stepped a little forward to look for the carriage, and his young bride, who now thought all danger past, embraced me with all the enthusiasm of joy and confidence. At this moment the report of a gun was heard, a ball passed hissing near me; a second followed, and the Countess sank to the ground. Quick as lightning Mongomery flew to the spot, and had sufficient self-possession to dispatch his people in search of the murderers; but they had vanished, and no trace of them could be discovered. Without doubt one of the balls had been destined for the Count, and the other for Clara. Deceived by Clara’s disguise the murderers had doubtless mistaken her for her consort, and myself for the Countess. Clara recovered but for a few seconds; she took the hand of the despairing Mongomery. “If ever you have loved me, said she, swear to fulfil what I request with my dying breath.” He solemnly pledged his word. “I thank you,” said she, “and shall now die content. What I demand of you, is to seek no vengeance, but instantly to fly!” As she faintly breathed forth these last words, she sank into his arms, and her gentle spirit fled to a better world.
No words can paint the agony of Mongomery’s mind, but I aroused him from the stupor of grief, by urging him to fulfil his pledge. In melancholy silence we conveyed the body to a neighbouring convent; I undertook the care of Clara’s interment, and then I prevailed upon him to fly.
As for myself, Madam, I am determined never again to quit this abode of peace, where, totally given up to religious meditation, I shall pray to heaven to grant you its divine consolation as a balm to your affliction, and never, never shall I cease to pray for the peace of the soul of my sweet departed friend.
In the archives of Chateau Mongomery, it is stated, that in the year 1559 a stranger, who called himself Master Lucas, arrived there, and that under his direction a vault was prepared to receive the body of an illustrious lady, whose veiled statue was placed over her tomb. The body, which previously had been buried in a distant convent, arrived during the night. The whole transaction was mysterious, and kept a profound secret.
The greater part of the night had been occupied with copying these letters. I sealed the packet, addressed it to Count Limeuil, as my old friend had directed me, and was about to retire to rest, to enjoy a few hours of slumber before my departure. I had not been so totally absorbed in the tale before me, but what, at different times in the night I thought I heard a noise in the house; this began anew, and increased considerably. Hasty footsteps approached my room, and the servant entered in tears, telling me that during the night my old friend had been taken very ill. He would not, however, allow them to disturb me, but now, as he seemed in a dying state, they thought it their duty to awaken me. I hastened down to my friend’s room, and found the servants in deep distress, and some clergymen and peasants standing round his bed—he had that instant breathed his last! A placid smile played on his venerable features, and what appeared a mystery to the mortal, will doubtless now be to his eternal part, clear harmony and divine truth.
