are my only earthly consolation, the only prop I have to rest on."
"Alas! (sighed Madeline) how frail a prop!" She took his hand, she pressed it to her lips. "My father (she said) be assured no effort on my part shall be wanting to fulfil your expectations, and heaven I doubt not will strengthen the feeble hands and calm the agitated mind of her who prays to it for fortitude and composure to be enabled to perform its incumbent duties."
"Yes, my child, (cried Clermont embracing her) heaven always assists the virtuous."
He now inquired to what circumstance he owed her unexpected return, as in her last letter she had given no intimation of it. Madeline, without entering into the particulars of her late situation at the chateau, briefly informed him, that as soon as D'Alembert came to it, Madame D'Alembert wished her to leave it, and had promised in a few days to assign her reason for that wish.
Clermont was all astonishment; but as he could not possibly fathom the mystery, he endeavoured to turn his thoughts from it. Madeline was still too much agitated to be able to inform him of her adventures at Montmorenci castle, but she determined to devote the first minutes of returning composure to that purpose, deeming it highly necessary for him to be acquainted with them as soon as possible.
Her mind was a little relieved from the uneasiness that oppressed it by finding him silent respecting de Sevignie; yet while she rejoiced she wondered at that silence till she reflected that the Countess had promised never to acquaint him with the renewed attentions of de Sevignie, except they were terminated in a manner that she knew must be pleasing to him.
But though the Countess had kept her promise, though Clermont was silent respecting de Sevignie, his mind was occupied in thinking of him; he could not believe that the deep dejection of his daughter was owing solely to the death of her friend, as his words, from regard to her delicacy had intimated: to the disappointment of her hopes relative to de Sevignie he was convinced it was principally owing, and with anguish intolerable he looked upon this drooping blossom, whose fair promise of maturity seemed now utterly at an end.
"But a few days ago, (he cried to himself) and, from the recollection of former calamities, I thought I could not be more wretched than I then was: but, alas! I now find I was mistaken—now, when I behold the sole solace of affliction, my only earthly hope, sinking beneath a grief which seems bending her gentle head to swift decay. Oh! gracious heaven, if my child is destined to an early grave, close these sad eyes 'ere that destiny be accomplished."
He wished to have the sorrows of her heart acknowledged to him; the acknowledgment would give him a right to offer his sympathy and counsel: and the sympathy, the counsel of a parent, might perhaps, he thought, be efficacious. But though he wished such a divulgement, he would not desire it, well knowing the delicacy of the female mind, and how unwillingly it must confess a hopeless passion.