Clermont/Chapter 31
CHAP. VI.
Misfortunes on misfortunes press upon me,
Swell o'er my head like waves, and dash me down!
Sorrow and shame have torn my soul,
And blast the spring and promise of my year;
They hang like winter on my youthful hopes.
So flow'rs are gathered to adorn a grave,
To lose their freshness among bones and rottenness,
And have their odours stifled in the dust.
St. Julian had scarcely quitted the apartment ere D'Alembert entered it—"I am come, Madam (said he, bowing), to receive your commands."
"Rather say, Sir (cried Madeline, with a haughtiness she could not repress), you are come to pronounce my doom. I cannot (continued she, rising and closing the door), deny that you have my father, consequently me, completely in your power; I shall therefore no longer attempt to refuse—I shall only attempt to entreat."
"You already know my resolution (said D'Alembert, losing all the gentleness with which he had entered the apartment); urge, therefore, no entreaty which I must refuse."
"I trust I shall not (said Madeline); my entreaty is, that, instead of my hand, you would accept of a title to the fortunes I may possess for your son."
"I do not understand you," cried D'Alembert, looking steadily at her.
"I think my meaning is obvious (said Madeline); I offer to your son the charm which attracts him to me. Yes, D'Alembert, I am convinced that had I still been Madeline Clermont, the humble inmate of a lonely cottage, he never would have desired an alliance with me. Gladly, therefore, will I resign all that can now render him solicitous for that alliance; and am authorized by my father to tell you, that provided you promise, solemnly promise never to divulge the events of his unhappy life—events which, if properly stated, you must more compassionate than condemn him for, and withdraw the addresses of your son, he will, jointly with me, sign any paper you may please to draw up, resigning for ever to you and your heirs the fortunes of Montmorenci."
"Both you and your father are certainly entitled to the thanks of me and my son for your generous intentions (cried D'Alembert, bowing, and scornfully smiling). I will not pretend to say that either he or I are insensible of the value of riches, but we are not quite so interested as you imagine. The fortunes of Montmorenci would, to him, lose half their estimation, if the lovely Madeline was not attached to them. His therefore she must be, if she wishes to preserve the existence of her father, for on her compliance my secrecy depends."
Madeline dropped on her knees—"Kneel by me then (she exclaimed), and swear, if I promise to sacrifice myself, that that secrecy will never be violated."
"I swear (said D'Alembert, bending his knee to the ground), that if you become the wife of my son, all that I know concerning your father shall be buried within my breast."
"Dispose of me then (cried Madeline), as you please. Yet, Oh! D'Alembert (she continued, in a voice of agony, and raising her eyes to his face), if you value the happiness of your son, give not to his arms a reluctant wife—cold and joyless must be such a gift! In pity to him therefore, as well as me, give up all idea of our union."
"Never, (said D'Alembert, as he raised her from the floor); though you may marry with indifference, the tenderness of my son will soon, I am confident, convert that indifference into love."
"Love!" repeated Madeline. She involuntarily cast her eyes upon the portrait, which bore so strong a resemblance to de Sevignie. It was her disordered fancy, no doubt, which made her at that moment imagine the eyes regarded her with an expression of the deepest melancholy; every tender scene she had experienced with him rushed to her recollection. She felt she could never cease to adore him; she felt that, in the arms of another, she must still sigh for him: and, shuddering, almost shrieking, at the idea of the dreadful destiny which would soon render such sighs a crime, she fell in convulsive agitation upon the bosom of D'Alembert. He supported her to a window, and in a few minutes she began a little to revive. She then disengaged herself from his arms.
"You are still ill (said he); permit me therefore to support you."
"No (replied she, withholding the hand he attempted to take); upon the bosom which cannot pity me, I will not lean."
"You are now prejudiced against me (said D'Alembert); my professions, therefore, you would disregard; but I trust the period will shortly arrive in which you will believe me sincere when I say, that the esteem, the tenderness, your virtues merit, I feel for you. Will you now permit me (cried he, after a pause), to go and acquaint the Marquis with the happiness which awaits my son?"
Anxious to be relieved from his presence, Madeline desired him to do as he pleased, and he directly left her. The agonies of her soul then burst forth, and in tears and broken exclamations she vented her feelings. In this situation her father surprised her:—Pale, trembling, the very picture of melancholy and despair, he approached her.
"D'Alembert was then inflexible (said he). He has just announced to the Marquis and me your acceptance of his son. Oh! my child, can you pardon the father who has doomed you to wretchedness?"
Madeline flung herself into his arms. She would have spoken—she would have assured him, that the wretchedness of her destiny could not be as great as he imagined, from knowing that it had mitigated his; but sighs and sobs impeded her utterance. At length, raising her head—"Oh! my father (she said), do not torture me by such language; strengthen, instead of weakening me; aid me—advise me; enable me to perform the duties of the station I am about entering into. That God (cried she, lifting her streaming eyes to heaven), that God whom we both worship and adore, delights not in the miseries of his creatures: when, therefore, acting right, we may surely hope that he will mitigate our sorrows."
A summons to dinner prevented all further conversation. Madeline declared her utter inability of obeying it, and entreated her father to apologize for her absence.
Reluctantly he left her. Nothing could have prevailed upon him to do so, but a fear of distressing the Marquis if he absented himself from the table; and he promised to return as soon as he possibly could to her.
During his absence, Madeline determined to exert herself in order to regain some degree of composure. "But little shall I serve him (cried she), by the sacrifice of myself, if I let him know the anguish excited by that sacrifice."
He had been gone about half an hour when she heard a gentle knock at the dressing-room door. She started, but instantly recollecting herself, and supposing it to come from some one of the servants, she desired the door to be opened. She was obeyed directly, and a man, whom she had never seen before, made his appearance.
Madeline rose from her chair, and surveyed him with astonishment. He approached her with evident diffidence and agitation, and offered her a letter. "From whom does it come?" said Madeline without taking it.
"From a friend to virtue (he replied). Delay not to read it (continued he, dropping it at her feet, for surprise rendered her unable to extend her hand): observe its advice, and avoid destruction." So saying, he rushed from the room, and closed the door after him.
Madeline remained many minutes without motion. She then repeated his words—"And will this letter (cried she, taking it up) point out a way by which I can avoid destruction?" She broke the seal with a trembling hand, and read as follows:—
"Lady,
"The unhappy wife of young D'Alembert still exists; the story of her death was invented for the vilest purposes—purposes which, under Providence, I trust I shall be the humble instrument of defeating. Too long have I been the slave of vice—too long an accessary in all the horrid schemes of an iniquitous father and son! but heaven has at length awakened me to remorse; and, if the sincerest penitence for past enormities, and most strenuous endeavours to undo all the mischief I have done, can expiate error, I hope to be forgiven. I am now hastening to the place where the most lovely and most injured of her sex groans in captivity! but, till her liberation is effected, as you value her life (my worthless one I will not mention), keep secret the contents of this letter; were they prematurely known, there is no doubt but her death would be the immediate consequence. Oh! Lady, pray for her; pray that the efforts of a sorrowing and repentant wretch may be successful in rescuing virtue, and preserving innocence: and may that heaven, which must ever regard purity like thine, ever render abortive all schemes that wickedness may plan against thee!"
No language could do justice to the feelings of Madeline on perusing this letter; but the astonishment, the ecstasy, with which the knowledge of her friend's existence inspired her, soon gave way to apprehensions for her father. She trembled to think of the horrors which D'Alembert might entail upon him in revenge for the disappointment of his hopes. "It will gladden his cruel and malicious soul (cried she) to plunge my father into the gulf of destruction—that gulf, into which the discovery of his own crimes must precipitate himself."
Her heart throbbing with impatience, she anxiously listened for her father. The moment he appeared, she flew to him, and put the letter into his hand. Her looks prepared him for something wonderful, and he eagerly cast his eye over it.
"Oh, villains! (exclaimed he, ere he had half perused it), what punishment can be adequate to your crimes! My child (resumed he, after finishing the letter, tenderly embracing her as he spoke), thou art indeed, as the good must ever be, the peculiar care of Providence. Oh! with the most heartfelt gratitude do I acknowledge its goodness in preserving you from the snare which was set for you:—this instant would I expose the execrable contrivers of it to the fate they merit; this instant, notwithstanding the power which treachery has given them over me, brand them with infamy, did I not fear, in consequence of some part of this letter, taking any step of the kind till after the liberation of the unhappy Madame D'Alembert is effected. It would be an ill requital for the kindness of my dear lamented friend if, to gratify myself by punishing immediately an injury meditated against my child, I occasioned the destruction of her's."
"Oh! my father (cried Madeline, whose heart was now solely occupied by fears on his account), think not of punishing the monsters—think only how you may avoid their malice."
"Avoid it! (exclaimed St. Julian, looking sternly at her); no, I will brave it, I will brave their threats—I will brave the horrors they may draw upon me, to have the satisfaction of punishing myself their meditated injury against you."
This was what Madeline had dreaded; his indignation at their designs against her would, she feared, transport him beyond all consideration for himself.
She threw herself at his feet, and with tears besought him to sacrifice his resentment to his safety. "You have ever told me, ever taught me to believe (she exclaimed), that you tenderly regarded your Madeline; Oh! now, my father, prove that regard by endeavouring to preserve a life with which her's is entwined."
Her entreaties had at length the desired effect; passion gave way to pity; and, raising her from the ground, while he pressed her to his heart, St. Julian told her that the value she set upon his life made him in some degree value it himself. "I will therefore go (said he), to Lafroy—he is faithful and clever, and consult with him how I may best brave the coming storm: for, like you, I am convinced that, when once the villainy of D'Alembert is discovered, and consequently his hopes relative to you overthrown, he will reveal all he knows concerning me."
"Oh, go—go (cried Madeline, disengaging herself from his arms); go directly to Lafroy, and be quick, I entreat you, my father, in your return."
She followed him to the gallery, determined to wait there till he came back. A considerable time elapsed without bringing him; and the fears of Madeline were at length so excited by his long absence, that she was just going in quest of him, when she saw him and Lafroy approaching.
"I fear you have been uneasy at my not returning sooner (said he); but it required time to deliberate on what was to be done."
"What have you determined on?" said Madeline as they entered the dressing-room, and closed the door.
"On parting," replied he, in an accent of the deepest sorrow.
"On parting!" repeated Madeline, stepping back, and looking wildly at him.
"Yes; to remain in the castle, would be to await quietly the fate to which D'Alembert will expose me."
"It would indeed (said Lafroy); I have no doubt but that the moment his baseness is discovered, Monsieur D'Alembert will reveal every particular he knows concerning you: and I am sorry to say, from my knowledge of the Marquis's disposition, I am sure he will admit of no circumstance as a palliation of the murder of Lord Philippe."
Madeline shuddered at the word murder, and involuntarily averted her head from Lafroy.
"Murder sounds harshly in my daughter's ears," cried St. Julian in rather a resentful tone.
"I beg your pardon, my Lord (said Lafroy), for having spoken unguardedly; nothing, I can assure your Lordship, would distress me so much as to offend or give pain to either you or Lady Madeline; 'tis my most ardent wish to serve you both."
"And whither (cried Madeline, turning to her father), Oh! whither, if you quit this castle, can you betake yourself?"
"With the most wild and romantic solitudes of the Alps I am well acquainted (said he), and amongst them I mean to seek a shelter."
"The holy man, who was so kind to my mother and her unfortunate family, may then again befriend you," cried she.
"Alas! (exclaimed St. Julian) he is gone long since to receive the blessed reward his virtues merited: about eight years ago I was assured of his death by the termination of our correspondence."
"Oh! my father (cried Madeline, grasping his arm), may I not accompany you?"
"Lord! my Lady (exclaimed Lafroy), surely you could not think of such a thing; surely you could not think of abandoning all prospect of rank and independence?"
"Yes, (replied Madeline); to have the power of mitigating a father's distresses, I would abandon every prospect this world could present."
"But by accompanying him you would rather increase than mitigate his distresses. Situations which, on his own account, he would not mind, he would then tremble at on your's. Besides, you would retard the expedition it is necessary for him to make, and prevent his exploring the places best calculated for affording him an asylum."
"What reason can be assigned, what excuse offered to the Marquis for his quitting the castle, clandestinely quitting it," demanded Madeline.
"He must write a letter to the Marquis (resumed Lafroy), to be delivered the day after his departure, informing him that the misfortunes of his early life had given him such a distaste to society, that he had formed the resolution of renouncing the world; a resolution which, for fear of opposition, he would not acquaint him with till he had put it into execution."
"But when he finds, as no doubt from D'Alembert he will, that this was not his real motive for quitting the castle, how—how (cried Madeline), shall I be able to support his reproaches?"
"You must summon all your resolution to your aid (said Lafroy), and brave the storm from a certainty of having it soon over. The Marquis is old; he cannot punish you for an action committed by your father; and, after his death, if the Count is still compelled to seclude himself from a fear of the connexions of Lord Philippe, you may visit him without control."
"Well (said Madeline), I will exert myself; and, confiding my father to the mercy of a God whom he never wilfully offended, look forward to happier days. When must we part?" cried she, turning to St. Julian, who had thrown himself upon a sofa.
"To-night," replied he in a melancholy voice.
"To-night!" repeated Madeline.
"He must go while the coast is clear (said Lafroy); you know Monsieur D'Alembert's son is now shortly expected; and were he and his numerous retinue of servants once arrived, it would be impossible for my Lord the Count to escape without observation."
"Was it from a servant of young D'Alembert's I received the letter?"
"Yes, from an old confidential servant, well acquainted, no doubt, as he himself has said, with the villainy of his master."
"How does my father travel? (asked Madeline), or how, or by whose means am I to hear from him? for except I do hear, I shall be distracted."
"It shall be my care to settle every thing to his satisfaction and your's (said Lafroy): as soon as it is dark, I will conduct him to the house of a friend I can rely upon, a little beyond the forest, from whence he can procure a conveyance to the Alps, and to which his letters can be directed; by the same channel too you can forward your's, and also remit any supply of money he may want."
"Your ingenuity has obviated all our difficulties (said St. Julian, rising from the sofa). I trust I may yet have power to reward you, my good friend, for your zeal and fidelity; but if not, my beloved child will, I am convinced, readily pay off any debt of gratitude I may incur."
Every plan relative to him being now arranged, and the day declining, St. Julian sat down to pen his letter to his father, whilst his agonized Madeline hung over him, and Lafroy retired to pack up a few necessaries for him.
The letter concluded, he devoted the little time he had to remain in the castle to the purpose of consoling his Madeline, and exhorting her to fortitude. She promised to exert herself, but it was a promise given in such a manner, with such tears and sobs, as gave her father little hope she would ever be able to fulfil it.
With streaming eyes she watched the last lingering beams of day, and fancied that darkness had never before been so quick in its approach. At length Lafroy appeared; he carried a glimmering light, which he laid upon a table, and told the Count, in a whispering voice, that it was time to depart. He instantly arose—"farewell! my child, (said he, straining his Madeline to his heart), soul of my soul, life of my life—farewell!—Oh! for the sake of thy wandering and exiled father—Oh! to be enabled to give him future comfort, such comfort as shall repay him for past troubles, exert thyself!"
"I will, I will (cried Madeline); when the bitterness of this moment is over, I shall be better."
"Do not longer delay, my Lord (said Lafroy); I fear if you do, some interruption from the servants, who will soon be busy preparing for supper."
St. Julian gently withdrew his arms from his daughter. She did not attempt to detain him; and yet her very soul seemed fleeting after him as he turned from her. "Lafroy (cried she, following them to the gallery), the moment you return to the castle, you must come up to me."
"You may depend on my doing so," said he.
"And you, my father, (she resumed), must write to me without delay, if you wish to save me from distraction."
"The very minute I arrive at a place of safety, I will write to you," he replied, again embracing her.
Once more Lafroy conjured St. Julian to hasten with him; and, sighing out another adieu, the unhappy father turned from his weeping child. When she could no longer hear his steps from the gallery, she flew to her chamber, and, flinging up the sash, bent from the window to try if she could hear them in the forest; but a cold wind whistled through it, which prevented any other sound than that of its own murmurs from being distinguished; yet, though she could neither see nor hear him, she continued at the window till a sudden light flashing behind her, made her start from it; and, turning round, she beheld one of the female servants.
"I hope I have not frightened your Ladyship (said the girl, courtesying); I have brought you some refreshments from Mrs. Beatrice; and she desired me to say that she would have sent something before, only she heard you were engaged with my Lord the Count, and also that she would have come herself only she was unwell."
"I am sorry to hear she is ill," cried Madeline, sinking into a chair.
"She is indeed; but bless me, your Ladyship looks very ill too; had you not better take something, for you seem quite faint?"
Madeline was quite overpowered by weakness, and gladly took a little bread and wine to try and support her sinking frame.
"The cold wind which comes through this window, is enough to pierce your Ladyship," said the maid.
"It does (cried Madeline to herself, and sighing heavily), it does indeed pierce me to the heart, because I know my father is exposed to it. Good night, my good girl, (said she, addressing her attendant), good night; say nothing of my indisposition; I am sure I shall be better to-morrow."
"Your Ladyship will not then come down to-night."
"No;—who is with the Marquis?"
"Monsieur D'Alembert; my Lord the Count I understand is out. 'Tis very bold to be sure of me to speak on the subject, but I cannot help saying I wonder how he can like to ramble through the forest after it is dark."
Madeline rose in much agitation—"I suppose the Marquis (said she, wishing to change the conversation), will soon go to supper."
"Oh yes, Ma'am; you know, since my Lord the Count's custom of rambling has been known, the Marquis never waits for him after a certain hour."
"True," cried Madeline. She then repeated her good night, and the maid retired.
Alternately traversing her chamber, alternately looking from the window, Madeline passed two tedious hours ere Lafroy appeared. He then knocked gently at the door, which she eagerly opened, and as eagerly enquired about her father.
"He has begun his journey (said Lafroy); I readily procured the assistance of my friend, who will be his companion some part of the way."
"And can your friend really be depended on?" asked Madeline.
"I can as safely answer for his fidelity as my own (replied Lafroy); and mine I hope you do not doubt."
"No (cried Madeline), if I did, I should be completely wretched. Oh! Lafroy (she continued), how I dread to-morrow; I tremble to think of the interrogations of the Marquis; as long as it is possible to do so, postpone the delivery of the letter."
"You may be assured I shall not deliver it till there is an absolute necessity for doing so (he replied), and then I shall pretend I found it in the chamber of the Count."
"I shall keep out of the Marquis's way till he has read the letter," said Madeline.
"I think you will be right in doing so (cried Lafroy); you can plead indisposition, and confine yourself to your chamber entirely to-morrow; and depend on my ingenuity for devising some scheme to prevent your being disturbed either by the Marquis or the servants, even after the discovery of the Count's departure has taken place."
"Alas! (said Madeline), how trifling will be all I shall perhaps endure after this discovery, to what, in all probability, I shall suffer when the real cause of his departure is known!"
"You must only (cried Lafroy), as I said before, brave the storm, from a hope of having it soon over. The Marquis no doubt will be violent, and endeavour to wrest from you the secret of your father's residence; you must therefore deny your knowledge of it."
"No (exclaimed Madeline), I disdain a falsehood; to deny it would be to doubt my own resolution of keeping it. After all (continued she), upon reflection I do not think the Marquis can be so violent as you imagine; he must be convinced, and that conviction must surely mollify his resentment, that, had interested motives caused the death of Lord Philippe, my father, instead of retiring to obscurity, would have made some effort to obtain his favour."
"But to refute that idea, may it not be said (cried Lafroy), that he remained in obscurity so many years but to avoid suspicion, which he feared might be excited if he sooner threw himself in the way of his father?"
"He never threw himself in the way of the Marquis," interrupted Madeline.
"No, but he threw you, which was just the same thing; that is, I mean it may be said he did; it may be said that design, not chance, brought you to the castle; D'Alembert is equal to any falsehood."
"Heaven defend us from his machinations!" cried Madeline.
"I will now leave you to repose (said Lafroy); I am sure you need it, for the events of this day must certainly have agitated you not a little."
Madeline conjured him to come to her as soon as he possibly could after the delivery of the letter, which he promised to do, and then retired.
Kneeling down, Madeline then implored the protection of Heaven for her father, and its support for herself through the numerous trials she feared she had to encounter; after which, faint and exhausted by the agitations she had experienced, she went to bed. Her mind was too much disturbed to permit her slumbers to be tranquil; and she arose unrefreshed at the dawn of day. At the usual hour, a servant (the same who had attended her the preceding night) appeared to inform her breakfast was ready. Madeline said she was too unwell to go down, and desired her's to be brought to her dressing-room. She was accordingly obeyed; and, as the maid was laying the table—"The Count has gone out to ramble again this morning, Madam (said she); Lafroy went to call him to breakfast, and found his chamber-door locked on the outside."
The conversation her attendant was inclined to enter into was truly distressing to Madeline, and she soon dismissed her. In a state of perturbation which rendered her unable to read or work, or do any thing to try and amuse her thoughts, the heavy hours wore away without any creature coming near her till dinner time; Nannette then again appeared, and desired to know whether she would come down. Madeline replied in the negative, and dinner was brought to her.
"'Tis very extraordinary, Madam (cried Nannette as she stood behind the chair), very extraordinary indeed that the Count has not yet returned; don't you think so?"
"You may take away the things (said Madeline); and, Nannette, you need not come again till I ring for you."
"Very well, Madam. But dear heart! my Lady, you really have eaten no dinner; I am afraid you are fretting about the Count."
Madeline made no reply, but took up a book to signify her wish of being alone, and Nannette left her.
The moment she had retired, Madeline threw aside the book, and walked about the room in an agitation which shook her frame. "The hour approaches for the delivery of the letter (cried she); Oh! heaven forbid the Marquis should come to me after perusing it! this evening I could not summon sufficient spirits to support an interview."
She now every instant expected Lafroy; but two hours passed away without bringing him, during which she frequently stole to the gallery to try if she could hear him approaching. Tired at length of listening for him, she threw herself on a chair by the window, and gave way in tears to the oppression of her heart. Never had she before experienced such a degree of wretchedness; she felt neglected, abandoned by all! the gloom of closing day, the cold wind which rustled through the forest, bringing the leaves in showers from the trees, and bearing to her ear the dismal tolling of a distant convent bell, heightened if possible her melancholy.
"Oh! my father (she cried), to what misery have you left your Madeline!" The door creaked upon its rusty hinges; she started, and beheld Lafroy.
"Ah! (she exclaimed, rising to meet him), I thought you had forgotten me."
"Forgotten you!" he repeated as he cautiously closed the door.
"Has the Marquis received the letter?" eagerly interrupted Madeline.
"Yes."
"Well, and what (cried she, gasping for breath), does he say?"
"Ah! my dear young lady, I have bad news for you," exclaimed Lafroy.
"Bad news! what—does the Marquis suspect the truth? Has he sent to pursue my father?"
"He has not yet sent any one to pursue him (replied Lafroy), but he soon will; for—D'Alembert has discovered all."
The shock which those words gave to Madeline, was almost more than she could support, and she sunk, nearly fainting, against the shoulder of Lafroy.
"Do you think (cried she, raising her head in a few minutes from it), do you think that my father can baffle the pursuit?"
"I trust he may have a safe retreat secured ere it commences. But you must not turn your thoughts entirely upon him; you must not turn your thoughts entirely upon him; you must now think of yourself—think of escaping from the castle."
"Of escaping!" repeated Madeline.
"Yes, if you wish to avoid cruelty and oppression."
"Explain yourself," said Madeline.
"I will if you promise to compose yourself—if you promise not to interrupt me—briefly and explicitly inform you of the sufferings which await you if you continue in the castle."
"I promise," cried Madeline.
"To begin then (said Lafroy). After I had delivered the Count's letter to the Marquis, I stepped into an adjoining room to listen to the conversation which would ensue between him and D'Alembert in consequence of it. Long I had not remained in my concealment, ere my ears were shocked by hearing D'Alembert deride the assertion contained in the letter, and begin a horrid narrative of all he knew concerning your father. I will not pain you by repeating what the Marquis said; suffice it to say, he vowed the most implacable vengeance against the Count, and swore the world should be searched to discover him.
'His daughter to be sure (cried D'Alembert), who 'tis obvious wishes to have you, as well as your father, put out of the way in order to gain, without division, the fortunes of Montmorenci, is acquainted with the secret of his retreat.'
'No doubt (replied the Marquis), and I will obtain it from her.'
'I have little hope of your being able to do so,' cried D'Alembert.
'If gentle means will not prevail on her to reveal it (cried the Marquis), other methods shall be tried; every torture, every suffering, which can be devised, shall be practised upon her in this castle to wring it from her.'
"On hearing this (continued Lafroy), I hastened to you to apprise you of your danger, and assist you in escaping it."
"This instant let me go (cried Madeline), this instant let me fly from those hated walls—let me pursue the steps of my father."
"To do so would be madness (replied Lafroy); to follow his steps, would be to give a clue to his pursuers to discover him."
"Then guide me to a convent," cried Madeline.
"No; for a convent would be the worst asylum you could enter. The Marquis's power is great; on missing you, he will naturally conclude you have taken shelter in one, and will, I am confident, immediately get himself authorized to search throughout the religious houses for you, in order to get you again into his hands."
"Whither then (said Madeline in an agony), Oh! whither shall I go?"
"I have a female relation in Paris (cried Lafroy), who I am sure would be happy to afford you an asylum. She is far advanced in life; a woman of an amiable disposition, and housekeeper to a gentleman of large fortune, who, on the death of his wife, which happened some years ago, betook himself to travel, and left his house, a very fine one, to the entire care of my aunt; to her I can get my friend (the same who assisted your father in escaping) to convey you, and also a letter to her, imploring her protection for you."
"What reason will you assign for my requiring that protection?" demanded Madeline.
"I shall say (I trust you will excuse me for it, cried Lafroy), that your father is a particular friend of mine, who, from embarrassed circumstances, has been compelled to quit his residence near the castle of Montmorenci, for the purpose of seeking one elsewhere, and that, till he procures it, he has consigned you to my care."
Madeline felt truly grateful to Lafroy for the readiness with which he offered his services, yet at the same time most unwilling to accept them; and again she expressed a wish to retire to a convent—a wish, which was again opposed with vehemence by Lafroy, who assured her he was confident, if she went to one, that in a few days she would be dragged from it by the Marquis.—"By this (he continued), I dare say every plan relative to you and your father is settled; no time, therefore, is to be lost, for if the Marquis and D'Alembert once seize you, to escape will be beyond your power."
"I am ready (cried Madeline), I am ready this moment to fly."
A scarf hung upon the back of a chair, which Lafroy took up and wrapped about her; he then drew her trembling hand under his arm, and with light steps they stole down a flight of back stairs, and through a back court entered the forest.
They proceeded a considerable way through the forest before Lafroy would permit Madeline to slacken her pace for the purpose of asking whither they were now going.
When at length she had power to make the enquiry, "we are going (said he in reply to it) to the cottage of my friend, where every thing relative to your journey can be adjusted, and where it never will occur to the Marquis or D'Alembert to search for you."