DE MONTMORENCY:
A N O
V E L,
F O U N D E D
O N
A R E C E N T
F A C T:
INTERSPERSED
With the Translation
of an
O R I G I N A L M A N U S C R I P T,
FOUND IN THE
B A S T I
L E.
I N T W O
V O L U M E S.
V O L. I.
PRINTED BY J. S.
BARR,
M DCC XC.
[Five Shillings
sewed.]
T H E
D U K E OF O R
L E A N S.
May
it please your Highness,
AT a time when your countrymen are setting an
example to surrounding nations, by their noble struggle in favour of the natural rights of mankind, when there is every reason to
conclude their efforts will be crowned with success, and that you will shortly
have the pleasure of seeing your own country as free as
that which you have now chosen for your present residence, I hope your Highness
will not be offended by an Englishman’s presuming
to congratulate you upon the glorious occasion.
Although those who now compose the National Assembly are arduously and
meritoriously employed in new-modelling and framing a Constitution that shall,
at least, have the promise of securing happiness to succeeding ages, and upon
that account will be entitled to the thanks and praises of those who shall
enjoy the blessings their labours will bestow; yet how much more is due to
those who, in the first instance, stood forth, at all hazards, to check the
strides of Despotism and unfurl the banners of Freedom; by that step Liberty was invited to take up her residence on the Gallic shore, and every
Citizen promised a participation in her blessings—those names will form a proud list in the
Historian’s page, nor will they receive a small addition to the honour of being
recorded as their country’s best friends, by that of Orleans appearing at the head of them, as the day your Highness, the Nobles
and Clergy united, must ever be considered by the people of France as the day
on which their emancipation from a state bordering on slavery began to dawn,
and that independent band the phalanx which effected it.
There are not wanting those who still think your Highness ought not to
have quitted the scene of action until the glorious work was complete, while
others, and by far the greatest number, reflecting upon your near connection
with the Sovereign on the throne, the discontents of many tools of power who
find their interest affected by the Revolution, and how easily popular
prejudice is established when the public mind is inflamed and the populace
unruly, candidly admit, that your retreat was proper in the eye of Prudence,
and may be justified by
the voice of Reason; and happy would it be for Great Britain if some of her
leading men had as fair a claim to real Patriotism as has been
clearly evinced by the actions of your Highness.
This Address, dictated by a stranger even to your Highness’s person,
could not be suspected of
breathing the spirit of adulation though it had borne more the appearance of panygeric, for it would not then have exceeded the limits
of truth—He who has thus presumed conceived that nothing which tended to expose
the evils from which you, in part, have been the happy means of rescuing your
country could be objectionable to your Highness; that was his sole motive for
prefixing this to the following pages—To point out the miseries that arose from the Bastile is the intention of De Montmorency, and to
attempt doing justice to him who was foremost in abolishing them that of, may
it please your Highness,
your Serene Highness’s
most obedient,
and very humble servant,
The Publisher.
DE MONTMORENCY.
C H A P T E R
I.
Family Anecdotes—A scheme to gain
riches over-
turned by love, and a marriage the cause of
retirement.
A LONG train of illustrious ancestors could Hubert de
Montmorency boast of—He could recount the many glorious actions that had been
performed by them for their country—He could shew many standards which they had
taken from the enemy in battle,—and he could exult in the knowledge that the honor of the Montmorencies had
never been sullied by an unworthy action.—But this was all—the fortune of his
ancestors had been wasted away, by their endeavours to support the splendor of their birth, and nothing was left for him but
the ancient family seat, and a very small territory round it.
Hubert
de Montmorency had endeavoured when young to remedy this want of fortune, and
for that purpose had entered into the army.—He had not disgraced the name he
bore—his country had acknowledged the obligations she owed him—his Sovereign
had conferred on him the CROIX DE ST. LOUIS—but he obtained no more—instead of
increasing his fortune, he had lessened it—for it was expected that a
Montmorency should support the lustre of his name, by a proportionable
expence, and by being unwilling to deceive those
expectations, he had spent more than his small patrimony would allow.
Finding,
therefore, that as a soldier he could not obtain the favors
of fortune, the idea started into his imagination to seek them by an alliance
with the daughter of some wealthy nobleman, to which the dignity of his birth
gave him a sufficient claim.
Had
his breast been a stranger to the tender passions he perhaps might have
succeeded—but tho’ courageous as the lion, he was
also gentle as the lamb.—He could feel for the unhappy, he could shed a tear
for the miserable.—It is in such hearts that love delights to fix his
residence.
He
became acquainted with an old officer, the descendant of a noble family, but
like himself—poor.—He had an only daughter, De Montmorency saw her and
immediately his prospects of increasing his fortune by marriage vanished, and
his resolutions were all forgotten. He loved her, and that love was sincere, as
it was ardent; for dishonor and De Montmorency were
names which were never joined together.—Their love was mutual, and they were married.
De Montmorency found himself as happy as mortal could be—but his expences were increased, and he experienced, that to remain
in the army, would only reduce him to poverty—He laid therefore his commission
at the foot of his sovereign, and retired to Montmorency, the seat of his
ancestors, possessed of an amiable wife, and the Croix de St. Louis.
In
this retirement, enjoying happiness and tranquility
they lived; though a sigh would often escape Hubert, at the thoughts of a
Montmorency being thus buried in obscurity, and as it were forgotten.
C H A P T E R II.
A Birth—a Death—and a Resolution
broke by
the calls of Nature.
IT was his constant wish that he might have
no children, and the knowledge of his not being able to leave them sufficient
to support the dignity of their births occasioned this wish—He was, however,
disappointed.
Madame
de Montmorency, a year after their marriage, was delivered of a son,—ominous of
future misfortunes was his birth, for the exertions used in giving him life,
occasioned his mother’s death.
De
Montmorency’s happiness was centered
in his wife—He had not rendered the idea of her death familiar to his mind—it
came, therefore, with increased effect.—He was delirious, and shutting himself
in the chamber where she died, vowed never to stir out of it, or to behold
another human creature—he adhered to this resolution for some time.—An old
domestic, whose silver locks betrayed a long and faithful servitude,—had tried
all means to entice him from his solitude—they were ineffectual.
He
hit, however, on an expedient, that at length succeeded, and recalled De
Montmorency to himself, and to the world. He begged leave to see his master for
the last time, in order to take his leave of him.—De Montmorency granted his
request—the old faithful servant dropping on his knees to his master, and
shedding a flood of tears, begged him not to indulge a grief that was even
impious.
He
reminded him how incompatible it was with his birth and the name he bore—and
last of all drew his infant son from under his garment, and asked him if he
wished his offspring should be left friendless and unprotected—or, if he
thought he had no claim to his tenderness and instructions. De Montmorency had
remained unmoved by the first part of his domestic’s speech, but the last,
touched him—he looked at his son, whose uplifted hands seemed to beg
protection,—turned away his head in order to conceal his emotions, but finding
it impossible wept aloud.
When
he was somewhat recovered, he took the child in his arms and kissed it, “Yes,
my son, said he, I will live for thee”—and immediately De Montmorency gave up
his intentions, and returned to his former way of life.
He
resolved to employ his whole time in educating his son, in forming his mind to
noble and virtuous pursuits,—but the house in which he lived brought to his
mind the remembrance of his wife too tenderly—It called his attention from his
son. He therefore removed from it, and with his boy and the old faithful
domestic retired to a kind of hermitage in the recesses of a wood, at the
extremity of his estate.
C H A P T E R III.
Advice
for a Soldier.
CHARLES De MONTMORENCY, the name he had given his son;
grew up apace—he was the exact image of his father—tall, perfectly well made,
and with a dignity of countenance, equal to the lustre of his name.
The instructions of his parent were not thrown away upon him—He
discovered a great facility of comprehension, but his favorite
study was military tactics.—Often would he make his father repeat the actions
of his ancestors, his face glowing, and his eyes sparkling with rapture when
any glorious atchievement was mentioned—frequently,
in the middle of the recital, would he on a sudden start up, and with a
peculiar emphasis of voice and look, intreat of
Heaven to place him in a situation to prove himself not unworthy of bearing the
name of Montmorency. Hubert by these early symptoms, discovered that his son
had a prepossession for a military life, and he was resolved not to disappoint
him.
When
he had attained his twentieth year, he determined that he should enter into the
army. The intelligence made the heart of Charles bound with rapture, nor could
the approaching departure from his father, or the dangers he was going to
encounter, damp the transports of his mind. The day of departure at length
arrived, and Hubert desiring his son to come and receive his last instructions
in his closet, spoke to him in the following words. “My dear boy, you are going
from me, to enter into a world, which you will find unjust, cruel, and
oppressive—into a way of life, in which your ancestors have eminently
signalized themselves before you—all the advice I shall give you, is, to
remember that you bear the name of Montmorency, a name, which has been, which
is, renowned throughout all Europe.
If
you forget not that, I think, you will neither act dishonestly as a man, or
unworthily as a soldier—Here my boy, is the very sword with which your
grandfather obtained all his glory—take, and use it as nobly as he has
done—take also this letter; present it to your sovereign—He cannot have
forgotten the actions of your ancestors, and will provide for you
accordingly.—And now farewell!—The god of battles dispose of you as he thinks
fit; if it be his pleasure that you should fall, oh! may it be covered with
honour and with glory,—and I shall not murmer at his
decree—Farewell, my boy, for the last time, and again and again I beseech you
to remember that you bear the name of Montmorency.”
Charles,
whose spirits had not been damped before, could not restrain a tear which fell
down his cheek—this he quickly wiped away and after having promised to conduct
himself with honor, and having received the blessings
of a father, he departed for Paris.
C H A P T E R IV.
A change
of Life and a reverse of Fortune.
DE MONTMORENCY when he arrived in the capital,
presented his father’s letter to his sovereign, who received him very
graciously, and gave him a commission in a regiment which was on the point of
sailing for America.
This could not but be agreeable to a young soldier who burned with
impatience to draw his sword in defence of his country—He joined the regiment,
which embarked immediately.
The winds were prosperous, but Charles complained of them, and was
impatient to tread upon the shores of the new world.
His wishes were at length accomplished—They arrived at their destined
port, and the first who leaped on the beach, was De Montmorency.
Every thing seemed to favour his desires.—The regiment in which he
served was ordered, soon after it arrived, to attack the English.
When Charles was informed of it, his heart danced with joy—“Now, said
he, to himself, will I convince my father that I am not unworthy of the name I
bear—now will I prove, to him that I am a Montmorency”—but as the soldier’s fate
is uncertain, the evening before the battle, he wrote the following letter to
his father.
“Sir,
“We are now in sight of the enemy’s camp—The soldiers are preparing for
battle, and to-morrow we are to attack the foe.
“From the duties of my station, as a soldier, I have stolen, for a
moment, to discharge my duty as a son—you will wish to know how I feel—I assure
my father that I am calm and composed—that I am determined not to sully a long
illustrious line of ancestors by an unworthy and a cowardly behaviour, or to
disappoint the expectations of a tender parent.
“In the breast of him alone who “directs the arrow, and who points the
dart” is my fate—perhaps I may fall—if I do let it be some consolation to my
father, that his son fell not unworthy the name of
DE MONTMORENCY.”
Solemnly and slowly retreated the night, as tho’
unwilling to let the cruel day begin its reign, and light mankind to shed the
blood of one another.
The
feathered creation seemed for once to enjoy the blessings of reason and
humanity, and far from the tented field flew with abhorrence and disgust—all
but the savage vulture—he alone remained behind, and with a grim pleasure
hovered in the air, beholding the preparations for battle and for slaughter
with secret rapture and delight.
De
Montmorency was up, and in his post the first—the drum beat to arms—The whole
regiment was soon in readiness, and began their march—The enemy were not behind
hand—They advanced to meet them. Midway between both camps, both armies
halted,—a pause! a solemn stilness prevailed for a
moment, such as pervades the air before the earthquake begins, or the tempest
rages. It was but the harbinger of horror.—The battle began with fury on both
sides—a dreadful carnage ensued. Their ammunition being expended, both armies
advanced with their swords drawn, and their bayonets fixed. It was now that De
Montmorency displayed his courage. He was in the post of danger, and behaved
nobly. He fought like a lion—his valour animated the troops—they performed
wonders—but victory was not theirs.
The
English forced them to retreat off the field.
De
Montmorency was in despair, he could hardly be prevailed upon from throwing
himself into the thickest of the enemy’s troops, and when he returned to his
camp retired to his tent, overwhelmed with sadness and with sorrow.
The
Colonel who had beheld his courage, sent for him to his tent, bestowing on his
behaviour the most flattering encomiums, and raised him to the rank of captain.
Our
young hero was so overjoyed, that he could only answer by a low bow—he retired
to his tent to acquaint his father with his new dignity, and with the
approbation he had been honoured with by his colonel.
The
next day the enemy struck their tents and began their march. De Montmorency
with a chosen body of men was ordered to harrass
them—He obeyed with alacrity, and proceeded silently ’till he came to a wood
close to a narrow defile, through which the enemy he knew must pass; here he
planted his men in ambuscade, and as soon as they advanced poured a whole
volley of shot in upon them,—this occasioned a dreadful slaughter—He bade his
men charge a second time and fire, and then thought it most prudent to retire.
He
had almost gained the extremity of the wood, when the enemy on a sudden
surprised him and hemmed his little army on all sides. Our hero was
desperate—he drew his sword, and bidding his men fix their bayonets, resolved
to fight his way through the enemy’s ranks.
The
English received his attack with spirit—De Montmorency and his soldiers were
overpowered, forced to lay down their arms and submit—He was immediately
conducted to the Colonel, to whom he delivered his sword with a silent and
dejected air.
But
the Colonel who could admire courage even in an enemy, returned it him again,
bestowing at the same time many encomiums on the courage he had shewn.
The
English were going to join the grand army, and De Montmorency, as a prisoner of
war was forced to accompany them—to Charlestown, where he remained some months,
’till it was thought proper to send the French prisoners to their own country
on their paroles d’honneur.
He then set sail for France, penetrated with gratitude at the friendly
manner in which he had been treated—and after a short passage arrived safe in
native country.
C H A P T E R V.
Excessive
joy the parent of transcient grief.
HE stopped not at Paris, but
immediately set off for the abode of his father. His horse he left at a
neighbouring village, resolving to walk the rest of the way, and to hit upon
some method in order not to surprise his father with his presence too suddenly.
Hubert de Montmorency had found the hours pass slowly on, since the
departure of his son,—he engrossed all his thoughts, and he found it impossible
to pursue his former studies with perseverance.
The
morning of our Hero’s arrival, Hubert was indulging himself with a walk on the
road which led to the Village—He saw his son at some distance—He thought it was
a delusion, and that his eyes deceived him. Charles, who was buried deep in
thought, beheld not his father ’till he had got almost close up to him—he
lifted up his head—the author of his existence stood before him—He sprung to
his embrace—this was too much for Hubert to bear—he pressed his son feebly in
his arms, and fainted away.
Charles
was almost distracted, and ran about like a madman for assistance—none could be
found—He returned to his father, still he lay senseless on the ground—In this
extremity the thought of breathing a vein fortunately occurred to him—he felt in
his pocket for his penknife, and laid hold of his parent’s arm, but his hand
trembled so, that he was forced to let it drop—summoning, however, all his
resolution, he took hold of his father’s arm a second time, and opened a vein.
At
first the blood came but in drops, it flowed soon freely, and at length Hubert
opened his eyes.—De Montmorency was transported with joy—he kissed the hand of
his father, who looked with inexpressible affection on him, and binding up his
arm, lifted him from the ground, and supporting him, they proceeded slowly
home.
Hubert
was with difficulty prevented from fainting, through excess of joy, a second
time—Charles, however, tried every method to reason him into calmness and
moderation, and at length succeeded.
They
were met at the entrance of their dwelling by the old faithful domestic, whose
joy at seeing the son of his master safe returned, was very near as immoderate
as Hubert’s—He fell at his feet, kissed his hand, invoked every blessing on his
head and declared that to be the happiest day he had ever known—Charles,
penetrated with this instance of gratitude, raised him up, and enquired very
tenderly after his health, thanking him at the same time for his good wishes.
As
soon as De Montmorency had partaken of some refreshment, Hubert desired
anxiously to know what had occasioned his return to his native country so
soon.—Our Hero immediately relieved him from this anxiety, and convinced him
that his son had not acted unworthy of his father.
Hubert
heard him with delight, again he embraced De Montmorency, and again returned
thanks to Heaven, for having bestowed on him such a son.
Soon
as the transports of pleasure, occasioned by returning to his father, had
subsided, our hero found the time pass rather heavily—day succeeded day in same
uniform dulness—nothing to cheer the lazy-pacing
hour; nothing to employ his time nor engage his attention—His active mind could
not be contented with the gloom of solitude or indolence of retirement—He
longed to be again employed in the busy camp, but from this his parole d’honeur prohibited him. He
therefore resolved to apply himself with unwearied diligence to his favorite study, in order to render himself at some future
period more capable of discharging the duties of his station, as a soldier,
with ability and applause.
C H A P T E R VI.
A
Ramble—an Accident the Introduction to a
New Acquaintance.
BUT though he pursued with
unwearied diligence his military studies, there were others which he did not
neglect.
Of
Poetry he was very fond, and when he had fatigued his mind with mathematical
demonstrations, would fly to the productions of the Poets with alacrity and
pleasure—of these the sonnets of Petrarch afforded
him most entertainment.
It was on a still summer’s evening, when the setting sun tips the
mountains’ tops with radiant gold—when the black-bird from the distant grove
pours the liquid note upon the bosom of the gentle zephyrs, who enraptured with
the harmonious sound scarce breathes upon the trembling leaf,—that De Montmorency
was wandering through the windings of the wood with Petrarch
in his hand.
In
the midst of one of his charming sonnets to Laura, his attention was suddenly
arrested by a violent scream—he listened again—another followed—not doubting
but that some one was in danger, he flew to the place whence they proceeded,
and at the extremity of the wood, beheld a female lying on the ground
apparently senseless—he approached nearer—never did he behold such beauty—such
engaging softness—For a moment he was struck dumb with admiration, but quickly
recollecting himself, raised the lady in his arms, and carried her to a spring
just by, there laying her head gently on his knee, he sprinkled her face with
water, and rubb’d her temples—This soon brought her
to life again—she opened her eyes gently, fixed them with the most bewitching
softness on De Montmorency, and with an engaging confusion on her countenance
tried to disengage herself from the posture in which she lay.
De
Montmorency saw her wishes, and immediately presented her his hand to
rise.—After having, in a flattering voice, returned him thanks for the service
he had rendered her, the lovely maid would have retired, but De Montmorency
would not permit her.—Suffer me, Madam, said he, to conduct you to my father’s house—It
is but just by—you have not yet strength enough to walk home.
Attributing
her silence to consent, he gently placed her arm within his, and they proceeded
to our hero’s home—Never did he find himself so aukwardly
situated before, he wished to speak, but his tongue denied its office—Whenever
he attempted to cast his eyes on her face, he felt his own glow with
confusion—nor was his lovely charge in a more enviable situation—her hand,
which De Montmorency held, tembled excessively; and
her languishing blue eyes fixed on the ground, betrayed her extreme confusion.
It
was well for them that they had not far to walk—when they had arrived at Huberts’, De Montmorency introduced her to his father, and
relating to him the manner in which he found the lovely female, she was
received by him with the greatest politeness, and the old domestic was ordered
to bring some refreshments.
When
her spirits were a little recruited, she told them, that taking the air on
horseback, her horse took fright at a viper that laid in the road, and ran away
with her—unable to manage him, she screamed out, and thinking it better to run
the risk of hurting herself in the fall than trust herself longer on his back,
disengaged her foot from the stirrup, and threw herself on the ground—again she
cast her eyes on De Montmorency, and thanked him for the service he had done
her—and again De Montmorency declared his obligations to Fortune, in having
thus put it in his power to be of service to her.
Imagining
that her horse might return to her father’s and alarm the family for her
safety, she expressed her wishes to return home, and rising up, politely
thanking Hubert de Montmorency would have departed alone, but our hero would
not suffer her, and begging her permission to let him escort her, which she
granted with some confusion, they set out together.
There
are certain situations, which though we pray devoutly to be placed in, involves
us in a kind of confusion, which almost make us regret that our wishes are
accomplished.—De Montmorency felt himself in such a predicament, and it was
some time before he recovered from his confusion.
In
their way home, it was necessary that they should pass by the place where the
lovely maid had fallen from her horse; they stopped to recapitulate the accident
again, and that recapitulation introduced a repetition of thanks and
acknowledgement on both sides.
De
Montmorency now grown more bold, ventured to enquire the name of the Lady whom
he had had the honour to serve. Her answer discovered it to be ELISE de ST. CLAIR—she, in return requested to know the name of her
deliverer—Our hero informed her, and they now proceeded to talk on common
topics of conversation ’till they arrived at the young lady’s home.
It
was a large Chateau, situated in the midst of a delightful Park—as they walked
up the avenue of trees that led to it, they met Monsieur and Madame De St.
Clair, to whom Elise introduced our hero, as one who had rendered her a great
service, recounting at the same time the accident that had happened to her.
Overjoyed
at their daughter’s safety, De Montmorency was received with the greatest
civility, and they insisted on his accompanying them home—nothing could be more
agreeable to him—the invitation was accepted, and they all returned to the
Chateau, whence it was not ’till late in the evening that our Hero returned to
his father’s—nor could he do it even then without regretting the rapidity of
time which rendered their separation necessary—As he passed from the Chateau,
scarce did he take three steps without turning back to bless the angel (for
such she appeared in his eyes) that dwelt within, and thank his stars for the
day’s adventure.
C H A P T E R VII.
The
Domestic.
WHEN De Montmorency got home,
there was no one up but the old domestic who was waiting for his return—Our
Hero was not inclined to retire to his chamber immediately, he therefore sat
down in the parlour, and taking up Petrarch, desired
the old domestic to go to bed—but he refused, and alledged
as a reason, that he was as little inclined to sleep as De Montmorency, whom he
feared from his manner had met with some mishap.—To satisfy his affectionate
inquietude he related what had passed—The relation being concluded the old man
sighed deeply, and upon our hero’s enquiring the cause.—“Alas, my master, (said
he) I see you desperately attached to a woman, and am grieved to think whether
that attachment may hurry you—experience has long so fatally convinced me that
the Hyena is not more destructive to her prey, than women are to the objects
that adore them.—Perhaps you will not think this observation so erroneous, when
you have learnt a short detail of the events of my life, which, if you are not
too fatigued to pay attention to, I will now relate.
De Montmorency declared he was not; after a short pause, therefore, the
old domestic began his narrative in the following words,—
“My
real name is BERNARD de TOUIS though
I have always hitherto gone under the appellation of JAQUES de CALLIER.
My
ancestors, time out of mind, rented a small farm in the province of Bretany, which they always found sufficient for the
comfortable maintenance of their family—Out of eight children which my father
had, I alone survived; I believe the grief of having lost so fine a family, was
the chief cause of my parent’s death, for they died within a month after the
decease of my sister, and left me, then about two and twenty years of age: I
was afflicted very sensibly at the death of both my parents, but time soon
effaced the traces of sorrow from my mind—I continued in the farm which they
held, and cultivated it myself—My affairs went on prosperously enough, but fool
that I was, I thought they would improve if I married, and therefore I looked
about me for a suitable match—I soon pitched upon a young maiden of nearly my
own age, pretty and very good natured—she was called ANTOINETTE—Oh! would I had
never seen her.
The
girl, I thought, had some affection for me, for she preferred me to all the
lads of the village, and in every rural sport, chose me for her partner.—I was
deceived by this shew of affection, and courted her for my wife—The time of
courtship was merrily spent, and from that I predicted increase of happiness in
an alliance with Antoinette—silly fellow that I was not to know that the days
of courtship are the happiest of our lives.
After
a few months spent in this manner, I thought it high time to be married—we were
so—and I was, in my own conceit, completely happy—My Farm improved under her
management, and for some months after we were as happy as the first day of our
courtship—The Lord of the Village came every half year to collect his rents;
when he came for mine, he praised my choice, and seemed much taken with my
wife, I was pleased with his approbation, and loved my Antoinette the more for
having been approved of by our landlord—He came several times afterwards, and
often made us little presents—I suspected no harm, and thought myself highly
honoured by the attention and marks of friendship, which raised the envy of our
villagers—had I not been a simpleton, I might have known that a superior never
takes notice of an inferior, but with some interested design. Still did our
affairs flourish, and I was in a fair way of becoming a man of good substance
and wealth—It was my custom twice a year to carry my corn to a certain town
where there was a fair, to dispose of it.—I prepared now to set out, but rather
reluctantly—nevertheless, knowing it was for our mutual advantage, I embraced
my Antoinette and set out on my journey.
I
made all the haste possible to settle my business, and at the end of five days
completed it—I had sold my corn at a good profit, and full of the fond ideas of
again embracing my Antoinette, I set out homeward, intending to reach it by
night fall, I rode a good round pace, and was got very near our village, when I
met one of my neighbours whom I asked how my wife did, and he replied:
‘Perfectly well, Bernard,—you need not doubt of it, when our Lord takes such
good care of her.’—This was said with a kind of sneer that confused me—I felt,
for the first time, that torturer Jealousy.
Altering
my resolution, I resolved not to ride directly home, but to wait ’till the
middle of the night, and having the key of a private door behind the house, I
resolved to let myself in, and surprise her with my presence too suddenly to be
able to secrete our landlord, if he should be with her.
I
loitered, therefore, about the fields ’till midnight, when leaving my horse at
an inn in the village, I walked home.—There was a light still in my wife’s
chamber—I approached with all silence; lifting up the back room window got in
without making a noise, and with a heart heaving with apprehension I stole up
stairs—When I had got to my wife’s chamber door, I was almost afraid to open
it, and a hundred times was retreating down stairs.—At length, the door being
unlocked, I opened it gently and went in—nobody heard me—I approached to the
bed, and undrew the curtains—but; good heavens! what
were my sensations when I beheld my wife fast locked in the arms of our landlord,
and both of them asleep?—I staid not a moment to give reflection power to
direct me—I listened only to the transports of my rage—seizing a short sword
that hung over the fire place, I rushed to the bed-side—With an inconceivable
fury I plunged the sword first in the landlord’s body; and without waiting a
moment plunged it afterwards into the body of my wife; exclaiming at the same
time—‘traitors receive from me the just reward of your abominable crimes’—I
knew that there was no time to be lost in making my escape; taking, therefore,
all the money I could find in the house, I made the best of my way out of it—I
went to the Inn where I had left my horse, had him saddled instantly, and
mounting him, rode off with as much speed as possible—Before morning I found
myself out of the province of Bretany, and then
resolved to stop and take some refreshment.
I
debated within myself what I should do, I was not long in determining, I
resolved to change my name, and enlist myself in some regiment which was
employed in the wars of Germany. I had money enough in my pocket, and therefore
immediately took shipping for Germany.—After a short passage I arrived there,
and immediately enlisted in the regiment in which your father was captain—I was
so fortunate as to obtain applause, and he appointed me to the post of
sergeant—I endeavoured, by every means to shew my gratitude to him, and
entreated Heaven to put it in my power to be of service to him; Heaven granted
my request. In a bloody Battle I saved his life—This was a decisive battle, and
the last—We were ordered home—I entreated your father to suffer me to accompany
him as a servant, he consented, and I have ever since remained with him.—Judge,
now, Sir, if I have not reason to be disgusted with the sex.”
Our
hero acknowledged it, but said that he hoped all women were not equally bad
with his Wife. Bernard shook his head, and it being very late, he attended his
young master to his apartment and they then separated to invoke the refreshing
influence of balmy Sleep.
C H A P T E R VIII.
A Man in
Love.
DE MONTMORENCY retired to his apartment, but sleep was
a stranger to his eyes,—his bosom was filled with new emotions,—the image of
the lovely Elise presented itself to his imagination—he sighed, and from his
sensations, found that he was certainly in love with her.
The discovery did not alarm him—he indulged the delightful idea,—he
found himself less than ever inclined to sleep, and therefore as soon as
Morning with her mantle grey appeared on the mountain’s height, he arose.
Full
of the events of the preceding day, he wandered through the wood to the spot
where Elise had fallen; he recapitulated her looks, her attitude, and in a
transport of love threw himself on the very place that had been pressed by the
lovely maid.
A
certain author says “that men in love are fools,” unwilling to enter into a
contest with him at present, I will suppose that he has spoken the truth; and
granting that he has, I maintain that the generality of men had rather attach
to themselves the appellation of fools for being enthusiasts to the charms of
beauty, than be thought wise men for possessing a cold indifference.
Elise
de St. Clair had felt herself strangely prepossessed in favour of our hero at
quitting him, and when she retired to her apartment, had found herself as
little inclined to sleep as he had.—It was her usual custom to rise early, and
walk before breakfast; but this morning she rose more so than usual.
Is
it unnatural to suppose that with such sensations she should walk to the place
where she had first seen De Montmorency?
At
the moment while he was pressing the spot where she fell, Elise arrived
there.—Hearing a noise, he started up—she started too—involuntary blushes
filled both their cheeks, and it was not without hesitation and confusion that
they reciprocally exchanged the salutations of the morning.
De
Montmorency finding himself unable to converse on common topics with ease,
asked Elise if she was fond of the Italian language; being answered in the
affirmative, he pulled Petrarch out of his pocket,
and changed the conversation to his sonnets, which she confessed herself
unacquainted with.
They
had walked to an old oak tree, round which was a rustic seat,—they sat down,
and Elise requested De Montmorency to read one of the sonnets—he complied, and
chose that which relates the difficulty of declaring his Love for Laura.
De
Montmorency’s voice was clear and musical—he read the
sonnet with feeling and with proper emphasis.—Elise held down her head and
blushed—De Montmorency, having concluded the sonnet, shut the book and sighed.
He
asked Elise if it was not a delightful sonnet, her assent was conveyed in a
trembling voice, and they remained silent for some time.
Recollecting,
at length, that the hour of breakfast was not far off, she took her leave to
return home alone, but De Montmorency could not be prevailed upon to quit her,
’till she had almost got to the Chateau, when bidding her adieu, he returned
home, his whole soul being filled with the lovely girl he had just parted with.
C H A P T E R IX.
Female
charms superior to parental advice.
OUR hero now neglected his studies, and no
longer pursued them with diligence and perseverance—they became irksome and
disagreeable—of Petrarch, of those books which treat of
love he became more enamoured, and they accompanied him night and day.
His
father remarked this change, and attributed it to the right cause—he was
alarmed—and disclosed his apprehensions to his son.
Unused
to deceit or denial, De Montmorency owned that they were just; that he was
deeply in love.
Hubert
had formerly known the father of Elise—He told our hero, that he was of low
origin, had raised himself to the rank of Fermier General by
meanness, and in that station had acquired a large fortune by oppression and
injustice. He advised him, therefore, to conquer his attachment to Elise, as a
connection with that family would disgrace the blood of the Montmorency’s—our
Hero heard him with attention—He promised to try to overcome his love——“Ah!
(said he to himself) though Monsieur de St. Clair may be unworthy of our
esteem, is that a reason why Elise should be despised also?—oh, no!”—he found
it therefore impossible to comply with his father’s wishes.
Discretion,
reason, what are ye to Love.”
Alas!
the result of all his efforts to obey his father was, that he loved Elise with
more ardour than ever.
C H A P T E R X.
A rural
fete upon a son’s return—A declaration
of love, and an interruption.
OUR hero had received for the service he had
rendered their daughter, a general invitation from Monsieur and Madame de St.
Clair, of which he failed not to avail himself often.
Many
were the opportunities he had of disclosing his passion for Elise, but
invincible modesty tied his tongue; he would have preserved an eternal silence,
but for the following event.
Young
de St. Clair, who had been some time on his travels, arrived at the chateau, to
the great joy of his parents, who were resolved to celebrate his arrival by a fete champetre.
De
Montmorency had been introduced on his arrival—he had conceived a dislike for
him at first sight.
His
appearance was haughty and his manners insolent—our hero’s congratulations upon
his return he received with a mark’d indifference,
and his acknowledgements were couch’d in a stiff
formality that rendered them rude and disgusting.
To
this splendid entertainment, springing from parently
joy, all the young and gay of the neighbourhood were invited, and among the
rest De Montmorency, who had the inexpressible happiness of being honoured with
the hand of his lovely Elise for the evening—an honour personally bestowed on
him by her father as a testimony of the sense he had of the service which had
been rendered her by him.
The
fete was celebrated on a lawn before the
house, over which hung a canopy of blue silk drawn into festoons and bordered
with a deep gold fringe—the whole was supported by the trees that skirted the
lawn, and which were decorated with garlands of natural flowers entwined with variagated lamps so as to make the whole have a pleasing
and enchanting effect.
De
Montmorency and Elise commenced the dancing with a minuet—the elegance of her
movement acted as an inspiration on him, and as he was more than ordinary
assiduous in his exertions so was he more than ordinary successful in his
execution—every eye was delighted while they were engaged in the dance and
every tongue was employed in their praise when they concluded—Several other
minuets followed, many of which were executed with grace and judgement, but still
Elise and De Montmorency were unanimously admitted to have shewn an infinite
degree of superiority.
The
minuets continued until the guests were invited to partake of an elegant
collation—it was serv’d up in another part of the
Park equally superb and fancifully decorated as that in which they had been
enjoying the dance—De Montmorency found his spirits elated; Elise was equally
gay and inspired—they chatted, laughed, sung, and exchanged a thousand tender
glances.
The
luxuries of the table were however insufficient to detain them long from the
fascinating sports of Tyrpsichore—the younger part of
the company returned to partake of the pleasures of the country dance—De
Montmorency still enjoyed the happiness of Elise’s hand—delighted with each
other they kept up the spirit of the company for a considerable time, but at
length Elise complained of heat and fatigue—our hero immediately led her to an
arbour at some distance from the company.
Exhilarated
by the evening’s entertainments he felt himself possessed of courage sufficient
to declare the impression her charms had made upon his heart—He cast his eyes
upon her with a look that plainly spake the conflict
of his soul, and preparing to tell his tale an involuntary sigh stopped the
story of his tongue—the emotions of her bosom were evident in the deep blushes
that glowed upon her cheek—she turned her face from him—He took hold of her
hand and tenderly pressed it between his—she rose from her seat in confusion,
and scarcely knowing what she said begged to return to the company, as their
long absence might be taken notice of—upon this she would have quitted the
arbour but he still holding her hand and pressing it to his breast prevented
her, at the same time panting with fear lest she should be offended at his
temerity, he replied, with a voice scarcely audible, “Leave me not, Elise! one
moment spare to me.”—She trembled, blushed and sat down—He dropped upon one
knee, and his eyes sparkling with gratitude for her condescension he proceeded,
“No, Elise, think it not too much to let me enjoy your company a few moments
longer—I have something to communicate—it is of consequence to my happiness—I
have wished to tell you, have repeatedly intended it, but doubt and
apprehension have as constantly prevented me—let me not then lose this moment
and Heaven grant it may prove a propitious one—Look not with contempt upon me,
most lovely Elise, when I say that I love and adore you—my happiness or misery
depends upon you—you are the mistress of my fate—I know the weakness of my
claim—your equal in fortune I am not, in birth I——”
“Heyday,
Monsieur!” (cried young St. Clair, who at this moment broke in upon them, and
surprised De Montmorency on his knees) “you are wonderfully gallant; but come
it may as well subside for the present the greatest part of the company having
missed, and been enquiring for you.”
The
sudden and unexpected appearance of St. Clair, together with the sarcastic
manner of his address had such an effect that our hero look’d
silly and confus’d and Elise had some difficulty to
prevent herself from fainting.
They
arose and again joined the company and the dance, but their mirth had been
effectually put an end to by St. Clair’s interruption—They were both chagrined
and disappointed—De Montmorency however took an opportunity in the course of
the evening to ask Elise if it would not be too presumptuous to expect her in
the morning at the oak tree—she blushed her consent—and the rest of the evening
passed away without that pleasure and satisfaction which the former part of it
had promised.
C H A P T E R XI.
A mutual
Vow.
DE MONTMORENCY, when he returned
home, which was not till late, revolved in his mind the transactions of the
day—St. Clair’s interruption he thought was not accidental, and he predicted
that from him much unhappiness would certainly ensue.
Such inauspicious thoughts kept him from being able to obtain one
moment’s sleep, and he arose with a countenance pale and his spirits
dejected—he nevertheless proceeded to the place of appointment, where he had
not been long when Elise joined him—her presence revived his hopes and cheer’d that gloom which had o’erpowered
his spirits and sunk him almost into despair.
De
Montmorency, after making his acknowledgements for her thus indulging him,
resumed the conversation of the preceeding evening——
“Oh,
Elise, said he, though unequal in fortune, I am descended from ancestors that
will not disgrace you—and though small the gift of fortune I enjoy, I have
enough for the necessaries of life—I ask not wealth, but love—Oh, answer me,
then Elise, say that I am not disagreeable to you.”—He paused for her answer.
She
remained silent—the tear trickled down her cheek, and her bosom heaved with a
thousand emotions.
De
Montmorency pressed her hand gently to his lips and continued——“Why those
tears, my Elise, am I to consider them as falling, because you are unable to
give me your love?—if so—if some happier man possess your affections—Oh! may
you be as happy as the wishes of De Montmorency can make you.—He may be, he
must be unhappy, for his love for Elise can never cease—but he will bury
himself and his passion in silence and obscurity, and never shall his presence
give a pang to the bosom of her, whose happiness is a million times dearer to
him than his own.”
De
Montmorency finding his spirits exhausted, laid his head gently on Elise’s
hand, and bursted into tears.
She
had been unable to speak during the latter part of our hero’s speech; her
emotions prevented her—The attitude, the tears of De Montmorency affected
her—she begged him to rise—she hid her face with her hands.
“If
I err, said she, Heaven and De Montmorency I hope will forgive me—let him not
afflict himself—let him think that Elise has said what he would wish her.”
De
Montmorency lifted up his head in a transport of joy—“Do I hear right—sure I
dream—did my Elise say she loved me—Oh! bliss unutterable!—oh! happiness too
much almost to bear.”
Elise
was overwhelmed with confusion, she dared not look De Montmorency in the
face—almost delirious with rapture he started up, and catching her in his arms,
imprinted on her lips an ardent impassioned kiss—“Oh, my Elise look up, be not
ashamed at having thus made me happy—you do not repent at having raised De
Montmorency from the depth of despair?”
“Oh,
no, no, Montmorency!” replied Elise, in a voice more soft than the gentle
Zephyr’s, when on some still evening, he whispers through the trees, “Oh, no,
Montmorency!” and she reclined her head on his shoulder.
Our
hero was intoxicated with delight, and scarce could believe the evidence of his
senses—Recollecting her situation she withdrew from his arms—the tint of
modesty flush’d in her cheeks, she trembled lest she
had o’erleapt its bounds, but conscious innocence
soon dissipated all her terrors and she again sat herself down on the bench.
De
Montmorency was lost in a maze of joy—Elise was melted into softness—they
remained silent for some time, but a thousand looks which spake
more forcibly than any words passed between them—a language in which all lovers
converse and which all lovers instantly understand.
It
was time that they should part—Elise would be missed if she staid any longer—De
Montmorency knew not how to part with her—it was requisite they should not be
seen together, yet he would attend her to the avenue of trees, and there they
separated, but not until he had drawn from her a promise to meet him again at
the same place the next morning.
An
hundred times did she turn her head to take a last look at him as she walked up
to the chateau, and as repeatedly did he kiss his hand to her as a tender and
parting adieu.
C H A P T E R XII.
A
retrospect with some requisite information.
IT will be necessary to the
future elucidation of our history to make the reader somewhat more acquainted
with the motives that influenced and disposition that guided young St. Clair.
During the entertainment which, as before observed, was given for joy
at his return, he thought he observed something more than common civility in
the attention and demeanour of our hero to his sister, he was resolved
therefore to watch them narrowly, and discover if possible whether affection
had sprung out of their intimacy.
By
keeping them constantly in his eye he observed De Montmorency lead Elise from
the company during the country dances—he followed them at a distance, saw them
take their seats in the arbour, and by turning down another walk contrived to
conceal himself among some trees behind it, where he heard the first part of
the diffident lover’s address—finding his suspicions thus verified, yet not
deeming it proper at that moment to take serious notice of his endeavouring to
win the affection of Elise, he was determined to surprise them as by accident,
rally them with seeming goodnature, and prevent any
farther explanation taking place for the present.
By
adopting this method his cunning led him to imagine he should effect something
more.—He knew the credulous temper of his sister, and did not doubt but he
could easily become her confidant—herein he was mistaken, nor could all his
industry worm out the secret from her—being deceived in this he was determined
to watch her narrowly and discover that which he was convinced she was desirous
to conceal.
Full
of this determination he became a spy upon her steps and actions, and while he
was thus employed he communicated his suspicions and what he had seen to his
father—he likewise hinted how he intended to act—his father approved the plan
and agreed with him in every particular—nor was this wonderful for the one was
the exact resemblance of the other, and both were proud, insolent, haughty and avaritious.
Between
them a scheme was concerted and arranged to entrap these unsuspecting lovers,
and a plan determined upon if it should be found that any serious affection
subsisted between them—but what this plan was, and however impatient the reader
may be to know, we are not at liberty to declare at present.
C H A P T E R XIII.
An
unwelcome intrusion.
DE MONTMORENCY thought himself the happiest of men,
beloved by Elise, his days rolled onward sweetly and swiftly—he looked not, he
thought not beyond the present moment, the happiness of which he fondly hoped
would be continued to successive ones—ah! how uncertain are all human
enjoyments.—The day of life how delusive!—ushered in by the Sun of Happiness
the Morning dawns—we look around us, every thing is cheerful—the sun unsullied
by a single cloud shines upon us—we are happy, and imagining our happiness will
be permanent, press onward with firmness, and with rapture—at Noon we look round
us again, and the scene appears not so cheerful as formerly; we perceive a
gloominess in it, dark clouds arise from the horizon and obscure the sun—it
grows dark, the rain descends upon our heads in torrents—the Evening
approaches, the former beauty of the scene is forgotten in the present
dreariness—and Night arriving, finds us weary, unhappy, and discontented.
At the usual hour each morning Elise failed not to meet De Montmorency
at the old Oak—there would they exchange a thousand mutual vows of love and
tenderness—talk with fondness of future scenes of enjoyment, and promise
themselves in retirement, endless happiness and pleasure.
One
morning they had talked over these scenes with more than usual tenderness—De
Montmorency on his knees had called Heaven to witness the sincerity of his
affection, and Elise in the same posture had uttered the same invocation.
They
were seized with a mutual melancholy—De Montmorency sighed—Elise wept—her head
was reclined on his shoulder, while he was employed in kissing off the pearly
drops that trickled down her blooming cheeks—The world, every one, but
themselves were forgotten.
In
this tender attitude—in this melting softness, a voice from the adjoining wood
called out to Montmorency, and by the title of villain, bade him desist—he
started up, and looking round, beheld young De St. Clair with his sword
drawn—Elise shrieked, and running to her brother, fell on her knees—She held up
her clasped hands to him, and tried to speak—her tongue refused to perform its
office—she fainted away.—Regardless of St. Clair’s threats or his sword, De
Montmorency rushed to her assistance, and lifted her up in his arms to carry
her to a neighbouring brook—De St. Clair would have prevented him, but De
Montmorency pushing him aside, carried her to the side of the stream, and
sprinkled her face plentifully with water this soon recovered her—she opened
her eyes, and looked round for her brother “Oh, hide me, save me from him, De
Montmorency.”—and she hid her face with her hands.
De Montmorency promising to protect her, she put her arm within his,
and walked slowly out of the wood; they there met St. Clair, who with a furious
air bade our hero draw—De Montmorency seeing that Elise trembled, and was ready
to faint, whispered De St. Clair he would meet him next morning, with which he
thought fit to be contented, and walking by the side of Elise, suffered our
hero to support her home.
C H A P T E R XIV.
A Duel.
DE MONTMORENCY and his Father
lived more like friends, than a father and a son—this produced a mutual
openness which prevented our hero from ever concealing the least thing from
him—What a blessing, as well as advantage to society, would it be, did but all
parents and children live upon the same footing.
Consequently when De Montmorency returned home, he communicated to his
father what had happened, and his appointment to meet St. Clair the next
morning.
To
Hubert, who loved his son with the extremest
tenderness, this was afflicting intelligence; but the sense of honour was stronger
in his breast than any other sensation.
He
advised his son to keep the appointment by all means, and promised to attend at
a distance unseen, in case his assistance should be necessary.
De
Montmorency employed himself all the remainder of the day in writing a farewell
letter to his Elise, and in trying to make his peace with Heaven.
He
retired to rest, but sleep was a stranger to his eyelids—The image of his Elise
mourning his absence, perhaps his death, presented itself to his imagination,
and tortured him so, that he arose long before the dawn of day, and prepared
himself for the approaching contest.
Hubert
was as little able to sleep as his son—he arose also, and they were at the
place of rendezvous some time before the hour of meeting.
St.
Clair, attended by his servant, whom he commanded to wait at a distance, at
length appeared, and advancing to our hero, drew his sword—De St. Clair
attacked him with fierceness—Montmorency cool and collected, found it no
difficult matter to evade his furious assaults, and though he had St. Clair’s
life many times in his power, from his want of skill, and the fierceness with
which he fought; the idea of his being the brother of his Elise, prevented him
from taking the least advantage of him, and he therefore only acted upon the
defensive.—St. Clair was enraged at his adversary’s superior skill, and began
with encreased fury.
In
the midst of the combat, a female appeared on horseback at a full gallop—as
soon as she came near to the combatants, she threw herself with a distracted
air off her horse, and ran between them—It was Elise.
“Oh!
Montmorency! (said she) will you kill my brother?—Oh! Brother! will you kill my
Montmorency?”
Our
hero was preparing to sheathe his sword, as a token of his unwillingness to
injure the brother of his Elise, but St. Clair, regardless of her tears and
entreaties, still pushed with fierceness at our hero, who resolving to put an
end to the combat, by a dexterous jerk disarmed his adversary, and snapped his
sword in the middle.
He
then advanced to the trembling maid, and assured her, it was not his intention
to injure her brother, and that he only acted defensively.
Elise
looked her thanks, and her approbation of his conduct; but St. Clair, enraged
at being thus overcome, seized his sister rudely by the hand, and without
deigning to thank our hero for his life, helped her to mount her horse, and
bidding his servant bring his, rode off, and left De Montmorency struck dumb
with astonishment. Hubert advanced now from the wood, and on
his knees returned thanks to Heaven for having made the event of the contest so
consonant to his wishes.
They
then retired—Hubert, who saw many ill consequences would arise to his son, if
he continued this connection, employed the whole day in trying to persuade him
to overcome his attachment, not with that stern authority, which parents often
use to their children, and which generally defeats the end intended, but with
the gentleness of an affectionate friend.
De
Montmorency, though he acquiesced in the truth of his father’s observations,
was convinced that not to love Elise would be impossible; nevertheless he
promised never to act contrary to the wishes of his father, with which Hubert
was satisfied.
In
the evening a Peasant brought a letter for De Montmorency—It was from
Elise—kissing it with ecstacy, he opened it, and read
the following contents:
“Oh!
my Montmorency! I fear it will be long ’ere we shall meet again—my father has
forbade me stirring out by myself, and my brother has been in close conference
ever since the morning—what the purport of it is, I know not—but my forboding heart tells me it is inimical to the happiness of
De Montmorency and Elise.
Yet,
oh, yet, let us not despair—let us live in the fond hope that futurity has many
happy days in store for us.
In
the mean time, let De Montmorency depend on the affection of Elise, as Elise
does in the love of Montmorency.
Adieu,
ELISE.”
De Montmorency read it over a hundred times he kissed the dear morsel
ardently, and placing it in his bosom, found it afforded him comfort, and some
degree of pleasure.——Elise’s promise of constancy obliterated the idea of
separation; happy at the security of her love, he for a time could see no
father—Nothing in his thought but the object of his wishes he took out again
her note, and again perused it—but how different were his sensations?—it now
appeared a farewell epistle:—‘it will be long ere we meet again’—“Good
Heaven’s!” (ejaculated he, in the utmost anguish) “can I live without the
presence of her I love?”—he went on—‘inimical to the happiness of De
Montmorency and Elise’—This was a shaft that pierced the inmost recesses of his
heart;——“my own wretchedness, (continued he) I could have borne, but to be the
cause of rendering her miserable whose happiness I should think cheaply
purchased with the loss of life, is more than I can bear!”—He perplexed himself
so much with these fancied ills, that he became almost frantic, but at length
proceeding to her conclusion, he was more calm;—her expressions of affection
were words of comfort, and he resolved to take her advice and copy the promised
example of his divine mistress—live in the fond hope that Futurity would bring
happiness in her train nor give way to the insinuating artifice of Despair.
C H A P T E
R XV.
A change in appearances by an unexpected
offer of friendship.
SCARCE had De Montmorency reconciled himself to the
ill-fortune which the letter of Elise gave him reason to apprehend was in
agitation when young St. Clair was announc’d at the
Hermitage to pay him a visit.
From what had already passed, and the suspicions he was now impressed
with, our hero could not entertain a doubt but that his visitor came on some
hostile errand, he therefore received his salutations with a cold indifference
and a stately politeness—of course he was much surprised when St. Clair,
approaching him, took hold of his hand and requested his pardon for his late
indefensible behaviour.
As
De Montmorency easily forgave those who offended him it was not probable that
the brother of his Elise should apply in vain—St. Clair’s apologizing for his
conduct entirely banished all enmity from his mind, and upon a requisition that
their future days might be mark’d with an unshaken
friendship it was most cordially acceded to.
For
some time they conversed together with the greatest familiarity, talked over
their former pursuits, and what particular places they had visited during their
absence from home, and so pleased did they appear with each other that St.
Clair pressed De Montmorency so eagerly to accompany him to his father’s he was
forced to consent, and they sat off together for his chateau.
Upon
their arrival he was received with more than usual kindness by Monsieur and
Madame de St. Clair; and need we say by Elise with pleasure and delight.
De
Montmorency was amazed at this extraordinary change of behaviour, he fear’d it was too flattering sweet to be substantial; yet
he hoped and thought it was possible to proceed from a conviction of having
behaved improperly to him, and for which they were now desirous to make
reparation.
When
he was about to depart they insisted upon his remaining and spending the day
with them—it was the habitation of Elise and how could he refuse?—Upon rising
from dinner Monsieur de St. Clair requested his guest to favour him with his
company, and taking hold of his hand led him to his study, where in the most
friendly manner he entered into a serious conversation with him—wondered how a
young gentleman of his active disposition could bear to live a life of idleness
and inactivity; and, upon our hero’s protesting it was absolutely contrary to
his inclinations but that at present he knew not how to change it, he voluntary
offered to use his interest (and which he did not doubt would be sufficient) to
procure him a post of honour and employment at court—it would not, he said, be
conferring a favour but merely discharging a debt of gratitude for the
preservation of his child.
De
Montmorency was astonished at this singular and unexpected instance of kindness
and friendship, for which he thanked Monsieur de St. Clair in the handsomest
manner, but observed he was not at liberty to accept the proposition without
consulting his father, whom he promised to acquaint with it immediately upon
his return home, and inform him of the result in the course of a few days.
The
parent of Elise was satisfied with this—her lover was elated at being so much
in favour, and the point being settled they quitted the study.
De
Montmorency wished for an opportunity to acquaint Elise of this proposal of
Monsieur de St. Clair’s, in order to hear her opinion, that appearing to him of
as much consequence as the determination of his father—Not finding her in the
saloon at their return he wandered into the garden where he soon discovered her
seated in an arbour, apparently in deep contemplation.
He
approached the place, and after some mutual congratulations told her of her
father’s proposal, at which she was equally astonished with him, but advised
that by all means he should accept of it.
De
Montmorency heaving a sigh and fixing his eyes upon Elise—“Is my love, (said
he) aware of what she advises me to do? Does she not know that she bids me part
with her perhaps for ever?”
“No,
(replied she with a smile) it is but to make love, for a short time, give place
to interest.”
“And
can Elise, (returned De Montmorency) treat our separation with so much
indifference?—My hours will be tedious and my days burthensome when I am
divided from her—and I had hoped she would sometimes have honoured my absence
with a sigh—but why should I wish her to be miserable?—no, I do not—may her
days pass over in delightful tranquility and may she
ever be a stranger to the poignant pangs that in such a case I should
inevitably suffer.”
“Oh,
Montmorency! (replied the lovely maid) do you think Elise will not feel the
separation as sensibly as you can? Alas! too sure she will—but would she prove
her affection by wishing him to sacrifice to her fondness so great a prospect
of his advancement.”
De
Montmorency was satisfied—he was more—he was enraptured—pressing the blushing
maid to his bosom he repeated his vows of constancy and that her image alone
should reign in his heart wherever Fate should lead him, and however great the
distance might be between them.
The
expressive looks of Elise made an equal promise—her eyes sparkled with pleasure
at his assurances of love and constancy, and she almost bless’d
her father for his proposal, notwithstanding it tended to divide them, since it
had produced such ardent testimonies of De Montmorency’s
affection.
While
they were sitting thus happy in each other’s love they were joined by the St.
Clair’s—Monsieur and Madame with much affability protested they had been all
over the grounds to seek for them, and young St. Clair rallied them with
perfect goodnature for having again stolen into an
arbour—thus jocund they returned back to the chateau together, and the young
lovers spent the remainder of the day with that ecstacy
which always attends mutual confidence and affection.
C H A P T E R XVI.
Family
pride subdued by fatherly affection.
AS soon as De Montmorency
returned home, he hastened to seek his father—he found him joyful as usual at
the sight of his son—little hesitation therefore was necessary to inform him of
the proposal he had received from Monsieur de St. Clair.
Hubert
had a very proud spirit, the pride of a long line of noble ancestors, and being
now unable to confer he was unwilling to receive favours from any one.
As
soon as his son had informed him of the advantageous offer of Monsieur de St.
Clair, his countenance assumed a gravity, and he remained for some time
silent—He felt it as a matter worthy consideration—On one hand he thought it
would be a degradation to the illustrious name of Montmorency,—on the other the
future advancement and welfare of his son appeared the natural consequence;
this, added to the probability that by accepting the proposal he might
establish his fame, and be able to support the name of Montmorency in its
former splendour, totally silenced every sentiment of pride, and he consented
that his son should submit to accept the patronage of a man to whom riches
alone gave interest and importance.
His
father determining in its favour, and Elise being an advocate for it, De
Montmorency could not think of objecting to again quitting home—to exchange the
society of those he loved for the busy scenes of court;—honour and assiduity,
he thought, would lead him to fame and fortune, and the beloved object of his
heart become his glorious reward.
The
ensuing morning, therefore, he walked up to Monsieur de St. Clair’s, and
informed him of his father’s consent, and his readiness to accept his promissed recommendation—The information was received with
pleasure, and assurances of the greatest exertions for his advantage
followed.—Delay was considered as improper, and therefore the end of the
following week was fixed upon for his departure for Paris.
C H A P T E R XVII.
The
Farewell.
THE nearer the day of his departure approached, the
more reluctance De Montmorency felt to his intended journey—The preparations
were stabs to his peace, and his heart sickened at the idea of separation.
It was often in his thoughts to decline the proposal altogether, but
this his pride constantly opposed, and prevented him from putting into
execution—To be considered as a weak and unsteady character was his aversion,
and to be suspected not to possess a wish to merit his Elise not to be borne.
The
day preceding that on which he was to set out on his journey, he was invited to
spend at the chateau; to take leave of his friends and bid adieu to his
mistress.
To
him and to Elise it was a melancholy one indeed—continued farewells glanced in
their looks, and the tear of affection sparkled in their eyes—While the rest of
the family seemed overjoyed at the intended journey of De Montmorency, he
cursed the want of fortune, and the charms of riches which alone created this
fatal necessity, which forced him to tear himself from all he held most dear.
At
length o’erpowered with the continued conversation of
his departure, the lovely Elise wept, and De Montmorency, but for shame, could
have accompanied her—To prevent particular notice she withdrew ’till dinner was
served up, of which she partook but little.—The fineness of the day tempted
them to rise from table much sooner than customary, for the purpose of enjoying
a walk in the gardens and pleasure grounds round the chateau.
De
Montmorency wished to be alone with Elise, he panted for an opportunity to take
a tender farewell of her, he contrived therefore to draw her, as he imagined
unperceived, from the rest of the company—mistaken, however, as he was in that
point, they did not think proper to oppose or prevent it.
When
they had wandered to the end of a serpentine walk far from the sight of any
one, De Montmorency found it impossible to conceal his emotions any longer.
He
caught the lovely maid in his arms, and pressing her affectionately to his
bosom burst into a flood of tears—Elise could not support this mark of
tenderness without being equally affected—she wept in concert with him—Thus
overcome with sympathetic grief at parting, they remained some time in
silence—neither of them were able to give utterance to a single word.
De
Montmorency was ashamed of this unmanly behaviour—Was it for a soldier to give
way to womanish weeping—He saw the lovely Elise almost sinking beneath the
weight of woe—he felt it his duty to comfort her, and summoned up his
resolution accordingly. He withdrew from her embrace, and kissed the drops that
fell in abundance from her lovely eyes.
A
seat was in view, to that they repaired, and after resting some little time he
endeavoured to persuade her to master a grief which he was unable to conquer
himself.
“My
Elise; my love—do not give way thus to sorrow—be comforted—let us not
despair—we shall meet again, and that shortly—let my sweet girl consider that
her faithful De Montmorency is only going for a little time from her, to
prepare for those future scenes of bliss, which Heaven will permit us to enjoy
together.”
“Alas,
(replied Elise) I know it is impious to despair—I try not to do it—but I find
it impossible—I have a fixed melancholy, a fatal forboding
about my heart, that tells me we shall never, never meet again.”
The
lovely maid burst a second time into tears, and De Montmorency felt himself
chilled to the soul by those last words of Elise—he could not reply a word, nor
could he restrain the tears from again trickling down his cheeks.
However
unwilling they were to separate, reflection again told them it was now time
they should return to the company—Elise pointed out the necessity, and she bid
him a last farewell.
De
Montmorency throwing himself on his knees, and clasping his hands together, in
an emphatic tone of voice, and looking up to Heaven——
“Father
of all, (said he) oh! hear!—oh! grant me the accomplishment of my wishes!—endue
my Elise with fortitude to bear the absence of her De Montmorency.
Oh!
make their separation short;—suffer them to meet again with transport, and
permit them to enjoy many many years of happiness
together!—but if, (oh! yet avert this dreadful event!) we are to meet no
more—oh, pour upon her head blessings unnumbered: and, when he is no more, may
the image of De Montmorency never intrude upon her remembrance to cause one
painful thought, or excite one tear of anguish.”
Having
concluded his heart-felt address to Heaven, he arose from his posture of
supplication, but was obliged to the assistance of a neighbouring tree for its
support, or his anguish would have laid him level with his mother earth.
Elise,
who had been almost convulsed with grief, during De Montmorency’s
pathetic prayer, now dropped down also on her knees, and in a voice interrupted
by tears, uttered the following emphatic ejaculation:——
“To
Thee, who alone can bestow peace and happiness, an afflicted female sues—oh!
save her De Montmorency from danger—protect him in the day of trouble—and after
a short separation, return him to the arms of his faithful Elise, constant and
affectionate as ever—but if, oh! if we meet no more!” she could not proceed,
her emotions were too violent and acute, her nerves became enfeebled, and she
sunk upon the ground in a swoon.
De
Montmorency raised her in his arms, and upon her recovery they interchanged a
hundred mutual vows of never ending love and truth, bade each other a hundred
times farewell for the last time, and still returned to embrace each other for
the last time once more.
At
length, perceiving some of the family crossing the walk at a distance, they
were obliged to part—“Farewell, oh, farewell, (said De Montmorency) doubt not
we shall meet again, fate cannot be so cruel to prevent it—oh! fear, fear it
not.” Saying this he presented Elise with a miniature portrait of himself,
praying her to wear it for the sake of the original, which she received with
pleasure, and kissing it, placed it in her bosom, where she promised it should
remain her chiefest delight until his return.
“Adieu,
my dear, dear De Montmorency, (continued Elise) remember how long thy Elise
will think each hour of separation, make it, therefore, as short as
possible—delay not, but return with all speed to her who lives but in your
presence, and may the Almighty bless and protect you.”
Again
he folded her in his arms, nor did she through coy modestly fail to return his
embrace—his present she amply repaid, by presenting him with her own miniature,
which he received on his knees, kissed it ardently, and vowed it should
accompany him through every danger, and to the last hour of existence.
With
another last kiss, another last embrace they at length summoned resolution to
tear themselves from each other’s arms.
“Adieu,
my dearest Elise! (said De Montmorency as he quitted her) may the guardian
angel of innocence and virtue attend your steps, enrich your days with joy and
crown your nights with peace!”
Upon
this they separated and returned by different paths to the house, in order, as
they fondly imagined, to avoid the suspicion of having been the whole time of
their absence together.
De
Montmorency, it is true, again joined the company—it is equally so that he
endeavoured to assume the appearance of being in spirits, but in vain; he found
the evening long, dull and unentertaining, and glad
was he when it drew towards a conclusion.
The
hour no sooner arrived in which he thought he could depart with propriety than
he intimated his intentions to Monsieur De St. Clair, who taking him aside,
presented him with a letter, which he accompanied by an assurance would procure
him the interest of a powerful nobleman, and wishing him every possible success
and happiness, bade him farewell.
Our
hero thanked him in the warmest manner for his kindness, took a polite leave of
Madame and young St. Clair, and mounted his horse to return home.
Fortunately
at this moment Elise was not present, and he had not again to undergo the
painful task of taking leave of her—indeed she purposely took an opportunity of
retiring to keep out of the way, sensible that they should both have betrayed
symptoms that were much better concealed.
As he was proceeding down the avenue of trees, he turned his head back
to take a parting look at the dwelling of Elise, and beheld her at a distant
window—She waved her lovely hand to him—De Montmorency would have returned but
he knew it could answer no purpose, nor would he be enabled to speak to
her—leaving therefore his whole soul with her, kissing his hand and bowing most
respectfully, he with a slow pace continued on his way, but not without
continually looking back at the window while it was in view, where Elise still
remained to take a last, last farewell sight of him.
C H A P T E R XVIII.
The
departure.
THE taking leave of Elise was
not the only severe trial De Montmorency had to undergo—he had still to part
with his father!
Once before had Hubert known what it was to be separated from a son
whom he loved with the utmost affection, and who constituted his sole
happiness—it was then a hard task; but his filial duty and attention since his
return had now rendered his presence so inestimable that the idea of losing his
endearing society was almost too much for him.
When
alone Hubert gave way to his sorrow upon the occasion, but determined within
himself that his son’s spirits should not be damp’d
by any intrusion of his grief—yet, in spite of his endeavours, when the trying
moment came the tears trickled down his aged cheeks and all his firm resolves
melted into nothing.
All
was prepared and De Montmorency was to set out for Paris in the morning—Hubert,
therefore, upon their preparing to retire to their different apartments, folded
his arms round his son intending to recommend him to the care of Heaven—at that
instant all the fondness of a parent came upon him and he found himself
incapable of uttering a single word, or bestow a blessing upon him—his looks,
his manner spake the excrutiating
conflict of his soul—De Montmorency felt his father’s anguish—his heart was
almost rent in twain!—and bursting out with a wildness bordering on
distraction:
“Cruel,
cursed Fortune! (exclaimed he) to follow whom we are forced to tear ourselves
from parents, from every endearing connection! from all we love! while thou,
fickle goddess! often mockest our pursuits and refusest to recompence us for the
sacrifice we oblige ourselves to make thee!”
“Oh,
my son! (cried Hubert, recovering himself as much as possible) let not the
weakness of old age damp your youthful ardour in the glorious career—the name
of Montmorency has heretofore stood high in the annals of our country—go thou
and rescue it from its present obscurity—that people who have boasted of the
talents of a Montmorency; that king who has been proud of his services, will
hear your name with joy, and encourage your merits and virtue with
pleasure—serve them truly, and ever think the esteem of your country, and an
honest fame the greatest good on this side Heaven.”
De
Montmorency promised to obey—the sentiments were congenial to his own—honour
was the idol of his worship—nor did family pride reign more predominant in
Hubert’s breast than in his—With reciprocal symptoms of affection, it being
late, they retired to rest; the son happy in being honoured with the advice of
such a father, and the father rendering thanks to his heavenly Creator for such
a son.
So
much affected was our hero with what had just passed that he was determined to
set off as soon as the morning dawned, in order to spare his father and himself
the pain of another parting—With this view he arose at the second crowing of
the cock, and stole softly down stairs—passing by Hubert’s room he observed the
door was not fastened—he was tempted to see his father once more; and hoping he
might do so unperceived and without disturbing him with tip-toe step he
ventured in and approached his bed-side.
He
was asleep—upon his pillow was a prayer-book, out of which he had been praying
for the prosperity of his son, and from an handkerchief lying by there was
evident reason to believe that tears had accompanied his prayers.
De
Montmorency felt himself affected—he could willingly have fell upon his knees,
but the apprehension that he should awaken his father prevented him; lifting up
his eyes to Heaven he ejaculated an ardent though silent prayer and then
retreated out of the room—when he got down stairs, early as it was, there he
found the attentive old domestic already up and waiting his young master’s
commands—He desired his horse to be instantly got ready, which being done the
faithful creature followed him to the door with tears in his eyes—our hero
observed it, and taking hold of his hand wished him many days of happiness, thank’d him for his honest attachment, and desired to be
remembered in his prayers.
The
poor old man bathed his hand with his tears, but he could not speak—De
Montmorency therefore shaking him again by the hand, and casting up a glance to
his father’s apartment, mounted his horse and proceeded on his way.
As
he went on, without company and destitute of spirits, a thousand distressing
ideas agitated his mind—thought roll’d on thought
with quick succession, nor had he time to decide upon one before another
came—he had not however gone any great way before one struck his fancy which he
was resolved to put in execution—it was to ride within sight of the chateau,
and take another look at the window where he had last beheld his adorable
Elise.
There
are some minds so unacquainted with the delicate emotions of a lover’s heart
that the idea of looking at an unoccupied window will appear trifling and
ridiculous—such beings our hero would not have considered worthy a moment’s
thought, and such the records of his early days are not likely to please; while
others of more refined sensibility, knowing what it is to love, will overlook
the extravagance of a lover, nor think meanly of him for adopting such a
resolution, nor weakly of us for considering of it as deserving relation.
Turning
his horse therefore he rode towards the chateau, and stopped exactly opposite
the window at which his dearest Elise had stood—all was hush’d,
and scarce did the verdant leaf tremble on the yielding bough—for a while he
gazed with silent rapture and form’d her beauteous
image in his mind—he knew the dwelling held his soul’s idol, and on that
account it was an object dear to his sight. At length roused from his reverie
by a noise at a distance:
“Amiable Elise, (said he) dear, lovely maid! thou seekest that repose, which, oh, may thy pillow always
afford thee!—far off, though thy Montmorency is wandering, still shalt thy image be present to his imagination—thy
assurances of affection for him shall ever be remembered—thy vows of constancy
shall never be forgotten.
“Each
night shall he not retire to rest till he has petitioned the throne of Heaven
to watch over thy slumbers and secure thy happiness!—and may those prayers
reach the All-Divine and Merciful ear, and prove as fruitful to thee as they
are sincere!”
He
now prepared to retire from the bewitching spot, and turning his horse’s head
for that purpose was surprised with the appearance of young St. Clair, and who
was advancing towards him—confus’d at having his
weakness thus discovered he would gladly have shunned the meeting, but it was
now too late—he was unable to form a pretence for having wandered so far out of
his road; in short he dreaded being an object of ridicule—Conscience however
acted upon our hero in this instance, as she is daily felt to do by others, and
magnified a trifle into an evil when no evil was near; for upon St. Clair’s
approach he merely testified a surprise at seeing him thus early prepared for
his journey, and after the common salutations proceeded with:
“Why
this early stirring proves an inclination to be gone—but the activity of De Montmorency’s mind and his persevering spirit must ensure
success to all his undertakings—this particular respect to our family in coming
round this way will be sensibly felt by us all, and sorry am I that my father
is not yet up to make his own acknowledgements for the honour, as such he was
certain it would be felt and considered.”
Such
was the turn this terrific meeting in appearance took—De Montmorency declared
he thought it no more attention than was their due for the many favors he had received at their hands—should have been
happy to have seen Monsieur de St. Clair, had he been stirring, but as it was
begged he would make his most profound respects to the whole family—upon this
they parted, young St. Clair to the chateau and De Montmorency on his way to
Paris, towards which with a mournful and heavy heart he proceeded.
C H A P T E R XIX.
A
trifling accident the cause of a new acquaint-
ance—a tale—two lovers made
happy—and a
reception.
HIS reflections on the road were of the most poignant
kind—he revolved within himself his present pursuit—he conceived, that for an unsubstantial
prospect, he was leaving a real good, and for the lurements
of wealth, he was forsaking scenes of happiness—these considerations would have
certainly induced him to return home, had it not been opposed by the dictates
of pride; this made his great heart swell with indignation at his own weakness,
and urged him onward towards the capital.
As he was passing through a small Village, thus perplexed with
conflicting passions, and the most melancholy thoughts, his horse’s shoe came
off, and he was forced to alight at a little neat cottage, to stop till another
could be put on—The cottage was inhabited by an old woman, and a beautiful
young girl, her daughter—her whose countenance was simplicity itself—but a
certain air of dejection, threw a cloud over it, and frequent sighs, declared
that she was not happy—De Montmorency, who felt for every one in distress, was
resolved to enquire the cause—the maiden at first betrayed an unwillingness to
own she was unhappy, but at length, by perseverance, our hero drew from her the
following confession.
A N N E T T E’s T A L E.
“AN’T
please you, Sir, William and I were brought up here in the same village from
our infancy—we used to play and dance together—he preferred me to all the girls
in the neighbourhood, and I thought him the most blithesome lad I ever saw—he
said he loved me, and I confessed I did the same for him, and we both promised
to love one another all our lives—as we grew up, our resolutions were the same,
and every body in the place thought we should certainly be married—and so we
should had it not been for some soldiers who came to our village—they, at first
artfully enticed William into their company, and at length, prevailed on him to
resolve that he would go for a soldier—I tried all in my power to persuade him
against it, but it would not do, he said he was bound by duty, to serve the Grande Monarque whenever he wanted
soldiers, he wanted them now, and go he would—‘Alas, Sir, what is the Grande Monarque to us poor
villagers?—he does not know us, he cannot care for us’—and so I told William,
begged him, with tears in my eyes, to stay at home, and by care and industry we
might possibly get a little vineyard of our own in time, but I could not
prevail—he would go—Alas, no one knows, Sir, how I mourned his absence for two
long, long years—It came afterwards into my head that he would be killed, but
these thoughts I always checked, because they were wrong—the Almighty, says I,
who is the father of us all, and loves us, will not take my William from me,
for that would be cruel, and contrary to his goodness—so I bore his absence as
patiently as I could—at the end of two years, the wars being ended he came home
again—oh, Sir, how happy did I feel myself at his return!—but, alas, my
happiness was soon changed!—instead of that love and tenderness he had always
shewn me before he went away—he is now totally indifferent, and scarcely ever
comes near me; as I love him as dearly as ever, it is his slighting grieves me
so—I am sure I shall never be happy again—but I should not so much mind if I
could only work as I used to do, towards supporting my poor mother, who is
unable to do it herself, and who will most probably be starved, should
William’s inconstancy be the death of me.”
The
artless simplicity of the poor girl, touched De Montmorency, and he resolved to
do her all the service he could—he sent for William—William was a comely
healthy looking lad—as soon as he came into the room, and saw Annette, he
blushed.
“William,
(said De Montmorency) how comes it that you have broke your promises to your
Annette? why have you ceased loving her?”
“An’t, please you honour, (replied William) I love her now
as well as ever, but when I was in the army, and used to talk about her to my
comrades, they would laugh at me, and call me fool for being constant to her,
as they were certain she would not be so to me; by this means they made me
ashamed of talking of my Annette while I was with them, although I gave no
credit to what they said against her; but when I came back to our village, I
was told all they suspected was right, and that she had not been true to me—and
this, your honour, is why I have neglected her—had she been faithful to me, I
should never have forsook her, and though her inconstancy has made me do it, it
has cost me many a heart ach, God knows.”
De
Montmorency saw that William’s neglect proceeded not from inclination, and as
Annette protested her innocence, he acted accordingly—“William, (said he) who
told you Annette was inconstant? for whoever told you so, I am sure, told you
false—they deceived you, for some wicked purpose—you shall not make Annette
unhappy—consent to marry her, and I’ll give you a hundred livres
for her portion.”
William
was too much pleased at the sincerity of his Annette to refuse, and De
Montmorency taking her by the hand joined it to his, and he received it with
pleasure—preparations were instantly made for the marriage of William and
Annette, and our hero did not depart from the village, without the pleasing
reflections of having been the means of making two harmless creatures happy.
His
horse’s shoes having been replaced in the mean time, he again set off for
Paris, where he arrived in a few day afterwards, without any particular
circumstance happening—Having taken the necessary rest after the fatigues of
his journey, he drest himself, and went to deliver
Monsieur de St. Clair’s letter as directed.
The
Nobleman read it several times over, eyeing De Montmorency all the time with
peculiar attention, and at length said, that he would fulfil the wishes of his
friend Monsieur de St. Clair, but as some days would elapse before he could
execute them, requested our hero to favour him, in the mean time, with his
company at his house.
De
Montmorency drew a happy presage from this reception, and returning the
nobleman thanks for his politeness, complied accordingly.
C H A P T E R XX.
A
religious ceremony interrupted—Reason sub-
servient to love, exemplified in
the History of
St. Julian and Arabella.
THE interval between our hero’s arrival at Paris, and
the time fixed by the nobleman for fulfilling the request of Monsieur de St.
Clair, he resolved to employ in viewing the most remarkable places in Paris
with more attention than on his former visit he had leisure to do—he was the
more especially induced to fill up his time in that manner from imagining, that
besides being some employment and satisfying his curiosity it might in some
measure detach his thoughts from his dearest Elise, and obtain some suspension
of the corroding pangs of separation—to eradicate the beloved object but a
moment from the mind how difficult was it to De Montmorency! how nearly
impossible is it to all those who love sincerely.
Absence can possibly decrease an affection which is not founded upon
truth and sincerity, but serves only to make it stronger when the heart is
forced to acknowledge an esteem for the object of its wishes is more deeply
rooted there than any passion whatever.
De
Montmorency resorted to the gardens of the Thuilleries,
they were beautiful; he was obliged to acknowledge it: but still would he say
to himself, with a sigh, “How much more so would they appear was my charming
Elise here to view them with me!”
The
gallery of Luxemberg was magnificent—but still to him
there wanted one addition to render it a perfect spectacle—had Elise been there
he would have readily admitted nothing could possibly be more grand.
While
he was passing his time in this manner, visiting every place that was likely to
engage his attention or kill the idle hour, he hapened
one evening in a solitary ramble to come to the Convent of St. ——, where he
beheld a concourse of people crowding in—on enquiring into the cause of such an
unusual circumstance, he was told a young lady was then going to take the
veil—this was a ceremony he had never beheld, and therefore curiosity, or
rather a desire to amuse his thoughts, led him to mix with the people that was
about the place and proceed with them into the Convent, and being got into the
chapel of which, he took his seat in one of the galleries without any person’s
interrupting him, and where he thought he should be able to see the whole
proceedings with the greatest advantage.
The
chapel was ornamented in a superb manner—the priests were arranged in order and
anxiously waiting to receive their devoted victim—at her approach being
announced they prepared for their official duties with pleasure sparkling in
their eyes—A solemn silence ensued, for although the assembly was numerous yet
each being intent upon the ceremony and anxious to observe all that passed
scarce a breath was to be heard—She entered at the bottom of the chapel and
proceeded up the aisle towards the altar with a slow and steady step—Six nuns
with each a taper in their hands and singing an occasional hymn began the
procession, they were followed by some little boys, walking also two and two,
and joining in the chorus, after these came the devoted victim—for such sure in
the eye of reason must all those unfortunate females be considered, who from
prejudice, superstition, or family policy, have been thus cut off from the
first great principle of their creation, enjoying the comforts of, and becoming
useful members to, Society—The one whose appearance for the inauguration had
drawn this assembly together, was majestical in
stature, beautiful in person; her dress, as is usual upon these occasions, was
white sattin, being emblematic of innocence, and was
displayed with taste and elegance; her hair was ornamented with a sprig of
white jessamine, and in her left hand she bore a
small slip of willow—there was an air of deep melancholy in her countenance
which was inexpressibly sweet and alluring—it might plainly be perceived her
heart regretted bidding adieu to the world, nevertheless she seemed to bear her
fate with resignation and to have summoned up all her fortitude to enable her
to undergo the important sacrifice she was now about to make.—As soon as she
advanced up to the altar the solemn service began—an introductory prayer was
followed by a grand chorus, accompanied by a deep-toned organ, whose awful
sounds were peculiarly impressive—Another prayer, in which the young lady took
part with the priest, succeeded the chorus, at the conclusion of which an hymn
was sung by two of the nuns, the music was slow and melancholy, not much unlike
that which is played as a requiem to departed souls.
The
unhappy fair one supported her spirits, during the whole ceremony, with much
fortitude, until the priests came to that part of the service which pronounces
that all further communication with the world is at an end for ever—upon that
being repeated she burst into tears—every spectator was affected—for every one,
excepting the religious order, seemed to acknowledge a pity for the occasion
which either induced or compell’d her to abjure the
joys of friendship, love and society—a general glow of sympathy o’erspread the audience, they felt for her situation and
wept in concert with the hapless devoted beauty—De Montmorency’s
breast, softened as it was by his own sorrows, could not behold her distress
unmoved—he wished to administer peace and relieve her afflictions, but he knew
not how any interference on his part could render her any service, he was,
therefore, of necessity forced to remain, what he had hitherto been, a silent
though not unconcerned spectator.
This
scene of sorrow passed unnoticed by the priests—custom, as it is truly said,
makes all things easy; the surgeon amputates a limb without a sigh, and he who
is familiarized to brutal deeds knows not the soft sensations dictated by
humanity—The ceremony proceeded; the brotherhood seemed in haste to add one
more to the number of those hapless wretches which they had already assisted in
immuring from the world—They were beginning the prayer immediately preceding
that which when finished the poor female cannot retract her promise—that being
ended she is stripped of her worldly ornaments, esteemed as initiated in the
order, and habited in nun’s attire—at the moment the priest had began this
prayer a confused noise was heard at the bottom of the aisle which attracted
the attention of every one present—A voice loud and vociferous was urging the
people to make way—the croud separated—a handsome
youth, with frantic looks burst through them—his dress disordered, his air
distracted—Regardless of the place or persons he flew like lightning up to the
alter:
“I
am not too late, (said he) the fatal ceremony is not yet finished! kind Heaven
I thank thee!”
Seizing
the trembling maid by the hand and falling upon his knees he went on; “Oh, my
Arabella, what means this desperate act? behold thy St. Julian—” the agitation
of his spirits prevented him from uttering any thing more.
This
unexpected intrusion was too much for the already oppressed Arabella; she
seemed ready to sink with the weight of her emotions—after some little struggle
within herself she assumed a degree of spirits, and addressed him with—
“Ah,
why does St. Julian interrupt me in these sacred moments!—has he not distressed
me enough already?—Depart St. Julian—oh! do not thus expose me in such a
situation—attempt not by a shew of tenderness to shake my resolution—leave me,
I say; nor seek to prevent my making this sacrifice to Heaven with composure
and fortitude.”
“It
must not, can not, shall not, be; (rejoined he, with a look of distraction)
Heaven will not listen to your pretended, perjur’d
vows—oh! repent ’ere it is too late, nor rashly plunge yourself into ceaseless
misery!—the ceremony is not yet finished—let thy St. Julian snatch thee
hence—he has not been faithless, he will convince his Arabella he has not.”
This
disjointed application had its effect—she melted into tears and replied in a
softened tone of voice—“Ah, wherefore! it is too late—Leave me, St. Julian;
leave me to my sorrows.”
“O,
never! never will I consent to your being immured within these horrid walls.”
Proceeding to lead her from the alter, to which she did not appear
averse, the priests interfered; they endeavoured to come between them, but
failing in that, they resorted to threats for intimidation. “Young man, (said
one of the most austere) how darest thou, thus
profanely inturrupt our sacred rites? instantly
depart, nor draw down vengeance on your inconsiderate head.”
“Never, (replied he, with a voice like thunder) your threats are in
vain for never will I depart without my Arabella!—Never, (continued he, at the
same time pushing the priest rudely aside, and taking her again by the hand)
will I leave this hand more—if thou wilt renounce the world and me, thou shalt first behold my blood stream upon the altar.”
“Oh,
St. Julian, (interrupted the dejected maid) shock me not with such horrid
sounds—save me, save me from such terrific ideas, for they rive my heart.”
The
priests began to be alarmed for the security of their victim, and were proceeding
to interfere with violence, in order to separate them, upon which St. Julian
drew his sword, and threatened the first with instant death who should molest
him—this struck them with consternation—he pressed Arabella to quit the
place—she appeared inclined to consent, but afraid to recede from the task she
had undertaken—her eyes were alternately fixed on the priests, the altar, and
her lover—her affection got the better of her resolution and she began to
retreat—The servants of the Convent were now summoned to make use of force
against this bold intruder.
De
Montmorency who had seen the conflict of the lovers with pity, and the conduct
of St. Julian with rapture, felt himself unable to contain any longer from
endeavouring to assist them; for this purpose, without any farther hesitation,
he leapt from the gallery into the aisle, and drawing his sword united with St.
Julian in threatning destruction to any one who
should dare to interrupt their retreat with Arabella—With such a supporter St.
Julian had nothing to fear—placing the not unwilling Arabella between them, the
people with the utmost cheerfulness making way, they were speedily out of the
chapel, and quitted the Convent without any other molestation, leaving the
brotherhood astonished at their sudden departure; vexed and chagrined at the
loss of so beautiful a nun—the audience, though disappointed in witnessing the
conclusion of the ceremony, were yet pleased at the devoted victim’s being thus
rescued from a life of miserable idleness and corroding despair, except a few
enthusiastic devotees, who considered the conduct of them all as sacrilegious
and deserving eternal punishment.
A
carriage which St. Julian had had the foresight to procure stood ready to
receive them, they stept into it with all possible
dispatch, and drove off full speed to a distant part of Paris, where St. Julian
had a friend in whom he knew he could confide.
When
they arrived at his friend’s residence, agreeable to his expectations, they
were most cordially received—he related as briefly as possible all that had
passed and had the satisfaction, in return, to have assurances of friendship
and assistance—When they had recovered from the agitation which the recent
scene had naturally thrown them into, St. Julian approached his Arabella and
returned thanks to Heaven for having brought him in sufficient time and
enabling him to prevent her being cut off from the world for ever.—He would
have taken her in his arms and pressed her to his panting bosom but she drew
back and assuming a serious air desired to know why he had treated her with
such cruel neglect, and how he could justify his late conduct towards her.—St.
Julian declared himself ready to obey her injunctions, not doubting but he
should prove that he deserved her pity more than her condemnation—nor should he
(he said) hesitate to blend his whole history with his answer to Arabella, as
it might render some little satisfaction to our hero who had acted so noble a
part towards him—he therefore began his story in the following manner, deducing
it from the time of his birth, in order that De Montmorency might be acquainted
with the whole of it.
The H I S T O R Y of A R A B E L L
A and
St. J U L I A N.
“GENEROUS Stranger!
ill should I deserve the friendly assistance I have this night received from
you, were I capable of disguising any thing, I will therefore open to you all
the secrets of my life, as willingly as I would disclose them to my Arabella,
was she alone—she claims a knowledge of the conclusion, and you are entitled to
every particular that may tend to explain my late, perhaps unaccountable
behaviour.
“My
father lives in a distant province of France, where he is possessed of a large
estate—on account of some disappointments in his favourite pursuits, he retired
there with me, his only son, and a young lady, to whom he was guardian.
“Without
any thing material to relate, I passed the years of my infancy—as I grew up
towards manhood, and had almost attained that period of our lives, when the
heart is ‘tremblingly alive to love,’ my father took care to inform me, that
the young lady, to whom he was guardian, was the daughter of an intimate
friend—between them it had been stipulated, in our tenderest infancy, that
which ever parent died first, the other should be guardian to the orphan
child—and that when arrived at a proper age, I was to be united to his friend’s
daughter, who, if she married me, was to have a considerable portion; but which
on failure of this marriage, if that failure was occasioned on her part, was to
devolve to a distant relative, and she be entitled to only a small annuity for
life.
“I
should first have told you, that this ward of my father’s name was Eliza, her
person was neither remarkable for beauty or deformity—in disposition she
blended all that was disagreeable, proud, haughty, fractious, fond of quarrels,
and amazingly jealous of every thing and person she was by any means connected;
unfortunately, she had early conceived an affection for me, and from the manner
of our being brought up as designed for each other, she was at no pains to
conceal it, but took every opportunity to testify how ready she was to comply
with her father’s commands—her love became troublesome, for I found it
impossible to make her any return, and her fondness became disgusting, and
rendered her my aversion—I was in hopes repeated and studied neglect, would
have alarmed her female pride, and subdued her disagreeable attachment, but I
was disappointed, and had the misfortune to find, the more indifferent I was,
the more fond she grew.
About
this time, an old friend of my father’s, persecuted by the frowns of fortune,
and plunged into the utmost distress, died of a broken heart, leaving this
lady, an helpless, almost friendless orphan behind him—the circumstance was
represented to my father, and his heart was too open to the calls of humanity
not to listen to her distress, and hold out his hand for her
protection—generosity is the leading feature of his character, although when
once he has set his mind upon a thing, his obstinacy is not to be shaken—I had
so much of one female orphan, that I heard his resolution of bringing home
another with disgust; nay, I had the hardiness to oppose his giving succour, at
least in his own house, to my adorable Arabella—but he was deaf to any thing I
could say—he understood she wanted protection, had promised to give it her, and
that promise was not to be broken—She was sent for, and home she came—for
several days she was in the house before we met, and this was easy to happen,
as I took every possible means to avoid her—crossing an avenue in the garden
early one morning, I was struck with what appeared more than mortal—it was my
Arabella—From that moment, as you may suppose, instead of avoiding, I took
every opportunity to be in her company.
Whatever
antipathy I had formerly to Eliza, it now was doubled, for my Arabella soon
taught me what it was to love—I loved her without knowing it at first myself—I
loved her a longer time without telling her so—I found concealment preyed upon
my spirits, and injure my health—Arabella, I flattered myself, did not seem to
possess any aversion towards me, and I was therefore resolved to disclose my
passion to her—For some time I watched in vain for an opportunity; Eliza was
constantly in the way, but meeting her one morning in the garden, I prevailed
on her to enjoy the pleasure of the place from a summer-house, which is
delightfully situated—she consented, and I soon found means to acquaint her
with the sovereignty she held over my heart—she listened to my tale, and I had
just (nay, blush not my love) brought my Arabella to confess that I was not
disagreeable to her, when my perpetual torment, Eliza, burst into the
summer-house, and found me upon my knees, pressing my beloved’s hand to my
lips, and thanking her for raising me from despair—Eliza started as if she had
been adder stung, but said not a word, with a sneer and a toss of the head she
turned from us and retreated towards the house—from that day, her behaviour was
changed, she behaved to me with the utmost scorn, and took every possible
occasion to insult the gentleness of my Arabella, with her poverty, and
unprotected situation.
I
expected nothing less than that she would have related the circumstance to my
father and prevail upon him to remove Arabella, for I knew he had fixed his
mind too strongly upon our union, not to be averse to every thing that was
likely to prevent it—these thoughts tormented me for some time; for although
day passed after day, without any notice being taken, yet, I was too well
acquainted with her disposition, to encourage an idea, she would suffer my
preferring Arabella, without meditating some revenge—In this uncertain state,
however, time passed on for some two or three months without any thing farther
than her taking more than ordinary care that we should not be a single moment
alone together—her vigilance was nevertheless ineffectual, and I had frequently
the happiness of avowing my love for Arabella.
About
six months after the event happened, my father told me he had procured me a
commission in a regiment abroad, to join which, I was to set out the next
day—my baggage being already on ship-board—I was thunderstruck, and could not
say a word; which indeed was but of little consequence, for had I been able to
have expostulated against it, he would not have heard me—I retired to seek my
Arabella, and disclose my father’s views to her—she counselled me to obey him
by all means—we mingled our tears together, and vowed eternal constancy and
affection—Without deigning to take leave of Eliza, I departed for my
destination next morning—with a heart almost broken I join’d
my regiment—I was ordered soon upon service, and that somewhat relieved my
troubled mind—Arabella and I had promised to correspond—I wrote immediately on
my arrival to her, (Arabella started) and by every post (again she started)—In
due course of time I expected to hear from her—no letter came (Arabella turned
pale) a second, a third post, and I received not intelligence from her—I was
distracted—I imagined she was ill—dying—perhaps dead—these thoughts tortured me
beyond bearing—I was resolved to return—I gave up my commission—and sailed for
France—I arrived to the great surprise of Eliza and my father at home—Without
deigning to account for my sudden return, the first thing I did, was to enquire
for my Arabella—Eliza told me, with a smile, she had resolved on a religious
life, and for that purpose was going to take the veil; this information came
like a shock of thunder; yet, as she would not tell me in what convent, I could
not give it credit; but soon learnt from the servant who had used to attend
her, that it was too true—she knew not, however, the name of the Convent, to
which my Arabella was gone, and I thought I should have ran distracted. I flew
about the house making enquiries of all I met, but they all were or pretended
to be ignorant—while I was thus acting like a madman, the girl whom I just now
alluded to, brought me a letter of Eliza’s, which she said she was to have sent
away the preceding evening, but had forgot to do it, and it might very likely
let me into the secret—I took the letter with much eagerness, and without
paying any attention to politeness or propriety, I instantly broke open the
seal, and found it to contain these contents:
‘Dear
Girl,
You
have often complimented me on the fertility of my invention, without having, as
yet I think, any great reason for so doing; for prithee,
Girl, what peculiar talents did you ever know me to possess that way more than
all women do; are we not all fertile in imagination and contrivance?—but I may
now give you one little instance of my exertion—having got St. Julian sent out
of the way, I have taken the most effectual method of separating him and
Arabella for ever—Since his absence, all the letters from him to her, and from
her to him I have stopped, and none have either of them received—Arabella, poor
meek soul, took this in dudgeon, pined at his inconstancy, and was easily
worked up to believe that he had abandoned her—to effect this I spared to
pains, and was the more easily enabled to do it, from being perfectly
acquainted with their sentiments, by means of the letters which I had got into
my hands—at last I wound her up to such a pitch of distress that she declared
in favour of a religious life—this was the very thing I wished for—she
entreated me to prevail on old St. Julian to let her take the veil—a charming
office!—I did so, and succeeded, but not without some difficulty—he was so
averse to it, that he would not interfere in the business: a lucky circumstance
also for me, as by that means I had the transacting of every thing myself, and
was enabled to prevent her dying swain from having the least intimation of it;
and so well has the matter been conducted, that to-morrow she will be initiated
among the sisterhood, at the Convent of St. ——’
“I
could read no more—it was unnecessary—I had already read sufficient to perceive
my fate hung upon the decision of a moment, and that moment was arrived—I
instantly quitted the house, and took post for Paris; frantic at the seeming
tediousness of the horses all the way—when I arrived, I just stopped to secure
a carriage in case I should prove successful, and flew to the Convent, where I
found my Arabella, and what followed it is unnecessary for me to relate.”
Arabella,
by her looks, plainly shewed she was satisfied by the account St. Julian had
given; she permitted him to take her in his arms, and they again renewed their
vows of eternal constancy—De Montmorency was delighted at their having so
fortunately met again, and complimented them upon their present prospect of
happiness; but he, as well as St. Julian’s friend pointed out how dangerous it
would be for them to remain in Paris; it was therefore agreed upon, that he and
Arabella should retire to a small estate he had in Picardy,
to be there united, and then write to implore his father’s forgiveness; which,
if he refused, they might remain where they were, and make love and affection
supply the place of riches and superfluity.
De
Montmorency was invited to accompany them, but which his present engagements
would not (nor his desire of beholding Elise, if they would have done so)
permit him to accept.
After
having taken some refreshment, St. Julian prepared for his departure, as he was
convinced it would be most prudent to convey Arabella away from Paris as soon
as possible, it being by no means improbable that the superiors of the Convent
would make it a serious business, and apply to the commandant to assist them in
recovering the noviciate, and punishing the offender—in such a case, their
total separation would be inevitable, as the clergy are not remarkable for
their forgiveness or humanity—his father too might possibly arrive, and add his
authority to their interference—enquiring, therefore, our hero’s name, and with
wishes for his happiness, which De Montmorency returned with interest, the
happy couple set out post immediately for Picardy,
and our hero returned to the nobleman’s hotel, highly delighted with his
evening’s adventure.
C H A P T E R XXI.
A ministerial levee—a singular character—
politics a crooked path to fame—and a
sud-
den removal to an unwelcome habitation.
FROM the indulgent reception of the nobleman and the
short period which he had fixed for fulfilling the wishes of Monsieur de St.
Clair, De Montmorency presaged the most favourable conclusions, and flattered
himself that they were certain omens of his soon being enabled to re-visit his
home, his father, and his Elise.
It was the pleasing reflections produced by such thoughts as these that
chear’d his anxious heart, and enabled him to support
the pangs of absence with any degree of patience and shew of fortitude.
His
imagination would frequently lead him to the pleasing talk of planning future
scenes of happiness with the mistress of his heart—it was a delightful subject,
upon which Fancy could revel in her full career, uncheck’d
by the reins of Reason, bound over the limits of Probability, and dwell with
transport on conceived delights that never could be realized—nay, it would sometimes
carry him so far as to make him almost fix the day when he should have
completed his pursuits, be hastening back, on the wings of love and duty, to
the arms of his father and Elise, even before he had made any farther progress
than obtained the vague promise of a courtier.
Previous
to his setting out upon this expedition he had promised Elise and his father to
be constant and unremitting in his correspondence, and to omit no opportunity
of sending to them—to be enabled to fulfil which he employed a great share of
his time, always keeping letters ready for dispatch whenever occasion
offered—in fact it was the only portion of his time that he spent in ease and
comfort, therefore neglect was not likely—to see, to speak, to live with them,
was the height of felicity—so to convey his thoughts was a satisfaction to his
mind, convinced, from the knowledge of their affections, that their replies
would bring harmony to his soul.
The
Come de——’s hotel (where and with whom our hero resided) was constantly crowded
every morning with persons of various descriptions—some dancing attendance for
their own promotions, while others were doing the same for their friends and
relations.
Among
the number of these daily visitants, was an aged officer, whose singularity of
manner very forcibly struck De Montmorency—he was constantly present, was
always among the first who came and the last that went away, yet never address’d himself to, or held conversation with, any person
present—most, even of the first rank apparently knew, and always paid their
respects to him—to some few he would return the compliment, but by far the
greatest number he would only look them full in the face as if he did not
understand what they meant.
This
kind of behaviour riveted the attention of our hero, insomuch that at last the
old gentleman noticed it, and taking an opportunity when they were close
together, asked him, in a peremptory tone, why he was made an object of his
circumspection.
De
Montmorency felt that he had acted improperly, look’d
confus’d, and begg’d pardon
for his seeming impertinence; declared it was without any intention of giving
offence, as nothing could be more distant from his thoughts, and hoped he would
believe as much.
“You
are a stranger, then?”
“I
am.”
“And
your name is——”
“De
Montmorency.”
“De
Montmorency! (repeated he, with a seeming degree of transport) Gracious Heaven,
what a name!—it was a De Montmorency that raised this kingdom to a pinnacle of
glory—and who knows but a De Montmorency may save it from ruin, and rescue it
from the hands of those whose ignorance, not to say worse of them, will soon
bring it to destruction.—And pray, young man, what is your business here?”
“To
serve my country, if I can—I came recommended to Comte de——by Monsieur de St.
Clair.”
“St
Clair!—I don’t like St. Clair—he is a knave!—but it is knaves only that have
interest at court, now-a-days. And so he sent you to this blessed counsellor of
the King’s for him to give you a place?”
“He
presumed upon his interest with the Comte to flatter me with hopes of
employment.”
“Well,
and what kind of reception has he given you?”!
“The
most polite and indulging.”
“Aye,
there’s no doubt of his civility—I have known him treat a man with a smile when
he had a lettre de cachet against him in his pocket, and issue it the
moment he was out of sight to take him to the Bastile.”
“But
he has promised me faithfully.”
“Then
suspect him—for although he is my nephew, he is one of the greatest hypocrites
that lives—St. Clair!—to be sure St. Clair may do much—it often happens that a
knave has influence over a rascal, and I believe my scoundrel of a nephew dare
not—yes, I say dare not refuse the application of your patron—but it hurts me
that a De Montmorency should be ushered in to the service of his country by a Farmier General—how became you acquainted with this fellow, and by
what means did you acquire his countenance?”
“His
residence is near to my father’s retirement!”
“What!
is your father alive?”
“Heaven
forbid the contrary—I left him so a few days since.”
“How
durst he, a Montmorency too, be spending his days in indolence, while his
country stands in need of his service—Sir, Sir, it is the duty of every honest
man to sacrifice his private ease to the public good—what, though folly has
been countenanced, merit discouraged, is that a sufficient reason for retiring
in disgust? I say no, on the contrary, it ought to act as a stimulative
to stand up boldly for the rights of men—for when a King falls into the power
of ignorant or designing counsellors, every true patriot will risk his all to
rescue his King from their machinations, and save his country from inevitable
ruin.”
“My
father, Sir——
“Well,
no matter, he must be an old man now, and may possibly have been doing good, by
instilling proper principles into his son; if so, have a care they are not
poisoned by the connection you are about to make—if you are a stranger to your
ancestors, read their deeds, and then you will know what you owe to your name,
what you owe to your fellow subjects—I hope the Comte will keep his word, but
of which had you been recommended by worth and integrity, I should have had my
doubts—farewell! some other time I may wish to spend an hour or two with you.”
Surprised as De Montmorency had been at the singular behaviour and
appearance of this old gentleman, he was much more so, by the discourse that
had taken place between them—he felt his breast expand at the glorious idea of
acquiring fame, and his whole soul glow’d at the
patriotic sentiments which his new acquaintance had uttered—Glory had now found
a passage to his heart, and he longed for an opportunity to shew he dared do
all that was consistent with honour, and gain the wreathe, or perish in the
attempt.
In
the field, he knew the path was strait before him—a soldier’s courage must
obtain, and his integrity secure it—that was a line most suited to the mind of
our hero, and in which, his career would been swift and certain, but for the
unlucky capture, which compelled him to let his sword rust in idleness—to seek
for it in the crooked way of politics was ill suited to his open and candid
disposition, especially under the auspices of those of whom he had just heard
so unfavorable a description—but still he was
determined to proceed with Honour for his guide, and Integrity for his
companion.
“With
such assistance (said he, as he ruminated by himself) how is it possible I
should fail—if I do no wrong, who can be offended, or condemn me—if I execute
my trust justly, I must be approved by them who employ me, however negligent
they may be in the discharge of their own: and no one will attempt to make me a
tool, or accomplice in his villainy, while my own actions are tempered with
justice and marked with propriety—there must at least appear an inclination to
vice, ’ere Guilt will venture to entrust its confidence—then what have I to
fear—my pursuits are laudable—my success I cannot doubt—and, Oh, Heaven! grant
my dearest Elise may be my great reward.”
With
these conclusions De Montmorency thought himself in the direct road to
happiness—his bosom experienced a cessation of grief, and his mind was blessed
with serenity—but how often does sorrow arise from the accomplishment of what
we wish! and how often are we deceived in our gayest prospects!
About
a week after his arrival at Paris, as he was amusing himself in the garden of
the Comte de ——, he perceived a small party of soldiers—they soon came up with
him—the officer very politely informed him they were sent to conduct him to a
place appointed for his reception.
De
Montmorency started with surprise—that surprise made him retreat, and to have
the appearance of a wish to avoid them; upon which, before he had time to say a
word:
“That
gentleman, (said the officer, pointing to him) is the person.”
De
Montmorency stared with astonishment—The soldiers advancing immediately with
their bayonets fixed, surrounded and claimed him as their prisoner, began to
march, and commanded him to accompany them.
Our
hero was so totally confounded at being thus taken into custody, that he could
not utter a single word—he had no doubt but that the officer had mistaken him
for some other person, yet, as all resistance would, he knew, be absurd against
their prejudice and so much force, he suffered himself to be conducted to a
coach, into which some of the soldiers entered.
After
a short ride, they stopped at a large gate; here entrance was demanded, and
through which, when opened, they proceeded into a court yard, where the
soldiers alighted, desiring him to do the same.
De Montmorency, who was somewhat recovered
from his astonishment, in the course of the way, ventured to ask one of those
who were in the coach with him, to what place they were carrying him; this
requisition was answered by one of the soldiers, in a surly tone:
“To
the B A S T I L E.”
It
appeared to him a voice of thunder, for at the mention of that name so horrible
to human nature, a sudden cold sweat seized him, and pervaded his whole frame.
“Pray,
Sir, (said De Montmorency) can you inform me for what I am sent thither.”
“That,
(replied his guard) is no business of mine;—my orders are to take you there, so
go you must, and get out again how you can.”
“But
surely I shall not be confined, as I am certain of my innocence.”
“Innocent!—yes,
a man must be very innocent to be sure, when the King has signed a lettre de cachet
against him.”
This brutal indifference of his guide, together with the name of the Bastile, had such an effect upon his spirits, that he was,
in a manner, stupified with horror, and suffered
himself to be taken out of the carriage without uttering a word of complaint,
and to be delivered to the Governor by the commander of the soldiers, as a
prisoner of the state.
The
Governor received the orders and our hero with a bow, and immediately conducted
him to a large hall, where a ponderous volume, full of the lives and deaths of
the unhappy captives was opened, and his name added to the number; his pockets
were then searched, and every thing in them taken away, put in a small cupboard,
and carefully lock-up—At the moment of this transaction, a young lady was with
the Governor, seemingly his daughter, whose countenance wore an air of concern
at the unfortunate fate of our hero.
De
Montmorency perceiving the tear of pity steal down her fair cheek, assumed
courage to request her to ask the Governor if the officer was not mistaken in
his person, and if not, for what crime he was to be confined there, being
totally ignorant of having committed any act deserving the censure of
government.
She
complied with his request, but the Governor whispering something in her ear,
she replied to De Montmorency, that as it was de par le Roi, her father, was bound, by his oath, to
secrecy.
Our
hero thanked her for her condescension with a low bow—he could no more—the
guard retired, and he was immediately conducted to the inside of the prison,
where all was gloom and horror—all was silent, his attendants spoke not a word,
until they came to the door of a cell into which they bid him enter—he obeyed,
and found himself in a small room, about six feet square into which the light
was conveyed by a small aperture, (it did not deserve the name of a window)
strongly grated with iron bars—a flint and steel, with a candle, being
delivered to him, three doors
——on
whose hinges,
Grated harsh Thunder.
were instantly closed upon him, and here was he left to ruminate upon this
sudden change of fortune, and conjecture, if possible, what had occasioned it,
and brought him to this gaol of tyrants, and grave of the living.
C H A P T E R XXII.
The Bastile and its concomitant horrors.
THERE needs very little rhetoric to impress the idea
that our hero now considered himself in the most hapless and deplorable
situation—Deprived of liberty—excluded from all converse and communication with
the world—torn from the parental affections of the best of fathers—cut off from
all hopes of experiencing the tender endearments of his beloved Elise—secluded
from society, the world, and every possible comfort, perhaps for ever!
In
such a situation how poignant must be his feelings! how exquisite his
sensations!—You who have been imprisoned in that wretched place, nor tasted,
through a series of long, long years, one moment’s ease, one moment’s respite
from despair!—you must best, you can only know what he suffered!—your
sympathetic hearts will pity his situation and pant for his deliverance.
As
soon as the door of his cell was lock’d, and he found
himself the inhabitant of a dungeon, he fell almost into a state of
stupefaction, surveyed the bare walls and traversed the utmost limits of his
prison house over and over again.
This,
as it may perhaps not inaptly be term’d, oppressive
gloom of sullen woe at length subsided, Recollection reassumed her seat, and
then his miseries became more keen—they stung him to the quick, and set his
brain a madding—a sudden fury seized him—he raved with the utmost violence
until he was quite exhausted—then falling on the bare ground he repeatedly dash’d his head against the stones—he tore up his hair by
the roots, gnash’d his teeth with vehemence, uttered
the most horrible imprecations on himself, and in the first transports of his
rage vowed to put a speedy termination to his miserable existence.
Nature
being quite exhausted by these unusual and violent exertions he sunk lifeless
upon the floor, in which state he remained several hours—when he came to
himself his delirium had in a great measure subsided and he grew more calm—he
raised himself from the floor, and sitting himself down by the side of a
wretched bed which lay in one corner of his horrid dwelling, his thoughts
wandered to those scenes he had partook of with delight, and for the renewal of
which he only wish’d to live—this was more than he
could bear, his manly fortitude melted away, and all his mother’s weakness came
upon him—tears ran from his eyes in incessant torrents—he neither could nor
even attempted to stop their course until grown dry with constant weeping not a
single tear remain’d to ease his aching heart.
Thus
melancholy he sat pondering on his weight of woe, fearful to look forward, nor
daring to look behind—Grief, in the end, gave utterance to his tongue, and
falling upon his knees;
“Tell
me, (said he) good Heaven, how I have merited this dreadful punishment!—what
hideous offence have I unknowingly committed! for unless love be a crime I am
unconscious of any wrong, but if that be so, I am guilty indeed.—Oh, my Elise!
will not thy Montmorency’s loss affect thy peace! shouldst thou learn that he is shut up in the cursed Bastile will it not destroy thee!—my father too!—Oh, thou
Supreme! thou great disposer of events! whose decrees mortals cannot question!
however it may be thy gracious will to dispose of me, grant, oh! grant them
fortitude to combat my loss, nor let them be destroyed by the weight of my
afflictions!—And shall I never see them more?—Oh, never! never!”
Again
he burst into a paroxism of despair—again his tears
began to flow—again he was seized with fury bordering on madness, until quite
exhausted, when he again threw himself on the floor and remained in that
situation for some hours stupified with grief and
horror.
END OF THE FIRST
VOLUME.