Clermont/Chapter 9
CHAP. IX.
The sprightly vigour of my youth is fled;
Lonely and sick, on death is all my thought;
Oh! spare, Persephone, this guiltless head;
Love, too much love, is all thy suppliant's fault!
The sadness which marked the brow of Madeline could not escape the notice of Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter; but they were both too delicate to mention it, yet left no effort untried to dissipate it. She had expressed a wish of visiting the Alps: and, in hopes of amusing her, Madame Chatteneuf made her and her daughter take an excursion thither the evening following the day which has already been described, to the cottage of Olivia's nurse.
They set out in a chaise drawn by mules, leaving Madame Chatteneuf engaged at cards with a select party in the banqueting house; and, after travelling about a league, reached the cottage: its situation was romantically beautiful; it stood a little above the foot of a lofty mountain, which was surmounted by others equally tremendous, and overlooked a deep hollow, scattered over with a profusion of wild flowers, darkened by majestic pines, and washed by a clear rivulet, which proceeded from a mountain torrent at some distance: on a little grassy seat before the cottage, the nurse sat working, one of her daughters was milking the goats that browsed around it, and another was seen rambling about the neighbouring heights, gathering the herbs which grew upon them.
The romantic situation of the cottage, the simple appearance of its inhabitants, and their yet more simple occupations, altogether formed a pastoral scene inexpressibly pleasing to Madeline; to whose mind it recalled the scenes she had been so long accustomed to; and she gazed on it with emotions of tenderness, such as she might have felt on seeing features in a stranger which, by some striking resemblance, suddenly brought to view those of a beloved friend.
The nurse threw aside her work, and her daughters forsook their employments, the moment Olivia descended from the chaise, round whom they gathered with the most rapturous delight. She returned their caresses with affection: and enquired most kindly after the nurse's husband and son.
"A few days ago (replied the good woman), they went higher up the Alps, as usual, to keep flocks for the rich herdsmen during the summer months. Winter (she continued), winter, my dear young lady, is my season of happiness, for then I have all my family assembled about me, and we enjoy together the earnings of industry."
Olivia now led Madeline into the house, the interior neatness of which perfectly corresponded with that of its exterior; and from thence into the garden, a wild and romantic spot, which, with a small vineyard, stretched midway up a steep ascent, broken into a variety of grotesque hollows.
—————————Moss-lin'd, and over head,
By flowering umbrage shaded, where the bee
Stray'd diligent, and with th' extracted balm
Of fragrant woodbine fill'd his little thigh.
Oh how noble, how sublime did the prospect appear which Madeline now viewed! she felt struck with astonishment and veneration as she cast her eyes towards the summits of the congregated mountains piled before her; and her heart was more exalted than ever towards the author of such glorious, such stupendous works,
———The Parent of Good, Almighty———
Her fancy pictured the exquisite pleasure which would be derived from exploring their sequestered solitudes; or, on the wings of the morning, penetrating to their innermost recesses. With mingled curiosity and enthusiasm, her mind soothed and delighted, she wandered about, till followed by the nurse, entreating her to sit down and partake with Mam'selle Olivia of the fruit and cream she had brought out for them.
She complied with the entreaties of the good woman, and seated herself by her friend in one of the little hollows already mentioned, which was impregnated with the most delicious fragrance from the herbs that grew about it.
The dun shades of twilight were now beginning to steal o'er the prospect, and touched it with a sombre colouring, which rendered its beauty more interesting, and its solemnity more awful; the gloom, however, was still a little cheered by a yellow track of radiance which the sun, as it revealed its sinking orb between two parted cliffs above, cast along the projection of the hills; but by degrees this radiance faded away, and then the damp and dreary shadows, that had been gathering below, began to ascend; and, as if warned of their approach, the distant tinkling of sheep bells was immediately heard from the heights, intermingled with the rustic melody of shepherds' pipes. Delighted with those pastoral sounds, the enthusiasm of Madeline's soul revived; and with the eye of fancy she beheld the grand, the wonderful, the luxuriant spots from whence they descended. She saw the simple herdsman penning his flock for the night; while his dog, the faithful partner of his toil, as if endued with more than common instinct, watched beside, that none should straggle from the fold. She heard with the ear of fancy the neighbouring shepherds enquiring how each had fared throughout the day; and beheld some hastening to their romantically situated cottages; while others laid them down beneath the shelter of embowering pines; the last beams of the sun glimmering o'er all, as if loath to quit such scenes of innocence and beauty. It was now indeed a time particularly adapted for such fancies as she indulged; a time when all
The fragrant hours, and Elves
Who slept in flowers the day,
And many a nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge,
And sheds the fresh'ning dew; and lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet,
Prepare the shadowy car of eve.
A tender melancholy began to steal over the mind of Madeline; nor was Olivia's entirely free from it: 'twas a melancholy in union with the scene, and which taste and sensibility are so apt to feel and to indulge; as the landscape, that charmed by day, gradually fades upon the sight, and, to the moralizing mind, presents an emblem of the transitory pleasures of life. Silence had returned many minutes ere Olivia or Madeline thought of stirring; they were at length rising for the purpose of departing, when they were again riveted to their seat by the soft breathings of an oboe, which seemed to come from some cliff above them at no great distance. The air was simple, tender, and pathetic; and played in a stile which evinced exquisite taste and feeling in the performer.
"How soft, how sweet, how melodious (cried Mademoiselle Chatteneuf, during the pause of a minute, for till then she and Madeline had been wrapped in attention too profound to permit them either to speak or move), what pathos, what masterly execution: but hark! the echoes revive the strains which we imagined had utterly died away; they seem celestial strains, and almost tempt one to believe the tales of the poets, and ascribe them to the genii of these mountains."
"Lord a mercy, my dear young lady (said the nurse, who only caught the last sentence), what a conceit! from a genius indeed; no, they come from a poor young gentleman, who frequently rambles about the heights, playing such mournful ditties as often and often makes me and my girls weep; and we think, to be sure, he has been crossed in love, and that nothing else could make him so melancholy, and so fond of being alone, and sitting for hours together in the deepest solitude by himself; and a pity it is he should have met with any thing to trouble him, he is so gentle and so handsome, and looks so good."
"Do you know his name?" asked Olivia, whose curiosity was strongly excited.
"No, Mam'selle; but I know he comes from V———, for I asked him one day if he did not, and he said yes."
"And pray how came you to have any conversation with him?" enquired Olivia.
"Why one day, Mam'selle, about a fortnight after I had first noticed him, as he was passing the cottage, he appeared very much fatigued; so I asked him, for I was sitting before the door at work, if he would be pleased to walk in and take some whey; he thanked me courteously, and accepted my invitation, and sat a good bit with me chatting, for all the world with as much affability as if he did not think himself a bit better than me; so, from that time, he seldom comes this way without giving me a call, and frequently takes whey and fruit in the cottage; for which, indeed, in spite of all I can say, he will always pay more than they are worth."
"Is it possible to get a glimpse of him?" asked Olivia.
"Dear heart yes, if you stay a little longer; this is about the time he generally returns to town, and he almost always descends by the path near this recess."
"I will stay a few minutes longer to try if I can see him," said Olivia.
"Pray do not (exclaimed Madeline, laying her hand, which trembled violently, upon Olivia's arm); the darkness increases fast, and if we stay much longer, we shall be quite benighted."
"No, no, there's no danger of that (replied Olivia); but if you wish it I will return immediately: dismiss however, I beseech you, the terrors you have conjured up to alarm you; for if you tremble in this manner, you will scarcely be able to reach the chaise."
It was not any apprehension of danger however which agitated the soul of Madeline, it was the agony of thinking that de Sevignie was the sad and solitary mourner to whose sweet and melancholy strains she had been listening; for in the air she heard she perfectly recollected one she had taught him during his visit at her father's house; and she wished to avoid his presence, least she should betray the emotions a knowledge of his dejection had inspired. Again she pressed Olivia to depart; who, in compliance with her wishes, was moving from the spot, when the nurse hastily exclaimed, "Stop, Mam'selle, stop, he's coming now, for there's his dog. Ah, 'tis a good-natured soul (cried she, patting the head of a large spaniel which suddenly sprung into the garden, and fawned about her); he is a faithful companion to his poor master, and attends him in all his rambles: there he sits for hours at a time, upon a point of rock beside him, looking up in his face while he plays upon the oboe, like any christian, as if he knew his sorrows, and pitied them."
"I think I know that dog," said Olivia.
"Aye, like enough (cried the nurse); and see there comes his master."
Olivia raised her eyes; but the light was too imperfect to let her discern the features of the person descending: but in a few minutes, as he drew nearer, she started, and exclaimed—"Gracious heaven, de Sevignie!" Madeline withdrew her hand involuntarily from Olivia, and reseated herself.
"I thought, indeed (said Olivia), it could be no other than de Sevignie, when I heard of an eccentric being always wandering about those solitudes. Pray (continued she, while overpowered by confusion and surprise, he stood transfixed to the spot where he had first beheld her), have you yet chosen a cell for your retirement? for I suppose you will soon renounce the world and its vanities for ever. But seriously, de Sevignie, 'tis rather unfortunate that you and I should lately have only met at periods when (at least) one of us wished to avoid the other."
His confusion, if possible increased; he knew she alluded to his conduct the last time they had met. "If I ever harboured such a wish (said he), it was because, as I have already told you, I apprehended danger in your company."
As he spoke, his eyes glanced round as if in search of another object, and at last rested on the recess where Madeline sat, whose white robe rendered her conspicuous.
"Mam'selle Clermont (said he) is it not——" advancing to her. She rose at his approach; and, withholding the hand he attempted to take, passed him to Olivia, and again entreated her to return home.
Her curiosity gratified, Olivia no longer hesitated to comply with this entreaty; and they directly left the garden, without taking any farther notice of de Sevignie. Olivia was too much offended, and Madeline too fearful of betraying her feelings, to bid him farewell. That fear, however, was soon lost in the superior one she felt at the idea of his going the solitary road that lay between the cottage and the town by himself; and she stood hesitatingly at the door of the chaise; wishing to declare her apprehensions, yet dreading to do so, least she should betray her feelings.
De Sevignie, in the mean time, heart-struck by the manner in which she had declined his notice, remained some minutes fixed on the spot where she had left him. "Oh, Madeline! (he sighed), is it thus you heighten the pangs, the anguish you have caused me. Yet, alas (he continued), why do I accuse her? unwillingly she caused that anguish; and how, without knowing, can she pity it: but am I assured her pity would follow that knowledge?—no; her averted looks give me no reason to suppose it would." Slowly he quitted the garden, and, passing through the cottage, to his infinite surprise, found she was not yet departed. Hurt, however, by her coldness, he merely bowed to her and Olivia; and was hastening away, when the latter, who saw through the motives of Madeline's delay, and determined to gratify her, though somewhat offended with de Sevignie, exclaimed, "so you are decamping, without having the gallantry to offer your protection."
"The assurance, you should say (cried de Sevignie, returning), conscious as I am that I have (though heaven knows how unintentionally), offended you."
"Well, I'll forgive you this once; so you may hand us into the chaise, and take a seat yourself."
"But will your friend, Mam'selle Clermont, be equally generous," asked he.
"Oh, I dare say she will follow a good example; what say you, my dear?" cried Olivia, turning to her.
"I cannot pardon, because I have not been offended," said Madeline in much confusion, too clearly perceiving that Olivia suspected the state of her heart.
"Nor never may you be by me (cried de Sevignie, with fervour, and taking her hand), for then I should be wretched indeed. Oh, Madeline! (he continued in a low voice though I dread your smiles, I could not bear your frowns."
He handed Olivia first into the chaise; and thus contrived to have Madeline next to himself; something he would have said to her after they were seated in a low voice; but she turned her head from him, and entered into conversation with Olivia. Her hand he took however in spite of her efforts to withstand it; nor resigned it till they stopped at Madame Chatteneuf's. After handing them into the house, he bade them adieu; but it was a most unwilling adieu; for he hesitated as he spoke, and lingered on the threshold instead of departing. He was at length turning from it, when Olivia suddenly invited him to supper; and it struck Madeline that she had only delayed doing so for the purpose of teasing him. He accepted the invitation; and they all repaired to the banqueting-house, where Madame Chatteneuf and her friends were still engaged at cards, and enjoying the fragrance and refreshing coolness of the evening air.
Olivia gave an account of their excursion; and made de Sevignie colour highly by hinting at the manner in which they had met him, and at what she had heard from the nurse concerning him.
The light gave Madeline an opportunity of observing the strong expression of grief his countenance betrayed: he seemed even more altered than when she had before seen him. Pale and languid, the fire of his eyes was fled, and the discomposure of his hair, which the mountain breeze had blown carelessly about his face, heightened its sad expression. He appeared no longer desirous to shun her; on the contrary, he betrayed the strongest anxiety to be near her: but, notwithstanding her pity, her affection for him, pride determined her to avoid attentions which she imputed to the mere impulse of unguarded tenderness: for she could not bear to be one day the object of his particular notice, and the next of his pointed neglect. She accordingly placed herself at the card-table, in such a manner as to prevent his sitting by her; and, with a look of unutterable disappointment, he turned away, and entered into conversation with Olivia, if that could be called conversation, which consisted, on one side, of laconic answers, and, on the other, of questions relative to the motives which made him so fond of solitary rambles.
Unable to bear the dejection of his looks, Madeline fixed her eyes upon the card-table, as if intently watching the game, though in reality she knew not what was played. But she could not, by this measure, save her heart from one pang; for, though her eye was averted from the melancholy of his countenance, her ear was still open to the soft melancholy of his voice; and scarcely could she conceal the emotions it gave her. The entrance of a servant with a letter to her, that instant come from the Countess de Merville, somewhat relieved her from this painful situation. She started up; and, retiring to a little distance from the table, read as follows:—
To mademoiselle Clermont.
"Will my dear Madeline return to-morrow to solitude and her friend. She may accuse me of selfishness for so soon recalling her; and perhaps with justice, considering the pleasure and benefit attending her return will be so materially on my side: but, as it is a failing so prevalent among mankind, I trust, from its being so general, it may be excused. I cannot, as I intended, call for her; but shall hope and expect to receive from the hands of Madame Chatteneuf, and her amiable daughter, the precious charge I entrusted to her care. The natural eloquence of my Madeline will, I trust, prevent any disappointment; who, in believing me her sincere friend, will only do justice to
Elvira de Merville."
Madeline guessed the purpose of this letter ere she opened it, consequently it gave her no surprise. She placed her friend's anxiety for her return to the account of de Sevignie, whom she knew she wished her to avoid; a wish she felt it necessary to comply with, if she desired the return of tranquillity.
She handed the letter to Madame Chatteneuf; who, fearful it contained some unpleasant tidings, had laid aside her cards the moment it was brought in. Her regret and Olivia's at losing her so soon, was expressed in the most flattering terms; and they promised to attend her to the chateau the next morning. A heavy sigh from de Sevignie at this moment reached her ear. She involuntarily raised her eyes, but again bent them to the ground, on perceiving his fastened on her with the most melancholy earnestness.
The Countess's servant she was told waited for an answer; and she now hastened to the house to give one. In the hall she met him, and had the satisfaction of hearing that his lady was well. Her answer finished, she would have preferred retiring to her chamber to returning to the company, so oppressed was her heart, but that she knew her doing so would excite enquiries, and perhaps unpleasant remarks.
Slowly she pursued her way back to the banqueting house, and had reached the centre of the long and darkly shaded walk which led to it; when a sudden rustling among the trees on one side, made her pause, from a sensation of fear, and an uncertainty whether by advancing or retreating she should put herself more in the way of danger, if indeed, any threatened her; the pain of suspense was however terminated in a minute by the appearance of de Sevignie. She started; and his thus seeming to watch for her, gave her emotions which agitated her whole frame; she tried however to check them, and was again proceeding when he stopped her—
"Will you not bid me farewell then (said he in a reproachful voice), ere we part?"
"Part! (repeated Madeline) don't you sup with Madame Chatteneuf?"
"No; I feel myself extremely ill, and have just apologised to her. You return then to-morrow (he continued), to the chateau; and you know not perhaps when you may revisit this town?"
"No (said Madeline), I do not."
"To me indeed, it is of little consequence to know (cried he), for I propose to leave it soon myself; would to heaven I had done so some days ago. Yet how can I tear myself from a place where I know there is a chance of beholding you:—oh, Madeline, to do so requires a resolution I am scarcely master of."
"I dare say (exclaimed Madeline, endeavouring to rally her spirits, and disengage the hand which he had taken between his), you'll not find any great difficulty in acquiring such a resolution."
"You doubt my sincerity then (still detaining her); oh! would to heaven I could, I durst convince you of it: yet, alas, why do I utter such a wish, when I know not whether that conviction would be of any consequence to you; know not, do I say?—your altered manner too plainly assures me that it would not."
"Pray let me go (cried Madeline, inexpressibly agitated); I am impatient to return to Madame Chatteneuf, for I know she will wonder at my long absence."
"Go then, madam (said de Sevignie, instantly dropping her hand);—go, madam to the happy beings you regard, and excuse my having detained you so long from them: I see you are displeased at my having done so; I see my society is hateful to you. There was a period when---(he paused, then again proceeded)—when I imagined Madeline Clermont would rather have sought to mitigate than fly from the sorrows of a friend; would have enjoyed an exquisite pleasure in fulfilling the claim, the sacred claim, which misery has upon compassion."
"Oh, de Sevignie (thought Madeline), how little do you know my heart when you thus reproach me. Your society hateful to me!—alas 'tis infinitely too precious for my peace."
"I am sure (said she, speaking with almost as much agitation as he had done), I am sure—I wish—I should be happy was it in my power, to remove, to lessen any sorrow you may feel."
"You wish—you should be happy—(he repeated in a softened voice, as if touched by her gentleness).—Yes, Madeline (again taking her hand), I am convinced of the sincerity of that wish; and nothing, no, nothing but a degree of madness could have tempted me to reproach you as I have just done;—could have tempted me to ask your pity for feelings which I wished, from principles of honour, gratitude, generosity, to conceal from you. Oh, Madeline, I cannot ask your pardon, for I cannot myself pardon my conduct to you."
"Unasked would I give it (cried Madeline), had I been offended, but that be assured is not the case."
At this instant a distant step was heard; both started; and Madeline instantly attempted to disengage herself.
"Do not leave me yet (cried de Sevignie), it may be long ere we meet again; long do I say? alas, we may never, never meet again!—Spare a few minutes longer to me; let us turn into this walk (pointing to the one he had just emerged from), and we shall not be observed; though I said but an instant ago, I would not solicit your pity, yet my heart now tells me, that an assurance of it can only mitigate its wretchedness."
"Receive that assurance then (said Madeline, making another effort as she gave it to withdraw her hand; for, though she wished, she feared to comply with his request. Her reason opposed her inclination for doing so, by representing the folly, the impropriety of any longer listening to the dictates of a passion which she had cause to believe a hopeless one). But excuse me (she continued) from staying any longer with you; the step which alarmed us approaches, and I should be sorry we were seen together."
"Farewell! then (he exclaimed), most lovely and most beloved; I regret, but cannot murmur at your refusal: may the happiness you deserve be yours, and be not only pure as your virtues, but lasting as your life: may every change in that life, be to raise you to still higher felicity: and when you make that great that important change which will fix its destiny;—when you give the precious hand I now hold to some happy, some highly-favoured mortal, some peculiar favourite of heaven,—oh, may you then meet with a heart as tenderly, as firmly devoted to you as de Sevignie's." These last words were spoken almost in a whisper; and Madeline felt by his hands the tremor of his frame. "Farewell! (he cried, after the pause of a minute); if I have pained, if I have disturbed you, let the idea of my never more intruding into your presence banish all resentment for my having done so."
He rested his cold cheek for a moment upon her hand; then suddenly letting it drop, he instantly darted amongst the trees and disappeared.
An icy chillness crept through the frame of Madeline, at the idea of seeing de Sevignie no more. She listened with fixed attention to the sound of his steps, till they could no longer be distinguished; then, starting, she wrung her hands together, and exclaimed—"He is gone, and we shall never, never meet again!"
Every hope relative to him now become extinct; hopes which, notwithstanding the alteration in his manner, had lingered in her heart till this moment; hopes which had cheered her in the long period that separated them, by making her look forward to a second meeting, in which he should disclose sentiments he had before only revealed by his eyes. That meeting had taken place,—those sentiments had been disclosed; but, instead of promoting her happiness as she expected, had, for the present at least, destroyed it; and she wept that crisis to which but a few days before she had looked forward with the most flattering expectations.
Yet not for herself alone she wept, her tears fell also for the wretchedness of de Sevignie; and she regretted having refused to stay a little longer with him, falsely imagining their parting, if less abrupt, would have been less painful. "He prayed for my felicity (she cried); but, oh, de Sevignie, except assured of yours, how unavailing must that prayer ever be!"
The voice of Mademoiselle Chatteneuf calling on her, now roused her from her mecholy musing. She instantly conjectured it was her step which had driven off de Sevignie; and, wiping away her tears, advanced, though but slowly, to meet her.
"Why you must have written a volume instead of a letter, if you have been all this time employed in writing (said Olivia the moment she saw her); but the truth I suppose is, that de Sevignie intruded disagreeably upon you, and delayed you."
"No, he did not I assure you," said Madeline.
"You have seen him however, since you quitted the banqueting house."
"Yes; I met him as I was returning to it."
"And you stopped no doubt (cried Olivia), to wish him good-night."
"Well, supposing I had, would there have been any thing extraordinary in such a common act of civility?"
"No to be sure, nor in his detaining you almost an hour to thank you for it: though he pretended to us the moment you were gone, that he was taken so ill he could scarcely speak or stop another moment. Pray, Madeline, did he tell you the nature of his malady?"
"I never enquired," answered Madeline, blushing.
"But he might have told you without asking; and I shrewdly suspect he did. Pray did he ask you to prescribe for him?"
"Prescribe for him! (said Madeline, pretending not to understand her meaning) do you suppose he took me for an old nurse?"
"No indeed (replied Olivia), I suppose no such thing; but I am not so certain that he would be wrong in taking you for a young nurse."
"I have not spirits to answer you (cried Madeline); so be generous, and do not take advantage of my inability."
"And pray to whose account may I place your dejection," asked Olivia.
"To whose you please; I may as well have the pleasure of giving you a latitude which, whether I please or not, you will take."
"Well, I won't tease you any more (said Olivia); but let us quicken our pace, for supper waits."
They accordingly hastened to the banqueting-house, and the whole party then sat down to supper.
"I am sorry (cried Madame Chatteneuf), that de Sevignie could not stay with us to-night. Poor fellow, he looked extremely ill; but indeed I think he has done so for some days past."
"Yes, and so do I (said Olivia). I trust, however, his malady is not of an incurable nature;" and she glanced archly at Madeline.
"Heaven forbid it was (cried her mother, who took her in a serious light); I know few people whom, on so short an acquaintance, I should so much regret as de Sevignie; there is an elegance, a sweetness in his manner, which declare a soul of benevolence and refinement; he does not by slow degrees conciliate esteem, but, on the first interview, excites a pre-possession in his favour; which, upon a greater knowledge, you have the pleasure of finding no reason to regret; so that though an interesting, he is not a dangerous, acquaintance."
"Let us ask Mademoiselle Clermont's opinion as to that (cried Olivia). Why do you blush, my dear; you know you have been acquainted with the Chevalier a much longer period than my mother has, and of course can better determine whether he is or is not a dangerous creature."
"No one I am sure (said Madeline, endeavouring to suppress her confusion), can ever doubt the justness of Madame Chatteneuf's discernment."
"Ah, Madeline (cried Olivia in a low voice), I see you can some times be guarded."
"Would to heaven I had been so in matters more material than the present," thought Madeline.
When she found herself again alone in her chamber, she again regretted not having staid a little longer with de Sevignie. "It was a last request (said she), and I might on that account have complied with it; he might then have opened his whole soul to me: he might then have revealed the whole circumstances which oppose his wishes:—yet, alas! of what use could it be to know them, since separated it could give little consolation to know by what means."
But, notwithstanding those words, Madeline wished to know them; it was a wish however which, she was convinced, would never be gratified; for, though she was sure de Sevignie had no reason to blush in avowing them, she was equally sure he never would do so.
Madame Chatteneuf's coach was ordered the next morning at an early hour, as she wished to spend a long day with her friend; but an unexpected circumstance retarded her journey to the chateau till a late hour. Just as she was setting out, a letter arrived from Verona, from a sister of her deceased mother's, who had married an Italian nobleman, and had long been settled in Italy, informing her, that her lord was no more; and that, finding herself oppressed in spirits, and declining in health, she ardently longed for the society of her niece, feeling herself rather forlorn, now that she had lost her husband, in a place where she had no connexions of her own about her. Moreover, that as he had left every thing in her power, and she intended making a will in favour of her niece, it was absolutely necessary she should be with her at the time of her death.
Affection for her aunt, whom she tenderly esteemed, and consideration for her daughter's interest, to whose fortune the possessions of her aunt would make a very splendid addition, determined Madame Chatteneuf to accept this invitation without delay; and she immediately ordered preparations to be made for her journey the ensuing day; and, in overlooking those preparations, and arranging domestic concerns, was detained at her house till within a short time of the Countess de Merville's usual dinner hour.
Amidst all the bustle that was going forward, Madeline sat motionless, and in the deepest dejection. She regretted the intended departure of her friends, not only as a means of depriving her of the exquisite pleasure she enjoyed in their company, but as a means of destroying her hopes of again beholding de Sevignie; for, notwithstanding what he had said, she was convinced he would continue a little longer at V———; and she had flattered herself that the Countess would again have permitted her to visit Madame Chatteneuf, and thus have afforded her once more an opportunity of seeing him; an opportunity she could not help sighing for, though now assured their attachment was hopeless.
In their way to the chateau, Olivia made her promise to correspond with her; a promise which Madeline gave with pleasure, yet with diffidence from a fear that she might not prove as entertaining a correspondent as her friend expected.
On entering the chateau, a presage of ill struck her heart at not beholding the Countess, who generally came forward to the hall with a smiling countenance, like the genius of hospitality, to welcome her friends.
"Where is your lady?" asked Madeline, turning to one of the servants.
"Above, Mam'selle, in her dressing-room; she has been rather indisposed to-day."
Madeline heard no more. Heedless, or rather forgetful at that moment of all ceremony, she instantly flew up stairs, leaving Madame Chatteneuf busy in ordering her servants to have the coach ready at an early hour), and found her friend sitting, or rather reclining, in a great chair, with an appearance of illness and dejection, which equally surprised and alarmed Madeline.
"Oh, madam! (said she inexpressibly affected, and taking her hand, which she pressed to her lips and her bosom), why, why did you not send for me before?"
"Because I did not wish to break in upon your happiness," replied the Countess returning the pressure of her hand, while her heavy eyes brightened with a sudden ray of pleasure, and a smile broke through the gloom of her countenance.
"Alas, madam (cried Madeline mournfully), you could not have broken in upon my happiness, for I experienced none (said she, suddenly recollecting herself), which I could have put in competition with that of attending you."
"I am truly sensible of your affection, my love (cried the Countess), and am grateful for it."
"You must have been indisposed longer than to-day I am sure, madam?" said Madeline.
The Countess acknowledged she was right in thinking so.
"And why, madam (said Madeline), did you permit your servant to deceive me last night by saying you were well?"
"I did not wish to give you pain while it was possible to avoid doing so," answered the Countess.
"Ah, madam (said Madeline, with an involuntary sigh), pain is doubly great when not expected."
Madam Chatteneuf and her daughter now entered, and both, by their words and looks, expressed their regret for the illness of the Countess. The former tenderly reproached her for not having immediately acquainted them of it.
"Why you may know (said she) by the short stay which Madeline has made with you, that I have not long concealed it from you. I was only taken ill the evening after she left me; and, had I grown better, I should yet a little longer, in compliance with your wishes, have debarred myself the pleasure of her company. But do not distress me (she continued, raising herself in her chair, and looking round with her wonted benignancy), by this melancholy; I am already better; your presence, my friends, like a rich and precious cordial, has revived me."
The exertion she made cheered her friends; and the conversation soon took a more cheerful turn. Madame Chatteneuf apologised for not coming at an earlier hour, by assigning the reason of her delay; and the Countess sincerely congratulated her on an event which had given her such pleasure.
"From the prospects of my friends (cried she), I must now derive my chief satisfaction."
"If they are as bright as your own (said Madame Chatteneuf) they must be pleasing ones indeed."
The Countess sighed deeply, but spoke not.
Olivia saw dejection again stealing round, and rallied her spirits to drive it away. No very difficult task indeed for her, as she was delighted with the idea of her journey to Italy. She talked of the conquests she expected to make; declared nothing less than a Marquis would satisfy her: and said the moment she was settled in her palace, she should invite the Countess and Madeline to it.—"And we will then try (she continued), whether our fair friend will follow my example, and give her little French heart in exchange for an Italian one."
"Seriously (cried Madame Chatteneuf, addressing the Countess), if we stay any long time at Verona, I shall flatter myself with a hope of having the pleasure of your company and Mademoiselle Clermont's."
"Do not indulge such a hope (said the Countess); for, be assured, my good friend, it would end in disappointment. There is but one journey which I can now look forward to."
The solemnity of her voice and manner, gave them no room to doubt the nature of the journey she alluded to.
"My dear friend (cried Madame Chatteneuf) you will really infect me with your gloom, and I shall begin my long and fatiguing journey with quite a heavy heart. At your time of life you may well look forward to many years. And, as I know of none whose continuance in life is more anxiously desired, so neither do I know of any who should more fervently desire that continuance themselves than you should, possessed as you are of every blessing which can render it happy—affluence—universal esteem—the consciousness of deserving it—and an amiable daughter who adores you, and is settled as happily as your fond heart can wish her to be."
"I am truly sensible of the blessings I possess (cried the Countess), and truly grateful for them, impute my melancholy not to discontent, but to illness."
Dinner was now served in the dressing-room; and, soon after its removal, Madame Chatteneuf rose to depart, having many important matters yet to arrange at home. She assured the Countess, but for the material reasons she had for hastening to Verona, she would have put off her journey thither till she saw her perfectly recovered. This was a measure the Countess declared she never would have consented to, and one by no means necessary to prove the strength of her friendship.
Madeline attended her friends down stairs, and in the hall received their adieu. She wept as they gave it; for their pleasing manners and kind attentions had inspired her with the truest regard.
"Farewell! Madeline (said Olivia, tenderly embracing her); remember your promise of constantly writing; and may heaven grant us all a happy meeting to make amends for this melancholy parting."
"Amen!" said Madeline in a faint voice as she followed her to the coach, where Madame Chatteneuf was already seated, and which now drove off without any farther delay.
Perhaps no sound strikes the heart with greater melancholy than the sound of the carriage which conveys from us the friends we tenderly love, in whose society we have been happy, and whom we know not when we shall behold again. At least Madeline thought so; and her tears were augmented as she stood listening at the hall door to the heavy rumbling of Madame Chatteneuf's coach wheels. "Heaven grant we may have a happy meeting (cried she, repeating the words of Olivia): and yet, was I to give way to the present feelings of my heart, I should little expect such a meeting; but I will not (continued she, turning from the door to rejoin the Countess), I will not deserve evil by anticipating it."