Clermont/Chapter 33
CHAP. VIII.
Oh! take me in a fellow-mourner with thee;
I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear!
And when the fountains of thy eyes are dry,
Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both.
Madeline tried many doors, but found them fastened. She resolved, however, not to return without attempting all, and was just laying her hand upon another lock, when a dreadful groan from the bottom of the passage pierced her ear, and penetrated to her heart. She hesitated whether she should advance or retreat; but at length humanity triumphed over fear, and she determined to go on, and try if she could be of any service to the person from whom the groan proceeded. At the bottom of the passage she perceived, what the darkness it was involved in had before concealed from her, a narrow stair-case in the side of the wall: this she eagerly ascended, and came to a small door half open; here she paused, and looking in, beheld, with equal horror and astonishment, an old woman wretchedly clad, and worn to a skeleton, kneeling in the corner of an ill-furnished room, before a wooden crucifix.
"Oh! heavenly father (the miserable object exclaimed, almost the moment Madeline had reached the door), may I, dare I, hope for thy forgiveness!—Oh! no, 'tis impossible thou canst ever grant it;—thou never canst forgive the wretch who caused the anguish of the most amiable of women—the misery and death of the most noble of men! Yet, if suffering could entitle me to mercy, I might hope for it.—Oh! if my blood can atone for that I caused to be shed, thou, thou shalt have it!"
So saying, she seized a knotted cord that lay beside her, and struck herself with it: Madeline instantly sprung forward—"Have mercy upon yourself (she exclaimed, as she caught her emaciated hand); God only requires real contrition as an atonement for error." The miserable wretch looked wildly at her for a moment; then uttering a piercing shriek, she convulsively wrested her hand from her and fell fainting on the floor.
The situation of Madeline was distressing in the extreme; she feared calling for assistance, lest the knowledge of her having discovered the miserable object before her should be productive of unpleasant consequences; and yet she feared her own efforts would never recover her. She knelt down and chafed her temples; but it was many minutes ere she showed any signs of returning life. At length opening her eyes, she again fastened them upon Madeline with the wildest expression of fear, and in a feeble voice exclaimed, "You are come then, come from the realms of bliss, for the purpose of summoning my soul to that tribunal where it must answer for all its crimes?"
"I know not what you mean (said Madeline, endeavouring to raise her head, and support it upon her breast); the voice of distress drew me to this apartment, not from idle curiosity, but from a hope of being serviceable to the person from whom it proceeded; and my motive will I trust excuse any intrusion I may appear guilty of."
"From whence, or from whom do you come?" demanded the unhappy woman.
"Alas! (replied Madeline), I have neither strength nor spirits now to enable me to relate my sad story; all I can tell you is, that I am an unfortunate girl, without any friend, I fear, to afford me the protection I require."
"Perhaps I may be able to serve you (said the stranger); that voice—that look—Ah! how powerfully do they plead in your behalf! What part of the house do you inhabit?"
"I am so little acquainted with the house (cried Madeline), that perhaps I may confound one place with another; my chamber is at the end of a great gallery."
"What kind of a chamber is it?"
"'Tis wainscoted, and ornamented with faded portraits."
"Amongst which is there not a remarkable one of a lady in mourning with a drawn dagger?"
"Yes."
"Well, since I know your chamber, I will, if there is a possibility of getting to it, pay you a visit, and tell you of a plan I have thought of for your escape."
Madeline, in an ecstasy of gratitude and hope, caught her hand, and was raising it to her lips, when a sudden, though distant, noise made her drop it.
"Oh! heavens (cried the stranger), if we are discovered, we are lost!—Fly—regain your chamber, if possible, without delay; and as you value your safety, as you value your life and mine, keep secret our interview."
Madeline started from the ground—"Oh! tell me ere I go (she cried), when I may expect you."
"Away, away (said the stranger), a moment's delay may be fatal!"
Madeline could no longer hesitate about departing, and swiftly and lightly she descended the stairs; at the bottom she paused to listen and look down the passage, but she neither heard any noise, nor beheld any object: she was therefore proceeding with quickness when suddenly she heard an approaching step.
From the words of the stranger, she believed destruction inevitable if discovered in her present situation; she therefore determined to try and gain admittance into one of the adjacent chambers, and secrete herself within it till all danger of detection was over. She accordingly tried the nearest door, and, to her inexpressible transport, the lock yielded to her first effort. The instant she entered the room, she bolted the door, against which she then leaned to try if she could hear the approach of the step that had so much alarmed her; but all again was profoundly still. Somewhat composed by this, she ventured to turn, and to her infinite amazement, beheld herself in a most magnificent chamber. "What new mystery (said she), is this? Madame Fleury assured me her chamber was near mine; and yet who but Madame Fleury can occupy this room?"
This was a mystery soon explained; for as she was stealing from the door to the window, she beheld the clothes which Dupont had on the preceding day lying upon a chair.—"Ah! heavens (exclaimed Madeline, recoiling with horror, as if it was Dupont himself she saw); Dupont then is the inhabitant of this chamber! Oh! for what vile purpose is his residence here concealed? Oh! Lafroy, you were either deceived yourself, or basely deceived me when you sent me to this house; new horrors every moment open to my view, and my senses are scarcely equal to the conflicts I endure!"
She was returning to the door for the purpose of endeavouring to quit the room, when some letters scattered upon a dressing-table caught her attention: she darted to them; but how impossible to describe the horror she experienced, when upon all the hated name of D'Alembert met her eye. She snatched up one, and while the blood ran cold to her heart, read as follows:—
"The lovely Madeline will soon be in your power; Lafroy has completely secured her for you: may you profit by his stratagems! Adieu!—Believe me ever your affectionate father,
"G. D'Alembert."
Not when she trembled beneath the poignard of a supposed assassin—when she shuddered at the idea of having seen a being of the other world—when she groaned from a conviction of her father's being a murderer—did Madeline receive such a shock, did she experience such horrors as she now felt on discovering Lafroy to be a villain! She dropped upon her knees, and raised her eyes and trembling hands to heaven, though unable to articulate a prayer.
She had not been in this situation above two minutes, when a loud knock came to the door. Madeline started wildly from the floor, and looked round to see if there was any place which could afford her concealment; but no such place presented itself to her view. The knock was repeated with increased violence; and scarcely could she prevent the wild shriek of despair from bursting from her lips. Her silence, however, availed her but little; for the knock was repeated, and the moment after, the door burst open by Dupont; the room rung with the shriek which she uttered at that instant.
"Well (exclaimed he), by coming to my chamber, you have saved me the trouble of going to your's."
As he spoke, he attempted to catch her in his arms, but she eluded his grasp, and springing past him, fled towards her chamber; he pursued her, and, overtaking her just as she had reached the door, rushed into the room along with her.
She now threw herself upon her knees—"I am in your power (said she, in almost breathless agitation); be generous, and use it nobly."
"And do you deserve any thing like generosity from me? (cried he); do you not merit the severest punishment for having clandestinely entered my chamber, and treacherously examined my letters."
The fear of Madeline gave way to indignation; her eyes flashed fire; she rose, and looked upon him with scorn.
"And what punishment does the villain merit who forced me to such actions? (she exclaimed). What punishment does he merit who assumes a name but for the purpose of deceiving, who spreads his snares for the friendless and unhappy?"
"You compelled me to assume another name (said he), because you objected to me for bearing that of D'Alembert."
Madeline turned from him with contempt; he followed her.
"Madeline (cried he), let all trifling cease between us: you are, as you have yourself observed, completely in my power; be politic therefore, and no longer reject my overtures."
"Monster! (exclaimed Madeline), do you insult me by still pleading for my hand, knowing, as you must, that I am acquainted with the existence of your wife?"
"I do not plead for your hand (replied he with the most deliberate coolness), 'tis for your heart: consent to be mine; consent to accept the only proposals I can now make you; and, in return, I will not only secure you an independence and a delightful asylum, where you can fear nothing, but solemnly promise, if ever I have power to do so, to make you my wife."
"I will not attempt (said Madeline), to express my indignation and contempt—I shall content myself with merely saying, that, were you even dear to my heart, I would reject offers which could entail infamy upon me: think, therefore, whether there is a probability of my accepting them, when I tell you, that, united to my horror at your baseness, is an aversion to you too strong for any language to describe."
The most violent rage took possession of D'Alembert at those words; but the terror which his rage inspired, was trifling to the shock which Madeline received, when in his inflamed countenance she traced the dreadful countenance of him beneath whose poignard she had trembled at midnight in the ruined monastery of Valdore.
"Oh! God (she cried, starting back), do I behold the murderer of the Countess?"
The crimson of D'Alembert's cheek faded at those words; his eyes lost their fury, and he trembled, but in a minute almost he recovered from his confusion. "Insolent girl! (cried he, stepping fiercely to Madeline), of what new crime will you next accuse me? Beware how you provoke me; do not go too far, lest you tempt me to retaliate—retaliate in a manner most dreadful to you—on your father."
"He is beyond your power (exclaimed Madeline, with a wild scream, and clasping her hands together); he is safe, he is secure."
"As I could wish," cried D'Alembert, with a malicious smile.
An idea of treachery having been practised upon her father as well as upon herself now started in the mind of Madeline, and her heart almost died away. "My father is safe!" she repeated, with a quivering lip, and a faltering voice.
"Yes—beneath this roof."
"Oh, God!" cried Madeline as she sunk upon the floor.
D'Alembert raised her, and used every method in his power to revive her: it was many minutes, however, ere she was able to stand or speak. At length, sinking from his arms—"Forgive me (she exclaimed, as she knelt at his feet), Oh! forgive me if I have said aught to offend you; make allowances for my wounded feelings, for my distress, my irritation at finding myself deceived where I most confided, and drop all resentment; be noble, and give up every intention hostile to my father's peace and mine; restore me to his arms, and suffer us to depart together to some distant spot, where, in security and solitude, we may pass our days;—do this, and receive from me the most solemn assurances of our never disturbing your tranquillity, or uttering an expression which can be unpleasing to you."
D'Alembert raised and pressed her to his heart; she trembled—she resented. "But I am in the grasp of the lion (said she to herself), and I must try by gentleness to disengage myself from it."
"You plead in vain, Madeline (cried he); I have run every risk to secure you, and never will give you up. But while I say this, let me quiet your apprehensions by assuring you, that though solely in my power, I never will make an ungenerous use of that power by using any violence; I will not force you to return my love; but if you continue much longer to disdain it, I shall not hesitate to surrender your father to the fate he merits."
"He is not, he is not in your power (exclaimed Madeline); you have said so but for the purpose of awaking my fears, from a hope of being able to take a base advantage of them."
"Well, though you doubt my words, I suppose you will not doubt the evidence of your own eyes."
Madeline trembled; the faint hope which had just darted into her mind, of his assertion relative to her father being merely for the purpose of terrifying her, now utterly died away.
"I will this instant, if you please (said D'Alembert), conduct you to the chamber of your father; but ere I take you to it, I must prepare you for the situation in which you will find him."
"The situation!" repeated Madeline, starting.
"Yes; I had an idea I should be compelled to bring you to him, in order to convince you he was in my power; and therefore ordered an opiate to be given to him this morning, which has thrown him into a state of insensibility, and thus precluded all possibility of his either hearing or uttering complaints."
"The ear of the Almighty will be open to his complaints and mine (said Madeline); they will reach the throne of Heaven, before which you must one day answer for your crimes."
"Do you choose to see him?" asked D'Alembert.
Madeline made no reply; but, breaking from his arms, she moved towards the door; he followed her, and, taking her trembling hand, led her in silence to the end of the gallery, from whence they turned into a long passage, terminated by another door. D'Alembert took a key from his pocket, and unlocked it—"We are now (said he), in the chamber of your father."
The curtains of the bed were closed; Madeline snatched her hand from D'Alembert, and pulling them back, beheld her father extended on it—thin, ghastly, to all appearance dead. She shrieked aloud—"He is dead! (cried she), he is dead!—Oh! monster, you have murdered my father!"
"No, (said D'Alembert); you frighten yourself without a cause; the ghastly look of his countenance is occasioned by the opiate."
Madeline laid her hand upon his heart; she felt it faintly flutter; and a scream of joy burst from her lips. "Yet have I reason to rejoice at his existence (she cried), when I reflect upon his situation?"
"'Tis in your power (said D'Alembert), to change that situation—to restore him to liberty, to free him from danger, to ensure him protection."
"In my power!" repeated Madeline.
"Yes; accept my offers, and all that the most duteous, the most tender son could do for a father, I will do for your's."
"And think you (said Madeline), my father would thank me for freedom and security, if purchased by dishonour? no, believe me he would not; I know his soul too well—know that death, in its most frightful form, would not be half so dreadful to him as the knowledge of his daughter's infamy:—never then will that daughter deviate from the path he early in life marked out for her to take:—never then, though surrounded by dangers and difficulties,—the dangers, the difficulties of him who is dearer, infinitely dearer to her than existence, will she act contrary to the principles he implanted in her mind, or forego her hopes of Heaven's protection, by striving to attain safety at the expense of virtue."
"Your resolution is then fixed," said D'Alembert.
"It is," replied Madeline in a firm voice.
"Mine is also fixed," cried D'Alembert. As he spoke, he approached her—"You continue no longer in this chamber," said he.
Madeline retreated. "You cannot, you will not surely (she cried), be so inhuman as to force me from it? Oh! let me watch by my father!—Oh! suffer me to remain with him I entreat, I conjure you!"
"In vain," said D'Alembert; and he again advanced to seize her. Madeline screamed; and, throwing herself upon the bed, she clasped her arms around her father—"Awake, awake (she cried), my father, awake, and hear, Oh! hear the agonizing shrieks of your child!"
"It will be many hours ere he awakes (exclaimed D'Alembert, as unlocking the hands of Madeline, he raised her from the bed); and when he does, it will be in an apartment very different from his present one, except you relent."
She forcibly disengaged herself from him, and sunk at his feet—"Have mercy (she exclaimed, with streaming eyes and uplifted hands), have mercy upon my father and me, and entitle yourself to that of Heaven! Oh! let those tears, those agonies, plead for us! let them express the feelings which language cannot utter!"
"I have already told you (said D'Alembert, with savage fury in his countenance), that my resolution is fixed; I now swear it—swear to give up your father to the offended laws of his country, except you consent to return my love."
He caught her in his arms, from which she vainly tried to disengage herself, and bore her shrieking and struggling to her chamber.
"Now, Madeline (cried he), speak—but ere you speak, deliberate; for on your words depends the fate of your father."
"Wretch! (exclaimed the agonized Madeline), you already know my determination."
"Farewell! then (said he), I go for the officers of justice."
"Oh! D'Alembert (cried Madeline, wildly catching his arm as he was about quitting the room), you cannot be so inhuman; you cannot surely think of giving up to death a man, who has been basely betrayed into your power—a man, infinitely more unfortunate than guilty!—Again I kneel before you to supplicate your pity for him. Oh! could you look into my heart, could you ascertain the dreadful feelings which now pervade it, I am convinced you would be softened to compassion."
"My compassion can easily be obtained (said D'Alembert)—your love."
"Villain! (exclaimed Madeline, rising from the floor), begone! never more will I address you: to God alone will I look, up to him, whose power can in a moment defeat your purposes; he has promised to protect the innocent; I will think of that promise, and support my fainting heart."
"Again then (said D'Alembert), I bid you farewell! you have yourself provoked your father's fate."
With feelings which can better be conceived than described, Madeline saw him quit the chamber. "He is gone then (said she, as she heard him close the door), he is gone for the ministers of justice!" The dreadful and approaching sufferings of her father rushed to her mind; she saw the torturing rack—she beheld his mangled form upon it—she heard his deep groans, expressive of excruciating agony, and the loud shouts of the rabble mocking his pangs, and applauding the hand which inflicted punishment upon the fratricide.
She shrieked aloud; she flew to the door, but it was fastened on the outside: she called upon D'Alembert; she conjured him to return—to return to assure her he would have mercy upon her father; but she called in vain. She then attempted to force the door, but her strength was unequal to the effort. The agony and disappointment she experienced were too much for her; her brain maddened; and wild as the waves which destroy the hopes of the mariners, she raved about the room, till, utterly exhausted by the violence of her emotions, she dropped upon the floor, where her shrieks sunk into groans, which by degrees died away in hollow murmurs, and a total insensibility came over her.
In this situation she must have continued many hours; for when she recovered, she found the gloom of closing day had already pervaded the chamber. Her ideas at first felt confused; but by degrees a perfect recollection of all that had passed returned, and clasping her cold and trembling hands together, she called upon her father.
As she called upon him, she heard a faint noise outside the door; she started, but had not power to rise; and almost immediately it was opened, and the miserable woman she had seen in the morning entered.
"Rise (exclaimed she in a whispering voice), and follow me."
"Whither?" said Madeline, without obeying her.
"To your father; he waits to conduct you from this detestable house. I released him from his chamber, in the door of which D'Alembert left the key when he dragged you from it. But ask me no farther questions; D'Alembert but deferred going for the officers of justice till it grew dark; a moment's delay may therefore be fatal, and cut off all opportunity of escaping."
"Oh! let us fly, let us fly then," said Madeline, starting from the ground.
Softly and silently they descended to the hall, and turned down a long passage, terminated by a flight of steep stone stairs; these they also descended, and Madeline then found herself in a subterraneous room; a faint light glimmered from a recess at the extremity of it, which startled her, and she caught the arm of her companion.
"Her terror, however, was but of short duration; almost instantly the voice of her father reached her ear, and she saw him approaching with extended arms; she sprung forward, and flung herself into them. "Oh! my child (he exclaimed, as he clasped her to his heart), in what a situation do I behold you!"
"My father, my dearest father (cried Madeline), do not let us complain of our situation; Oh! rather let us express our gratitude to that Being who has alleviated it, by giving us a friend who will extricate us from this abode of terror and of death;—but the moments are precious; we should lose no time."
"They are precious indeed (said the old woman); that door (pointing to one in the recess), opens upon a flight of steps which ascend to the court; here is the key of it," continued she, presenting it to St. Julian.
"But how shall we escape from the court?" demanded Madeline.
"Your father will be able with ease to unbar the door; and as Madame Fleury always sits at the back of the house, there is no danger of your being discovered."
"Oh! let us be quick," exclaimed Madeline.
St. Julian advanced to the door; but scarcely had he attempted to open it, when a violent tumult was heard without the court, and immediately after the steps of many people entering it. He paused—listened—and looked at his daughter. Horror almost froze her blood—"They are come (cried she), the ministers of death are come."
"I fear so (said the old woman). Hark! they have entered the house, and are now ranging through the apartments!"
"Is there no hope—is there no way of escaping?" asked Madeline distractedly.
"None (replied the old woman mournfully), but through the court."
"Is there no place of concealment?"
"No."
"Nor any fastening to this door?" advancing to the one through which they had entered.
"None, except a weak bolt that could be burst in a moment."
"Then all hope is over (cried Madeline, turning to her father). Oh! God (she continued, looking up to heaven), take me, take me from this scene of horror! let me die within the arms of my father!"—Almost fainting, she sunk upon his breast.
The tumult within and without became every instant more violent; and it was evident that one party surrounded the house for the purpose of guarding every passage, whilst another searched throughout it.
Madeline suddenly started from the arms of her father, and extinguished the light. "Let us go within the recess (cried she); if they do come down, they may not perhaps do more than merely look into the room." They accordingly crept into it, and placed themselves as close as they possibly could against the wall.
They had not been in this situation above two minutes, when they heard descending steps. "They are coming," cried Madeline, with a panting heart, whilst a cold dew burst from every pore.
She had scarcely spoken, when a light glimmered through the room, and a party of men rushed in it. "He is not here," vociferated one.—"Let us search elsewhere then," exclaimed another.—(Heaven hears our prayers, thought Madeline).—"We will first examine this room (said a third); these subterraneous chambers are generally surrounded with places for concealment."
The heart of Madeline died away at those words; and with a faint cry she sunk to the earth.
"Have pity upon my child (exclaimed the wretched St. Julian, bending over her, whilst the shouts of the men pierced his ears, and re-echoed through the chamber); have pity upon her, and aid me in recovering her ere you tear me from her!"
"Tear you from her! (repeated a voice which made him start from his daughter—the tender, the well-remembered voice of de Sevignie)—Oh! never (cried he, darting from amidst his companions, and snatching the still senseless Madeline from the ground), Oh! never shall Madeline be torn from the arms of her father!"
Something like a ray of hope gleamed upon the mind of St. Julian—"I am all amazement!" exclaimed he.
"You are free—you are safe (said de Sevignie); 'tis friends, not foes, that you behold; but I can give no explanation till this suffering angel is revived."
His promised explanation we shall anticipate in the following Chapter.