Clermont/Chapter 28
CHAP. III.
Why I can smile, and murder while I smile,
And cry content to that which grieves my heart;
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face to all occasions.
No noise this night disturbed the tranquillity of the castle; and the terror which had marked the countenances of the domestics began to vanish.
The Marquis had mentioned to Madeline his intention of giving an entertainment in honour of her and his Son; and preparations were now making for it—preparations which were unexpectedly interrupted by a letter from Monsieur D'Alembert, containing the melancholy intelligence of the death of his daughter-in-law on her way to Bareges.
Though this event was communicated in the most cautious manner to Madeline by her father, the shock it gave her nearly deprived her of her senses. Unwilling to distress him by the sight of her grief, yet unable at present to stem it, she requested permission to retire to her chamber; a request which he instantly complied with, from a hope that the unrestrained indulgence of her sorrow would abate its violence, and contribute to the restoration of her tranquillity.
In the solitude of her chamber she gave free vent to it. "But is not this a selfish sorrow? (she exclaimed, whilst tears trickled down her pale cheeks); do I not weep alone for the loss which the death of my friend will prove to me? for am I not convinced that death to her was a passport to unutterable felicity,—to that glorious world, where the cares, the disappointments that embitter this, can never obtrude—where all is happiness,—and where the kindred spirit of a Parent welcomed her pure and disembodied soul to that happiness.
These ideas, however, had not power to mitigate her feelings. Besides the tears she shed for the loss, the irreparable loss she sustained by the death of her friend, she wept from a fear, which the account she had received of the disposition of D'Alembert inspired, namely, that his wife had not in her dying moments received those attentions that sooth the last struggles of nature; she feared that no
Soft complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd her pale ghost, or grac'd her mournful bier.
"Would to heaven! (she said) I had continued a little longer with her; it would have comforted me to have known that the kindnesses, the attentions, the nameless little offices of love, which soften the pangs of sickness and of death, had been paid to her."
From her melancholy meditations she was roused by a knock at the chamber-door. She started; hastily rose, and opening it, beheld her father.
"I hope, my dear Madeline (cried he, taking her hand) that the long and free indulgence of your grief has lightened your heart, and enabled you to make exertions against a sorrow, not only useless, but injurious. I hope (continued he, observing her trickling tears), that in the grave of your friend you have not buried all consideration for your father's peace—a father, who can know no happiness but what is derived from witnessing your's."
"Oh, my father (exclaimed Madeline, unspeakably affected by his words), every exertion you desire I will make."
Ever taught to consider her promise as sacred, she no longer gave way to her grief, and soon recovered, though not her cheerfulness, her composure.
The death of Madame D'Alembert caused the doors of the castle to be again barred against company, and an almost uninterrupted stillness once more reigned within it. Madeline rather rejoiced at than regretted the total solitude in which she lived; the spirits, the hopes, the expectations which would once have inclined her to gaiety, were fled, and she no longer wished to see or to be seen.
Nor did her father appear less pleased with his seclusion from the world; a deeper gloom than Madeline had ever before observed upon it, now almost continually clouded his brow. His wanderings from the castle became frequent; and were often prolonged till the curiosity of his father, and the fears of his daughter, were excited.
Tortured by beholding his increasing melancholy, Madeline was often tempted to implore him to reveal its source, from a hope that she might then be able to offer some consolation; but whenever she felt herself on the point of doing so, the solemn promise she had given her departed friend of never attempting to raise the veil which concealed the former events of his life, recurred to her recollection, and made her shrink back appalled from the idea.
"But has he not promised (she would then cry, endeavouring to strengthen her resolution), has he not promised, since his arrival at the castle, that he would himself raise that veil, and elucidate every mystery; Oh! let me then terminate my incertitude, my my suspense, by now imploring him to fulfil his promise."
Still however, whenever her lips opened for that purpose, a secret dread would again close them; and she was soon convinced that she could not summon resolution to urge the disclosure she so ardently desired.
About a fortnight after they had received the intelligence of Madame D'Alembert's death, a letter arrived from the elder D'Alembert, acquainting the Marquis with his intention of being at the castle that day. He arrived a short time before dinner, and paid his compliments to his newly-discovered relatives with the utmost warmth and affection. The prejudice Madeline had conceived against the son extended to the father; and, notwithstanding the warmth of his manner, she saw, or fancied she saw (which had just the same effect upon her mind), in his countenance a dissatisfaction that denoted his not feeling what he professed; his eye, she thought, often fastened upon her father with a malignant expression, as if the soul that animated it inwardly cursed the man who had stepped between him and the fortunes of Montmorenci.
After the first compliments were over, taking the hand of Madeline, he assured her that nothing but business of the most perplexing nature could have prevented his son from accompanying him to the chateau. "He is impatient (continued he) to be introduced to his amiable relations; above all, he is impatient for an opportunity of expressing to you his heartfelt gratitude for the attentions you paid to his wife."
The heart of Madeline was too full to permit her to speak: she bowed, and hastily averted her head to wipe away the tears which fell to the memory of the unhappy Viola.
Her father, perceiving her emotions, led her to a seat, and changed the discourse.
D'Alembert now informed them that his daughter (of whom Madeline had before heard the Marquis slightly speak) was at the Chateau de Merville with her brother. "In about a month I hope and expect (continued he), they will join me here."
"I hope so too (said the Marquis); for I think it is the want of society that lowers the spirits, and hurts the bloom of Madeline."
"Ah! (thought Madeline) 'tis not the society I am now debarred from, but the society I have lost, which deadens my cheerfulness, and fades my cheek."
"I shall insist (resumed the Marquis) on her father's taking her in the course of the winter to Paris; 'tis time for her to be introduced to the circles her rank entitles her to associate with."
D'Alembert by a bow silently assented to what the Marquis said.
From this period Madeline had but few opportunities of indulging her love for solitude; D'Alembert either was, or pretended to be, so delighted with her society, that he could not for any length of time endure her absence. Complaisance compelled her to humour a relation advanced in life, and also the guest of her grandfather; but the interruption he gave to her favourite inclinations, together with the extravagant eulogiums he bestowed upon her person and all she said or did, heightened, if possible, the dislike she had conceived against him from their first interview—a dislike, however, which she did not reveal; yet not without uneasiness could she hear her father declare he thought him a man worthy of esteem.
With the utmost pain she thought of the approaching visit from his son and daughter. "Ah! never (said she to herself), ah! never, without shuddering, without horror, shall I be able to look upon the man whose ill conduct I have reason to think occasioned the death of my beloved friend."
Within a week of the time she expected him, as she was walking one morning in that part of the forest which immediately surrounded the castle she beheld her father and D'Alembert at a little distance from her, apparently engaged in a deep and interesting discourse. Their eyes encountered her's almost at the moment she saw them; they instantly stopped; and, after conversing together for about another minute, D'Alembert entered the court, and her father advanced to her: the gloom on his brow was somewhat lessened, and a languid smile faintly illumined his features.
"Madeline (said he, taking her hand, and walking on with her), D'Alembert and I have been talking of you."
"Of me!" cried Madeline.
"Yes, we have been sketching out a plan of felicity for you."
Madeline sighed, and looked earnestly at her father.
"A plan (resumed he) which I trust will meet your approbation."
"Explain yourself, my dearest father (cried Madeline), I am all impatience."
"To be explicit then (said St. Julian), D'Alembert has proposed an union between you and his son."
"Between me and his son! (repeated Madeline, involuntarily drawing her hand from her father's, and starting back a few paces)—between me and his son!—and you approved of the proposal!—Oh! my father, is this the felicity you planned for me?—sooner, ten thousand times sooner, would I immure myself for ever within the walls of a cloister, than become the wife of D'Alembert."
"Compose yourself (said St. Julian), you have no cause for the violent emotions you betray. You have always, I hope, found me, in every sense of the word, a parent: you should therefore have restrained your apprehensions, by being convinced I never would urge you to an act directly contrary to your inclinations. But whilst I give this assurance, I also declare that I will not, by rejecting every overture which may be made for your hand, sanction your attachment to an object who ought long since to have been forgotten."
"I solemnly declare (cried Madeline, clasping her hands together), that my repugnance to the union you have proposed, proceeds not entirely from the attachment you allude to."
"From what other cause (demanded St. Julian), can it proceed? you cannot have conceived a dislike against a man you never saw."
"'Tis true (replied Madeline), I know not the person of D'Alembert, but, I am acquainted with his character." She then briefly related all she had heard concerning him from Floretta and Agatha, the favourite and confidential servants of the Countess de Merville.
"I am shocked, I am astonished (cried St. Julian), at what you tell me; and with you I can readily believe, that the knowledge of his depravity accelerated the death of the mother, and occasioned that of the daughter."
"But had I never been informed of that depravity (resumed Madeline), I should have conceived an unconquerable dislike against him for his indelicacy in proposing for me so soon after his wife's death, and without being in the least degree acquainted with me."
"I own that part of his conduct appeared reprehensible to me (said St. Julian), and I gave my opinion of it to his father. He attempted to justify it by saying, that it was natural so young a man, and one of so domestic a turn as his son, should soon make another choice."
"But why let that choice devolve upon an object he had never beheld?" asked Madeline.
"Because a prepossession had been excited in her favour by the eulogiums of his wife; and he entreated his father to hasten to the castle, in order to pave the way for his addresses," St. Julian replied.
"Oh, my father (cried Madeline), I trust you will not delay declaring my utter repugnance to those addresses."
"Depend on me, my love (he said), for taking the earliest opportunity of informing D'Alembert they never can be successful: your grandfather, I hope, will be equally inclined to let you reject them."
"My grandfather! (repeated Madeline); was he then consulted on the subject?"
"So I understand from D'Alembert, and that he highly approved of the projected alliance: he wishes to have the fortunes of the family united."
"The fortunes of the family! (Madeline repeated); and are such the considerations that sway the great world?—Ah! no wonder, if the union of fortunes, not of hearts, is alone considered, that misery, vice, and dissipation from such connexions should ensue."
"I am almost convinced (resumed St. Julian), that the Marquis will not attempt to control your inclinations. But, my dear Madeline, though all idea of a connexion between you and D'Alembert shall on my part be relinquished, from a conviction that it never could promote your happiness, do not flatter yourself that, if a proposal came from an unexceptionable character, I would sanction a second rejection: 'tis not, be assured, from a vain pride of desiring an illustrious name to be continued to posterity, that I wish you to be married—no, 'tis from a wish of ensuring you protection when I shall be no longer able to extend it. I long to lodge my treasure in safe and honourable hands, ere I visit that country, from whose bourn I never shall return."
The words of her father opened a new source of disquietude to Madeline, who had flattered herself that her attachment to a single life would never be opposed: and still she tried to sooth her uneasiness by thinking, notwithstanding what he said, her father would never exert an arbitrary power over her.
They continued to walk till dinner time. At table Madeline turned with disgust from D'Alembert, whose looks expressed the utmost exultation. She withdrew almost immediately after dinner, and repaired to the garden, where she continued a considerable time uninterrupted, and deeply meditating on the conversation of the morning. At length she beheld D'Alembert approaching; and the alteration of his countenance convinced her that her father had communicated her sentiments to him.
She would have passed him in silence, but he prevented her by catching her hand.
"I came hither, Madam (said he in a sullen voice), on purpose to converse with you; I cannot therefore let you depart abruptly."
"Well, Sir (cried Madeline), I am ready to hear whatever you wish to say."
"But will you promise not to hear without regarding it?" demanded he in a gentler tone than he had before used.
"I never make promises I am not certain of fulfilling," replied Madeline.
"'Tis impossible (said he) to express the mortification, the disappointment, I feel in consequence of your rejection of the proposals which I made this morning; proposals approved by your father, and also sanctioned by the Marquis. Surely (he continued), you should not have rejected them, without being assured that their acceptance never could have contributed to your happiness; an assurance it is impossible you can have from your total ignorance of my son."
"Hopes which cannot be realized, cannot be too soon suppressed," exclaimed Madeline.
"And why, without knowing him, can you be so determined on destroying his hopes? (asked D'Alembert). Only see him—only hear him,—and then reject, if then you can disapprove."
"Was your son (said Madeline) all that the most romantic imagination can conceive of perfection, I would reject him."
"You would!" exclaimed D'Alembert, dropping her hand.
"I would," repeated Madeline.
"Did you ever hear aught against him?" demanded he, again catching her hand, and looking steadily upon her.
"Even supposing any thing could be alleged against him (replied Madeline, wishing to evade this question), in the family of his wife and mother-in-law, was it likely, do you think I should hear any thing to his prejudice?"
"'Tis evident (said D'Alembert, after musing a few minutes), that your heart is pre-engaged; nothing else could account for your absolute rejection of a man you never saw."
"Nothing else," repeated Madeline involuntarily, and looking in his face.
"No! confess, therefore that what I say, is true."
"Well (cried Madeline), if I do confess that my heart is devoted to another, will you drop all solicitation for your son?"
"No, never," exclaimed he in a furious voice, and with an inflamed countenance.
Madeline now attempted to free her hand. "I insist, Sir (said she), upon your releasing me immediately."
"I will, if you first promise to let my son plead his own cause on coming to the castle."
"Never," cried Madeline with vehemence, and struggling to disengage herself. "Are you then indeed inflexible? does that soft bosom really hide an obdurate heart? can no pity influence you to compassionate the pangs my son will feel when he hears of your rejection?"
"I never can feel pity for the pangs of disappointed avarice and ambition (replied Madeline); and avarice and ambition, I am convinced, alone influence your son's addresses to me; for how can he love or admire an object whose virtues he never knew, whose form he never saw? Your persecution, Sir, has forced me to be explicit: drop it, if you wish me to conceal my opinion."
"Insolent girl!" cried D'Alembert, flinging away her hand, and stamping on the ground.
A kind of terror pervaded the breast of Madeline at his violence; and she was hurrying to the castle when he overtook, and again stopped her.
"Insolent girl! (he repeated, grasping her hand, and looking at her with a fiend-like countenance); but such is the effect which unexpected elevation ever has upon little minds, raised from a cottage to a palace. Your head grows giddy, and you think you may with impunity look down upon the rest of mankind with contempt; you imagine there's nothing to fear;—but beware of indulging such an idea, lest too late you should find it erroneous. The pinnacle of greatness upon which you stand, already totters: beware lest by your conduct you provoke the breath which can in a moment overthrow it."
So saying, he once more flung her hand from him; and, turning into another path, left her abruptly, so much thunderstruck by his words, that for a few minutes she had not power to move. At length recovering her faculties, she condemned herself for weakness in permitting his expressions to affect her; expressions which she could only impute to malice and resentment for her rejection of his son. "He wished (said she), by alarming me, to be revenged in some degree, or else he imagined me weak, and hoped, by raising bugbears to my view, to terrify me to his purpose."
Her contempt and dislike were both increased by these ideas; and she resolved never more, if possible, to avoid it, to listen to his particular conversation.
She hastened to the castle, and in the gallery adjoining her chamber, met her father. "Well (asked he), has D'Alembert declared his disappointment to you? he sought you I know for the purpose of doing so."
"He has (replied Madeline); and I sincerely hope for the last time." She then enquired how her grandfather bore the rejection of his relative.
"As I expected (answered St. Julian); he declared his readiness to relinquish any alliance that accorded not with your inclination."
Madeline, without repeating all D'Alembert had said, now acknowledged that she felt herself too much agitated, in consequence of his conversation, to be able to mingle in society again that evening. Her father accordingly promised to apologize for her absence below stairs; and the remainder of the evening she passed alone.