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1


THE
EO STANCE
OF i
THE FOREST.
INTERSPERSED WITH
SOME PIECES OF POETRY.
BY MRS. RATCLIFE,
AUTHOR ESS OF'A 'SICILIAN ROMANCE,
MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO,' &.C.
"Ere the bat hath flown
His cloister'd flight; ere to black Hecate's summons
The shard-born beetle, with his drowsy hums,
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed of dreadful note." Macbciit.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II:
EXETER: '/ --
PUBLISHED BY J. & B. WILLIAMS.
1834.





THE
ROMANCE OF THE FOREST.
CHAPTER I.
TOWARDS evening again the surgeon made his
appearance ; and having passed some time with his
patient,returned to the parlor, according to the desire
of Adeline, to inform her of his condition. He an-
swered Adeline's inquiries with great solemnity.—
"It is impossible to determine positively at present,
madam, but I have reason to adhere to the opinion
I gave you this morning. I am not apt, indeed, to
form opinions upon uncertain grounds. I will give
you a singular instance of this.
"It is not above a fortnight since I was sent for to
a patient at some leagues distant. I was from home
when the messenger arrived, and the case being ur-
gent, before I could reach the patient another physi-
cian was consulted, who had ordered such medi-
cines as he thought proper, and the patient had
been apparently relieved by them. His friends were*
congratulating themselves upon his improvement
when I arrived, and had agreed in the opinion with
the physician, that there was no danger in his case.
Depend upon it, said I, you are mistaken; these
medicines cannot have relieved him; the patient is
In the utmost danger. The patient groaned, but my
brother physician persisted in affirming that the
remedies he had prescribed would not only be cer-
tain, but speedy ; some good effect having been al-
ready produced by them. Upon this I lost all pa-
tience, and adhering to my opinion, that these ef-
fects were fallacious and the case desperate, I as-
sured the patient himself that his life was in the at-


4
THE ROMANCE
most danger. I am hot one of those, madam, who
deceive their patients to the last moment; but you
shall hear the conclusion.
My brother physician was, I supposed, enraged by
the firmness of my opposition, for he assumed a most
angry look, which did not in the least affect me, and
turning to the patient,desired he would decide upon
which of our opinions to rely, for he must decline
acting with me. "The patient did me the honor,"
pursued the surgeon, with a smile of complacency,
and smoothing his ruffles, " to think more highly of
me than, perhaps, I deserved, for he immediately dis-
missed my opponent." 'I could not have believed,'
said he, as the physician left the room, " I could not
have believed that a man, who has been so many
years in the profession, could be so wholly ignorant
of it."
'I could not have believed it either,' said I. *1 am
astonished that he was not aware of my danger,'
resumed the patient. I am astonished likewise, re-
plied I I was resolved to do what I could for the
patient, for he was a man of understanding, as you
perceive, and I had a regard for him. f, therefore,
altered the prescriptions, and administered the
medicine myself; but all would not do, my ^opinion
was verified, and he died even before the next morn-
ing." Adeline, who had been compelled to listen to
this long story, sighed at the conclusion of it. "I
don't wonder that you are affected, madam," said
the surgeon, " the instance I have related is certainly
a very affecting one. It distressed me so much, that
was some time before I could think, or even speak
concerning it. But you must allow, madam," con-
tinued he, lowering his voice, and bowing with a
look of self congratulation, " that this was a striking
instance of the infallibility of mv judgment."
Adeline shuddered at the infallibility of his judg-
ment, and made no reply. "It was a shocking thing
for the poor man," resumed the surgeon. "It was
Indeed, very shocking," said Adeline. "It affected
me a good deal when it happened," continued he.—
"Undoubtedly, sir," said Adeline.
"But time wears away the most painful impres-
sions."
"I think you mentioned it was about a fortnight
since this happened."


OP THE FOREST.
5
"Somewhere thereabouts," replied the surgeon,
without seeming to understand the observation.—
"And will you permit me, Sir, to ask the name of
the physician who so ignorantly opposed you?"
"Certainly, madam, it is Lafance."
"He lives in the obscurity he deserves,no doubt,"
said Adeline.
"Why no,madam, he lives in a town of some note,
about the distance of four leagues from hence, and
affords one instance, among many others, that the
public opinion is generally erroneous. You will
hardly believe it, but I assure you it is a fact, that
this man comes into a great deal of practice, while I
am suffered to remain here neglected, and indeed
very little known."
During his narative, Adeline had been considering
by what means she should discover the name of the
physician, for the instance that had been produced
to prove his ignorance, and the. infallibility of his op-
ponent, had completely settled her opinion concern-
mg them both. She now, more than ever, wished to
deliver Theodore from the hands of the surgeon, and
was musing on the possibility, when he, with so
much self-security, developed the means.
She asked him a few more questions concerning
the state of Theodore's wound, and was told it was
much as it had been, but that some degree of fever
had come on. "But I have ordered a fire to be made
in the roomt" continued the surgeon, " and 3ome ad-
ditional blankets to be laid on the bed; these, I
doubt not, will have a proper effect. In the mean
time they must be careful to keep from him every
kind of liquid, except some cordial draughts which
I shall send. He will naturally ask for drink, but
it must on no account be given to him."
"You do not approve, then, of the method which I
have somewhere heard of," said Adeline, of attend-
ing to nature in these cases?"
"Nature, madam," pursued he, "nature is the
most improper guide in the world. I always adopt
a method directly contrary to what-she would sug-
gest; for what can be the use of Art, if she is only to
follow nature? This was my first opinion on setting
out in life, and I have ever since strictly adhered to
It. From what I have said, indeed, madam,'you
may perhaps perceive, that my opinions may be


G
THE ROMANCE
depended on; What they once are they always are;
for my mind is not of that frivolous kind to be affec-
ted by circumstances."
Adeline was fatigued by this discourse, and im-
patient to impart to Theodore *her discovery of a
physician ; but the surgeon seemed by no means dis-
posed to leave her, and was expatiating upon vari-
ous topics, with new instances of his surprising sa-
gacity, when the waiter brought a message that
some person wanted to see him. He was, however,
engaged upon too agreeable a topic to be easily pre-
vailed upon to quit it, and it was not till after a
second message was brought that he made his bow/
to Adeline and left the room. The moment he was
gone she sent a note to Theodore, entreating his
permission to call in the assistance of the physician.
The conceited manners of the surgeon had, by this
time given Theodore a very unfavorable opinion
of his talents, and the last prescription had bo fully
confirmed it, that he now readily consented to have
other advice.
Adeline immediately enquired for a messenger, but
recollecting that the residence of the physician
was still a secret, she applied to the hostess, who,
being really ignorant of it, or pretending to be so,
gave her no information. What farther enquiries
she made were equally ineffectual, and she passed
some hours in extreme distress, whilst the disorder
of Theodore rather increased than abated.
When supper appeared, she asked the boy who
waited, if he know a physician of the name of La-
fan ce, in the neighborhood. "Not in the neighbor-
hood, madam, but I know a Dr. Lafance of Chancy,
for I come from the town." Adeline enquired farth-
er, and received very satisfactory answers. But the
town was at some leagues distance, and the delay
this circumstance must occasion, again alarmed her;
she, however, ordered a messenger to be immediate-
ly dispatched, and, having sent again to enquire
concerning Theodore, retired to her chamber for the
night.
The- continued fatigue she had suffered for the last
fourteen hours overcame anxiety, and her harassed
spirits sunk to repose. She slept till late in the
morning, and was then awakened by the landlady,
who came to inform her that Theodore was much


OF THE FOREST. 7
worse, and to enquire what must be done. Adeline,
finding that the physician had not arrived, imme-
diately arose, and hastened to enquire farther con-
cerning Theodore. The hostess informed her, that
he had passed a very disturbed night; that he had
complained of being very hot, and desired that the
fire in his room might be extinguished but that the
nurse knew her duty too well to obey him, and had
strictly followed the doctor's orders. ..
She added, that he had taken the cordial draughts
regularly, but had, notwithstanding, continued to
grow worse, and at last became light-headed. In
the mean time the boy who had been sent for the
physician, was still absent; "and no wonder, con-
tinued the hostess ; why,consider, it's eight league's
off, and the lad had to find the road, bad as it is, in
the dark. But, indeed, ma'ainselle, you might as
Well have trusted to our doctor, for we never want
any body else, not we, in the town here; and if I
might speak my mind, Jacques had better have been
sent off for the young gentleman's friends, than for
this doctor whom nobody knows."
After asking some farther questions concerning
Theodore, the answers to which rather increased
than diminished her alarm, Adeline endavored to
compose her spirits, and await in patience the arri-
val of the physician. She was now more sensible
than ever of the forlornness of her own condition,
and earnestly wished that his friends could be in-
formed of his situation; a wish that could not be
gratified, for Theodore, who alone could acquaint
her with their place of residence, was deprived of
recollection.
When the surgeon arrived and perceived the sit-
uation of his patient, he expressed no surprise ; but
having asked some questions, and given a few gen-
eral directions, he went down to Adeline. After pay-
ing her his usual compliments, he suddenly assumed
an air of importance ; " 1 am sorry, madam," said
he, "that it is my duty to communicate disagreeable
intelligence; but I wish you to be prepared for the
event which, I fear, is approaching." Adeline com-
prehended his meaning, and though she had hitherto
given little faith to his judgment, she could not
hear him hint at the immediate danger of Theodora
without yielding to the influence of fear. »


THE ROMANCE
Hhe entreated him to acquaint her with all he
apprehended ; and he then proceeded to say, that
Theodore was, as he had foreseen, much worse this
morning thau he had been the preceding night ; and
the disorder having now affected his head, there
was every reason to fear it would prove fatal in a
few hours. "The worst consequences may ensue,"
continued he; "if the wound becomes inflamed,
there will be very little chance of his recovery."
Adeline listened to this sentence with a dreadfal
calmness, and gave no utterance to grief, either by
words or tears. "The gentleman, I suppose, mad-
am, has friends, and the sooner you inform them of
his condition the better. If they reside at a dis-
tance, it is indeed too late; but there are other
necessary—you are ill, madam!"
Adeline made an effort to speak, but in vain, and
the surgeon now called loudly for a glass of water;
she drank it, and a deep sigh that she uttered, seem-
ed somewhat to relieve her oppressed heart; tears
succeeded. In the meantime, the surgeon perceiv-
ing she was'better, though not well enough to listen
to his conversation, took his leave, and promised to
return in an hoar. The physician was not yet arriv-
ed, and Adeline awaited his appearance with a mix-
ture of fear and hope.
About noon he came ; and having been informed
of the accident by which the fever was produced,
and of the treatment which the surgeon had given
it, he ascended to Theodore's chamber. In a quar-
ter of an hour he returned to the room where Ade-
line expected him. "The gentleman is still delir-
ous," said he, "but I have ordered him a compo-
sing draught." "Is there any hope, sir?" enquired
Adeline. "Yes, madam, certainly there is hope;
the case at present la somewhat doubtful, but a few
hours may enable me to Judge with more certainty.
In the meantime,! have directed that he shall be
kept quiet, and be allowed t6 drink freely of some
diluting liquids."
He had scarcely, at Adeline's request, recom-
mended a-surgeon, instead of the one at present
employed, when the latter gentleman entered the
room, and perceiving the physician, threw a glance
of mingled surprise and anger at Adeline, who retir-
ed with him to another apartment, where ahe die-


OF THE FOREST.
9
missed him with a politeness, which he did not
deign to return, and which he certainly did not de-
serve.
Early the following morning the surgeon arrived;
but either the medicines, or the crisis of the disor-
der, had thrown Theodore into a deep sleep, in
which he remained for several hours. The physi-
cian now gave Adeline reason to hope for a favor-
able issue, and every precaution was taken to pre-
vent his beirrg disturbed. He awoke perfectly sen-
sible and free from fever, and his first words enquir-
ed for Adeline, who soon learned he was out of
danger.
In a few days he Was sufficiently recovered to be
removed from his chamber to a room adjoining,
where Adeline met him with a joy which she found
it impossible to repress; and the observance of this
lighted up his countenance with pleasure; indeed,
Adeline, sensible to the attachment he had so no-
bly testified, and softened by the danger he had en-
countered, no longer attempted to disguise the
tenderness of her esteem, and was at length brought
to confess the interest his first appearance had im-
pressed on her heart.
After an hour of affecting conversation, in which
the happiness of a young and mutual attachment
occupied all .their minds, and excluded every idea
not in unison with delight, they returned to a sense
of their present embarrassments; Adeline recollect-
ed that Theodore was arrested for disobedience of
orders, and deserting his post; and Theodore, that
he must shortly be torn away from Adeline, who
would be left exposed to all the evils from which he
had so lately rescued her. This thought over-
whelmed his heart again with anguish ; and, after
a long pause, he ventured to propose, what hia
wishes had often suggested, a marriage with Ade-
line before he departed from the village: this was
the only means of preventing, perhaps, an eternal
separation ; and though he saw the many danger-
ous inconveniences to which she would be expos-
ed, by a marriage with a man circumstanced like
himself; yet these appeared so unequal to those
she would otherwise be left to encounter alone, that
his reason could no longer scruple to adopt what
affection had suggested.


10
THE ROMANCE
Adeline was, for some time, too much agitated
to reply ; and though she had little to oppose to the
arguments and pleadings of Theodore ; though she
had no friends to control, and no contrariety of
Interests to perplex her, she could not bring herself
to consent thus hastily to a marriage with a man,
of whom she had little knowledge, and to whoso
family and connections she had no sort of introduc-
tion. At length, she entreated he would drop the
subject, and the conversation, for the remainder of
the day was more general, yet still interesting.
That similarity of taste and opinion which had
at first attracted them, every moment now more ful-
ly disclosed. Their discourse was enriched by ele-
gant literature, and endeared by mutual regard.
Adeline had enjoyed few opportunities of reading;
but the books to which she bad access, operating
upon a mind eager for knowledge, and upon a taste
peculiarly sensible of the beautiful and elegant, had
impressed all their excellencies upon her under-
standing. Theodore had received from nature many
of the qualities of genins, and from education all
that it could bestow ; to these were added a noble
independency of spirit, and feeling heart, and man-
ners, which partook of a happy mixture of dignity
and sweetness.
In the evening, one. of the officers who, upon the
representation of the serjeant, was sent by the per-
son employed t» prosecute military criminals, ar-
rived at the village, and entering the apartment of
Theodore, from which Adeline immediately with-
drew, informed him, with an air of infinite impor-
tance, that he should set out on the following day,
for head quarters. Theodore answered, that he
was not able to bear the journey, and referred him
to his physician; but the officer replied that ha
should take no such trouble, it being certain that
the physician might be instructed what to say, and
that be should begin his journey on the morrow.—
"Here has been delay enough," said he, "already,
and you will have sufficient business on your bands
when you reach head-quarters: for the serjeant
whom you have severely wounded, intends to ap-
pear against you; and this, with the offence you
have committed by deserting your post."
Theodore's eyes flashed fire : "Deserting t" said


of The forest.
11
he, rising from his seat, and darting a look of me-
nace at his accuser; "who dares to brand me with
the name of deserter?" But instantly recollecting
how much his conduct had appeared to justify the
accusation, he endeavored to stifle his emotions,
and with a firm voice and composed manner said,
that when he reached head-quarters, he should be
ready to answer whatever might be brought against
him, but that fill then he should be silent. The
boldness of the officer was repressed by the spirit
and dignity with which Theodore spoke these
words, and muttering a reply, that was scarcely
audible, he left the room.
Theodore sat musing on the danger of his situa-
tion; he knew that he had much to apprehend
from the peculiar circumstances attending his ab-
rupt departure from his regiment, it having been
stationed in a garrison town upon the Spanish
frontiers, where the discipline was very severe,
and from the power of his colonel, the Marquis de-
Montalt, whom pride and disappointment would
now rouse to vengeance, and probably render in-
defatigable in the accomplishment of his destruc-
tion. But his thoughts soon fled from his own
danger to that of Adeline, and, in the Consideration
of this, all his fortitude forsook him ; he could not
support the idea of leaving her exposed to the evils
he foreboded, nor indeed, of a separation so sudden
as that which now threatened him; and when she
again entered the room, he renewed his solicita-
tions for a speedy marriage, with all the arguments
that tenderness and ingenuity could suggest.
Adeline, when she learned that he was to depart
on the morrow, felt as if bereaved of her last comfort.
All the horrors of his situation arose to her mind,
and she turned from him in utterable anguish. Con-
sidering her silence as a favorable presage, he re-
peated his entreaties that she would consent to be
his, and thus give him a surety that their separa-
tion should not be eternal. Adeline sighed deeply
at these words. ** And who can know that our sep-
aration will not be eternal," said she, "even if I
could consent to the marriage you propose? But while
you hear my determination, forbear to accuse me of
mdifference; for indifference towards you would
indeed be a crime, after the services you have ren-
dered me,"
r


12
THE ROMANCE.
"And is a cold eentiment of gratitude all that I
must expect from you?" said Theodore. "I know
Chat you are going to distress me with a proof of
your indifference, which you mistake for the sug-
gestions of prudence ; and that I shall be compelled
to look without reluctance upon the evils that
may shortly await me. Ah, Adeline! if you mean
to reject this, perhaps the last proposal which I
can ever make to you, cease at least to deceive
yourself with an idea that you love me; that deliri-
um is fading even from my mind.'' "Can you then
ao soon forget our conversation of this morning?"
replied Adeline; "and can you think so lightly of
me as to believe 1 would profess a regard, which I
do not feel? if, indeed, you can believe this, I shall
do well to forget that I ever made such an ac-
knowledgment, and you, that you heard it."
"Forgive me, Adeline, forgive the doubts and in-
consistencies I have betrayed; let the anxieties of
love, and the emergencies of my circumstances plead
for me." Adeline, smiling faintly through her"
tears, held out her hand, which he seized and pres-
sed to his lips. "Yet do not drive me to despair by
a rejection of my suit," continued Theodore ; "think
what I must suffer to leave you here destitute of
friends and protection."
"I am thinking how I may avoid a situation so
deplorable," said Adeline. "They say that there is
a convent which receives boarders, within a few
miles, and thither I wish to go."
"A convent !" rejoined Theodore ; "would you go
to a convent? Do you know the persecutions you
would be liable to; and that if the marquis should
discover you, there is little probability the superi-
or would resist his authority, or, at least his
bribes?"
"All this I have considered," said Adeline, " and
am prepared to encounter it, rather than enter into
an engagement, which, at this time, can be produc-
tive only of misery to us both."
Ah, Adeline! could you think thus, if you truly
loved? I see myself about to be separated, and that,
perhaps, forever, from the object of my tenderest
affections; and I cannot but express all the anguish
I feel; I cannot forbear to repeat every argument
that may afford even the slightest possibility of al-
tering your determination. But you, Adeline, yon


OF THE FOREST.
look with complacency upon a circumstance which
tortures me with despair."
Adeline, who had long strove to support her spir-
its in his presence, while she adhered to a resolu-
tion which reason suggested, but which the plead-
ings of her heart powerfully opposed, was unable
longer to command her distress, and burst into
tears.
Theodore was in the same moment convinced of
his error, and shocked at the grief he had occasion-
ed. He drew his chair towards her, and taking her
hand, again entreated her pardon, and endeavored
in the tenderest accents to sooth and comfort her.
"What a wretch was I to cause you this distress,
by questioning that regard with which I can no
longer doubt you honor me! Forgive me, Adeline;
say but you forgive me, and whatever may be the
pain of this separation, X will no longer oppose it."
"You have given me some pain," said Adeline,
"but you have not offended me." She then mention-
ed some farther particulars concerning the con-
vent. Theodore endeavored to conceal the distress
which the approaching separation occasioned him,
and to consult with Vkt on these plans with com-
posure. His judgment by degrees prevailed over
his passions, and he now perceived that the plan
she suggested would afford her the best chance of
security. He considered, what in the first agita-
tion, of his mind had escaped him, that he might be
condemned upon the charges brought against him,
and that his death, should they have been married,
would not only deprive her of her protector, but
leave her more immediately exposed to the designs
ofthe marquis, who would, doubtless, attend his
trial. Astonished that he had not noticed this be-
fore, and shocked at the unwariness by which he
might have betrayed her into so dangerous a situa-
tion, he became at once reconciled to the Idea of
leaving her in a convent. He could have wished to
place her in the asylum of his own family, but the
circumstances, under which she must be introduced,
were so awkward and painful, and above all, the
distance at which they resided, would render a
journey so highly dangerous for her, that he forbore
to propose it. He entreated only that she would
allow him to write to her; but recollecting that bis


14 THE ROMANCE.
letters might be a means of betraying the place of
her residence to the marquis he checked himself;
"I must deny myself even this melancholy pleas-
ure," said he, " lest my letters should discover your
abode; yet how shall 1 be able to endure the impa-
tience and uncertainty to which prudence condemns
me! If you are in danger, I shall be ignorant of it,
though indeed, did 1 know it," said he with a look
of despair, " 1 could not fly to save you. O exquisite
misery! * tis now only I perceive all the horrors of
confinement; 'tis now only that 1 understand all
the value of liberty!"
His utterance was interrupted by the violent ag-
itation of his mind; he arose from his chair, and
walked with quick paces about the room. Adeline
sat, overcome by the description which Theodore
bad given of his approaching situation, and by the
consideration that she might remain in the most
terrible suspense concerning his fate. She saw him
in prison—pale, emaciated, and in chains; she
saw all the vengeance of the marquis descending up-
on him; and this for bis nohle exertions in her cause.
Theodore, alarmed by the placid despair expressed
in her countenance, threw himself into a chair by
hers, and taking her hand, attempted to speak com-
fort to her ; but the words faltered on his lips, and
he could only bathe her hand with tears.
This mournful silence was interrupted by the ar-
rival ofthe carriage at the inn,and Theodore arising,
went to the window that opened into the yard. The
darkness of the night prevented his distinguishing
the objects without, but a light now brought from
the house showed him a carriage and four, attend-
ed by several servants. Presently he saw a gentle-
man, wrapped up in a roquelaure, alight and enter
the inn, and the next moment he heard the voice of
the marquis.
He had flown to support Adeline, who was sink-
ing with terror, when the door opened, and the mar-
quis, followed by the officers and several servants,
entered. Fury flashed from his eyes as they glanc-
ed upon Theodore, who hung over Adeline with a
look of fearful solicitude. "Seize that traitor!';
said he? turning to the officers; "why have you suf-
fered htm to remaiu here so long in
"lam no traitor," said Theodore, with a firm


OP THE FOREST.
voice and the dignity of conscious worth, "hut a de-
fender of innocence—of one, whom the treacherous
Marquis de Montatt would destroy."
"Obey your orders," said the marquis to the offi-
cers. Adeline shrieked, held faster by Theodore's
arm, and entreated the men not to part them.
"Force only can effect it," said Theodore, as ht
looked round for some instrument of defence; but
he could see none, and in the same moment they
surrounded and seized him.'
"Dread every thing from my vengeance!" said
the marquis to Theodore, as he caught the hand of
Adeline, who had lost all power of resistance, and
was scarcely sensible of what passed; "dread every
tiling from my vengeance; you know you have de-
served it."
"I defy your vengeance," cried Theodore, " and
dread only the pangs of conscience, which your
power cannot inflict upon me, though your vices
condemn you to its torture."
"Take him instantly from the room, and see that
he is strongly fettered," said the marquis; " he shall
soon know what a criminal, who adds insolence to
guilt, may suffer."
Theodore exclaiming—" Oh, Adeline ! farewell!"
was now forced out of the room ; while Adeline,
whose torpid senses were roused by his voice ana
his last looks, fell at the feet of the marquis, and
with tears of agony, implored compassion for The-
odore; but her pleadings for his rival, served only
to irritate the pride, and exasperate the hatred of
the marquis. He denounced vengeance on his head,
and imprecations too dreadful for the spirits of Ad-
eline, whom he compelled to rise ; and then, endeav-
oring to stifle the emotions of rage which the pres-
ence of Theodore had so much excited, he began to
address her with his usual expressions of admira-
tion.
The wretched Adeline, who, regardless of what
he said, still continued to plead for her unhappy
lover, was at length alarmed by the returning ragt
which the countenance of the marquis expressed
and, exerting all her remaining strength, she spnmj
from his grasp towards the door of the room; bu:
he seized her hand before she could reach it, and.
regardless of her shrieks, bringing her back to hei


THE ROMANCE
chair, was going to speak, when voices were beard
in the passage, and immediately the landlord and
his wife, whom Adeline's cries alarmed, entered the
apartment. The marquis, turning furiously to
them, demanded what they wanted ; but not wait-
ing for their answer, he bade them attend him, and
quitting the room, she heard the door locked upon
her.
Adeline now ran to the windows, which were un-
fastened and opened in the inn-yard. All was dark
and silent. She called aloud for help, but no per-
son appeared ; and the windows were so high, that
it was impossible to escape unassisted. She walk-
ed about the room in an agony of terror and distress,
now stopping to listen, and fancying she heard voi-
ces disputing below, and now quickening her steps,
as suspense increased the agitation of her mirtd.
She had continued in this state for near half an
hour, when she suddenly heard a violent noise in
the lower part of the house, which increased till
all was uproar and confusion. People passed quick-
ly through the passages, and doors were frequently
opened and shut. She called, but received no an-
swer. It immediately occurred to her that Theo-
dore, having heard her screams, had attempted to
come to her assistance, and that the bustle had
been occasioned by the opposition of the officers.
Knowing their fierceness and cruelty, she was seiz-
ed with dreadful apprehensions for the life of Theo-
dore.
A confused uproar of voices now sounded from
below, and the screams of women convinced her
there was fighting; she even thought she heard the
clashing of swords: the image of Theodore, dying
by the hands of the marquis, now rose to her imagi-
nation, ny.d the terrors of suspense became almost
insupportable. She made a desperate effort to force
the door, and again called for help; but her tremb-
ling hands were powerless, and every person in
the house seemed to be too much engaged even to
hear her. A loud shriek now pierced her ears, and
amidst the tumult that followed, she clearly dis-
tinguished deep groans. This confirmation of her
fears deprived her of all her remaining spirits, and
growing faint, she sunk almost lifeless into a chair
near the door. The uproar gradually subsided till


OF THE FOREST.
17
all was still, but nobody returned to her. Soon af-
ter she heard voices in the yard, but she had no
power to walk across the room, even to ask the
questions she wished, yet feared to have answered.
About a quarter of an hour elapsed, when the
door was unlocked, and the hostess appeared with
a countenance as pale as death. "For God's sake,"
said Adeline, " tell me what has happened! is he
wounded ? is he killed?"
"He is not dead, ma'anuelle, but—'' "He is dy-
ing then ?—tell me where he is—let me go—"
"Stop, ma'amselle," cried the hostess, "you are
to stay here; I only want the hartshorn out of that
cupboard there." Adeline tried to escape by the
door, but the hostess, pushing her aside, locked it,
and went down stairs.
Adeline's distress now entirely overcame her, and
she sat motionless, and scarcely conscious that she
existed, till roused by a sound of footsteps near the
door, which was again opened, and three men,
whom she knew to be the marquis' servants, enter-
ed. She had sufficient recollection to repeat the
questions she had tasked the landlady, but they
answered only that she must come with them, and
that a chaise was waiting for her at the doors.
Still she urged her questions; "Tell me if he lives?"
cried she. "Yes, ma'amselle, he is alive, but he is
terribly wounded, and the surgeon is just come to
bun."
As they spoke, they hurried her along the passage,
and without noticing her entreaties and supplica-
tions, to know whither she was going, they had
reached the foot of the stairs, when her cries brought
several people to the door. To these the hostess
related, that the lady was the wife of a gentleman
just arrived, who had overtaken her in her flight
with a gallant; an account which the marquis' ser-
vants corroborated. "Tisthe gentleman who has
jnst fought the duel, added the hostess, and it was
on her account."
Adeline, partly disdaining to take any notice of
this artful story, and partly from her desire to
know the particulars of what had happened, con-
tented herself with repeating her inquiries; to
which one of the spectators at last replied, that the
gentleman was desperately wounded.
Vol. II. 2


THE ROMANCE
The marquis' people would now have hurried her
into the chaise, hut she mink lifeless in their arms,
and her condition so Interested the humanity of the
spectators, that, notwithstanding their belief of
what had been said, they opposed the effort made
to carry her, senseless as she was, into the. carriage.
She was at length taken into a room, and, by pro-
per applications, restored to her senses. There she
so earnestly besought on explanation of what had
happened, that the hostess acquainted her with
some particulars of the late rencounter. "When the
gentleman that was ill,heard your screams, madam,"
s lid she, " he became quite outrageous, as they tell
me, and nothing could pacify him. The marquis,
for they say he is a marquis, but you know best,
was then in the room with my husband and I, and
when he heard the uproar, he went down to see
what was the matter ; and when became into the
room, where the captain was, he found him strug-
gling with the serjeant. Then the captain was more
outrageous than ever, and, notwithstanding he had
one leg chained, and no sword, he contrived to get
the Serjeant's cutlass out of the scabbard, and im-
mediately flew at the marqufc, and wounded him
desperately ; upon which he was secured."
"It is the marquis then who is wounded," said
Adeline; "the other gentleman is not hurt?"
"No, not he," replied the hostess, "hut he will
smart for it, by the bye, for the marquis swears he
will do for him."
Adeline, for a moment, forgot all her misfortunes
and all her danger in thankfulness for the immedi-
ate escape of Theodore; and she was proceeding to
make some farther inquiries concerning him, when
the marquis' servants entered the room,and declar-
ed they could wait no longer.
Adeline, now awakened to a sense of the evils
with which she was threatened, endeavored to win
the pity of the hostess ; who however was, or af-
fected to be, convinced of the truth of the marquis'
story, and therefore insensible lo all she could urge.
Again she addressed his servants, but in vain ; they
would neither suffer her to remsin longer at the inn,
or inform her whither she was going ; but in the
presence of several persons, already prejudiced by
the injurious assertions of the hostess, Adeline i*ib


OF THE FOREST.
10
hurried into the chaise, and lrer conductors mount-
ing theirtiorses^he whole parly was very soon be-
yond the village.
Thus ended Adeline's share of an adventure, be-
gun with a prospect notonly of security, but of hap-
piness ; an adventure, which had attached her more
closely to Theodore, and shown him to be more
worthy of her love ; but which, at the same time,
had distressed her by new disappointment, produc-
ed the imprisonment of her generous and now
adored lover, and delivered both himself and her
into the power of a rival, irritated by delay, con-
tempt, and opposition.
—oooo—-
CHAPTER II.
"JVW sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Aor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave, -
Where flame- ey1 d Fury means to frourn—can save.''
The surgeon of the place, having examined the
marqu"is' wound,'gave him an immediate opinion
upon it, and ordered that he should be put to bed;
but the marquis, ill as he was, had scarcely any
other apprehension than that of losing Adeline, and
declared that he should be able to begin his jour-
ney in a few hours. With this intention, he had
begun to give orders for keeping horses in readiness,
when the surgeon persisting most seriously, and
even passionately to exclaim, that his life would be
the sacrifice of his rashness, he was carried to a
bed-chamber, where his valet alone was permitted
to attend him.
This man, the convenient confident of all his in-
trigues, had been the chief instrument in assisting
his designs concerning Adeline, and was indeed the
very person who had brought her to the marquis'
villa on the borders of the forest. To him the mar-
quis gave his futher directions concerning her;
and, foreseeing the inconvenience, as well as the
danger of detaining her at the inn, he had ordered
him with several other servants, to carry her away
immediately in a hired carriage. The valet having
gone to execute his orders, the marquis was left to


20 THE ROMANCE
his own reflections, and to the violence of contend-
ins passions.
The reproaches and continued opposition of The-
odore, the favored lover of Adeline, exasperated
his pride, and roused all his malice. He could not
for'a moment consider this opposition, which was
in some respects successful, without feeling an ex-
cess of indignation and inveteracy, such as the
prospect of a speedy revenge could alone enable
him to support.
When he had discovered Adeline's escape from
the villa, his surprise at first equalled his disap-
pointment; and, after exhausting the paroxysms of
his rage upon his domestics, he despatched them,
all different ways, in pursuit of her, going himself
to the abbey, in the faint hope that, destitute as she
was of other succour, she might have fled thither.
La Motte, however, being as much surprised as
himself, and as ignorant of the route which Ade-
line had taken, he returned to the villa impatient
of intelligence, and found some of his servants ar-
rived, without any news of Adeline, and those who
came afterwards were as successless as the first.
. A few days after, a letter from the lieutenant co-
lonel of the regiment informed him, that Theodore
had quitted his 'company, and had been for some
time absent, nobody knew whore. This informa-
tion, confirmed a suspicion which had frequently
occurred to him, that Theodore had been, by some
means or other, instrumental in the escape of Ade-
line, all his other passions became, for a time, sub-
servient to his revenge, and he gave orders for the
immediate pursuit and apprehension of Theodore;
but Theodore, in the mean time, had been overta-
ken and secured.
It was in consequence of having formerly observ-
ed the growing partiality between him and Ade-
line, and of intelligence received from La Motte,
who had noticed their interview in the forest, that
the marquis had resolved to remove a rival so dan-
gerous to his love, and so likely to be informed of
his designs. He had therefore told Theodore, in a
manner as plausible as he could, that it would be
necessary for hitn to join his regiment; a notice
which affected him only as it related to Adeline,
and which seemed the less extraordinary, as he


OF THE FOREST.
21
had already been at the villa a much longer time
than was usual with the officers invited by the
marquis. Theodore, indeed, very well know the
character of the marquis, and had accepted his in-
vitation rather from an unwillingness to show any
disrespect to bis colonel by a refusal, than from a
sanguine expectation of pleasure.
From the men who had apprehended Theodore,
the marquis received the information, w-hich had
enabled him to pursue and recover Adeline; but,
though he had now effected this, he was internally
a prey to the corrosive effects of disappointed pas-
sion and exasperated pride. The anguish of his
wound was almost forgotten in that of his mind,
and every pang he felt seemed to increase his thirst
of revenge, and to recoil with new torture upon his
heart. While he was in this state, he heard the
voice of the innocent Adeline imploring protection;
but her cries excited in him neither pity nor re-
morse, and when, soon after the carriage drove a-
way, and he was certain both that she was secured
and Theodore was wretched, he seemed to feel
some cessation of mental pain.
Theodore, indeed,tlid suffer all that a virtuous
mind, labouring under oppression so severe, could
feel; but he was at least free from those inveterate
and malignant passions which tore the bosom of
the marquis, and which inflict upon the possessor a
punishment more severe than any they can prompt
him to imagine for another. What indignation he
might feel towards the marquis was at this time
secondary to his anxiety for Adeline. His captivi-
ty was painful, as it prevented his seeking a just
and honorable revenge; but it was dreadful, as it
withheld him from attempting the rescue of her
whom he loved more than life.
When he heard the wheels of the carriage that
contained her drive off, he felt an agony of despair
which almost overcame his reason. Even the stern
hearts of the soldiers who attended him were not
wholly insensible to his wretchedness, and by ven-
turing to blame the conduct of the marquis, they
endeavored to console their prisoner. The physi-
cian, who was just arrived, entered the room dur-
ing this paroxysm of his distress, and both feeling
and expressing much concern at his condition, in-


22
THE ROMANCE
quired with strong surprise why he had heen thus
precipitately removed to a room so very unfit for
his reception?
Theodore explained to him the reason of this, of
the distress he suffered, and of the chains by which
he was thus disgraced; and perceiving the physi-
cian listened to him with attention and compassion,
he became desirous of acquainting him with
some farther particulars, for which purpose he de-
sired the soldiers to leave the room. The men, com-
plying with his request, stationed themselves on
the outside of the door.
He then related all the particulars of the late
transaction, and of his connection with the marquis.
The physician attended to his narrative with deep
concern, and his countenance frequently expressed
strong agitation. When Theodore concluded, he
remained for some time silent and lost in thought;
at length, awaking from his reverie, he said, " I
fear your situation is desperate. The character of
the marquis is too well known to suffer him eitherto
he loved or respected; from such a man you have
nothing to hope, for he has scarcely any thing to
fear. I wish it was in my^aower to serve you,
hut F see no possibility of it.""
"Alas tf' said Theodore, " my situation is indeed
desperate, and for that suffering angel"—
deep sobs interrupted his voice, and the violence of
his agitation would not allow him to proceed. The
physician could only express the sympathy he felt
for his distress, and entreat him to be more calm,
when a servant entered the room from the marquis,
who desired to see the physician immediately. Af-
ter sometime he said he would attend the marquis,
and having endeavored to attain a degree of com-
posure, which he found it difficult to assume, he
rung the hand of Theodore and quitted the room,
promising to return before he left the house.
He found the marquis much agitated both in bo-
dy and mind, and rather more apprehensive for the
consequences of the wound than he had expected.
His anxiety for Theodore now suggested a plan, by
the execution of which he hoped he might be able
to serve him. Having felt his patient's pulse, and
asked some questions, he assumed a very serious
look, when the marquis, who watched every turn


OF THE FOREST.
93
of his countenance, desired.he would, without hesi-
tation, speak his opinion.
"I am sorry to alarm you, my Lord, but here is
some reason for apprehension; how long is it since
you received the wound?"
"Good God! there is danger then!" cried the mar-
quis, adding some bitter execrations against Theo-
dore. "There certainly is dangerreplied the phy-
sician, "a few hours may enable me to determine its
degree."
"A few hours,Sir!" interrupted the marquis, "a
few hours!" The physician entreated him to be
more calm. "Confusion!" cried the marquis, "A
man in health may with great composure, entreat
a dying man to be calm. Theodore will be broke
upon the wheel for it, however."
"You mistake me, Sir," said the physician, "if I
believed you a dying man, or, indeed, very near
death, t should not have spoken as I did. But it is
of consequence I should know how long the wound
has been inflicted." The marquis's terror now be-
gan to subside, and he gave a circumstantial ac-
count of the affray with Theodore, representing
that he had been basely used in an aflair, where
his own conduct had been perfectly just and hu-
mane. The physician heard this relation with
great coolness, and when it concluded, without ma-
king any comment upon it, told the marquis he
would prescribe a medicine, which he wished, him
to take immediately.
The marquis, again alarme/l by the gravity of
his manner, entreated he would declare most seri-
ously, whether he thought him in immediate dan-
ger. The physician hesitated, and the anxiety of
the marquis increased ; " It is of consequence," said
he," that I should know my exact situation." The
physician then said, that if be had any worldly af-
t'alrsto settle,it would be as well to attend to them, for
that it was impossible to say what might be the event.
He then turned the discourse and said, he had
just been with the young officer under arrest, who
he hoped would not be removed at present, as such
a procedure must endanger his life. The marquis
uttered a dreadful oath, and, cursing Theodore for
having brought him to his present condition, said
be should depart with the guard that very night-


24
THE ROMANCE
Against the cruelty of this sentence the physician
ventured to expostulate; and endeavoring to awa-
ken the marquis to a sense of humanity, pleaded
earnestly for Theodore. But these entreaties and
arguments seemed, by displaying to the marquis a
part of his own character, to rouse his resentment,
and rekindle all the violence of his passions.
The physician at length withdrew in desponden-
cy, after promismg at the marquis' request, not to
leave the inn. He had hoped, by aggravating his
danger, to obtain some advantages, both for Ade-
line and Theodore, but the plan had quite a con-
trary effect; for the apprehension of death, so
dreadful to the guilty mind of the marquis, instead
of awakening penitence, increased his desire of
vengeance against the man, who had brought him
to such a situation. He determined to have Ade-
line conveyed where Theodore, should he by any
accident escape, could never obtain her; and thus
to secure to him self at least, some means of revenge.
He knew, however, that when Theodore was once
safely conveyed to his regiment, his destruction
was certain, "for, should he even be acquitted of the
intention of deserting, he would be condemned for
having assaulted his superior officer.
The physician returned to the room where Theo-
dore was confined. The violence of his distress
was now subsided into a stern despair, more dread-
ful than the vehemence which had lately possessed
him. The guard, in compliance with his request,
having left the room, the physician repeated to him
pome part of his conversation with the marquis.
Theodore, after expressing his thanks, said, he had
nothing more to hope. For himself he felt little : it
was for his family and for Adeline he suffered. He
inquired what route she had taken ; and, though he
had no prospect of deriving advantage from the in-
formation, he desired the physician to assist him in
obtaining it; hut the landlord and his wife either
were, or affected to he, ignorant of the matter, and
it was in vain to apply to any other person.
The serjeant now entered with orders from the
marquis for the immediate departure of Theodore,
who heard the message with composure, though
the physician could not help expressing his indig-
nation'at this precipitate removal, and his dread of


OF THE FOREST.
05
consequences that might attend it. Theodore had
scarcely time to declare his gratitude for the kind-
ness of this valuable friend, before the soldiers en-
tered the room to conduct hhn to the carriage in
waiting. As he bade him farewell, Theodore slip-
ped his purse into his hand, and turning abruptly
away, told the soldiers to lead on; but the physi-
cian stopped him, and refused the present with such
serious warmth that he was compelled to resume
it; he wrung the hand of his new friend, and being
unable to speak, hurried away.
The whole party immediately set off', and the un-
happy Theodore was left to the remembrance of his
past hopes and sufferings, to bis anxiety for the
fate of Adeline, the contemplation of his present
wretchedness, and the apprehension of what might
be reserved for him in future. For himself, indeed,
he saw nothing but destruction, and was only re-
lieved from total despair, by a feeble hope, that she
whom he loved better than himself, might one time
enjoy that happiness, of which he did not venture
to look for a participation.
CHAPTER Iir.
"Have you the heart? When your head did but ache
I knit my handlierchief about your brows, •
Andwith my hand at midnight held your head;'
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheered up the heavy time."
KlJTC JoHtf.
"If the midnight bell
Did. with his iron tongue, and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, Melancholy,
Had baWd thy blood and made it heavy, thick;
Then, in despite of broad-ey'd watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts."-Ki ng Johtc.
Meanwhile the persecuted Adeline continued
to travel with little interruption all night. Her


THE ROMANCE
mind suffered such a tumult of grief, regret, de-
spair, and terror, that she could not be said to
think. The marquis' valet, who had placed him-
self in the chaise with her, at first seemed inclined
to talk, but her inattention soon silenced him, and
left her to the indulgence of her own misery.
They seemed to travel through obscure lanes and
by-ways,along which the carriage drove as furiously
as the darkness would permit. When the dawn ap-
peared, she perceived herself on the borders of a
forest, and renewed her entreaties to know whither
she was going. The man replied, that he had no
orders to tell, but she would soon see.
Adeline, who had hitherto supposed they were
carrying her to the villa, now began to doubt it;
and as every place appeared less terrible to her im-
agination than that, her despair began to abate,
and she thought only of the devoted Theodore,
whom she knew to be the victim of malice and re-
venge.
They now entered upon the forest, and it occur-
red to her that she was going %o the abbey; for
though she had no remembrance of the scenery
through which she passed, it wasjiot the less prob-
able that this was the forest of Fontainville, whose
boundaries were by much too extensive to have
come within the circle of her former walks. This
conjecture revived a terror, little inferior to that
occasioned by the idea of going to the. villa; for at
the abbey she would be equally in the power of the
marquis, and also in that of her cruel enemy, La
Motte. Her mind revolted at the picture her fan-
cy drew, and as the carriage moved under the
shades, she threw from the window a look of eager
enquiry for some object which might confirm or de-
stroy her present surmise : she did not long look,
before an opening in the forest showed her the dis-
tant towers of the abbey; "I am,indeed, lost
then !" said she, bursting into tears.
They were soon at the foot of the lawn, and Peter
was seen running to open the gate, at which the
carriage stopped. When he saw Adeline, he look-
ed surprised, and made an effort to speak, but the
chaise now drove up to the abbey, where, at the
door of the hall, La Motte himself appeared. As


OF THE FOREST.
he advanced io take her from the carriage, an uni-
versal trembling seized her: it was with the ut
most difficulty she supported herself, and for some
moments she neither observed his countenance nor
heard his voice. He offered his arm to assist her
into the abbey, which she at first refused, but hav-
ing tottered a few paces, was obliged to accept;.
they entered the vaulted room, where, sinking into
S-cirair, a flood of tears came to her relief.
La Motte did not interrupt the silence, which
continued for some time, but paced the room in
seeming agitation. When Adeline was sufficiently
recovered to notice external objects, she observed
his countenance, and there read the tumult of hie
aoul, while he was struggling to assume a firmness,
-which his better feelings opposed.
La Motte now took her hand, and would have led
her from the room, but she stopped, and, with a
kind of desperate courage, made an effort to engage
him to pity, and to save her.—He interrupted her;
"It is not in my power," said he, in a voice of emo-
tion ; "I am not master of myself, or my conduct;
enquire no further—it is sufficient for you to know
that I pity you—more I cannot do."
_ He gave her no time to reply, but taking her hand,
led her to the stairs of the tower, and from thence
to the chamber she had formerly occupied.
"Here you must remain for the present," said be,
w in a confinement, which is, perhaps, almost as in-
voluntary on my part as it can be on yours. I am
willing to render it as easy as possible, and have
therefore ordered some books to be brought you."
Adeline made an effort to speak, but he hurried
from the room, seemingly ashamed of the part he
had undertaken, and unwilling to trust himself
with her tears. She heard the door of the chamber
locked and then, looking towards the windows, per-
ceived they were secured ; the door that led to the
other apartments was also fastened. Such prepara-
tion for security shocked her; and hopeless as she
had long believed herself, she now perceived her
mind to sink deeper in despair. When the tears sh*
shed had somewhat relieved her, and her thoughts
could turn from the objects of her immediate con-
cern, she was thankful for the total seclusion allot.
>


88 THE ROMANCE
ted her, since it would spare her the pain she must
feel in the presence of Monsieur and Madame La
Motte, and allow the unrestrained indulgence of her
own sorrow and reflection: reflection which,however
distressing, was preferable to the agony inflicted on
the mind, when agitated by care and fear, it is oblig-
ed to assume an appearance of tranquillity.
In about a quarter of an hour her chamber door
was unlocked, and Annette appeared with refresh-
ments and books; she expressed satisfaction at see-
ing Adeline again, but seemed fearful of speaking,
knowing, probably, that it was contrary to the or-
ders of La Motie, who, she said, was waiting at the
bottom of the stairs. When Annette was gone, Ad-
eline took some refreshment, which was indeed nec-
essary: for she had tasted nothing since she left the
inn. She was pleased, but not surprised, that Mad-
ame La Motte did not appear, who, it was evident,
shunned her from a consciousness of her own un-
generous conduct; a consciousness which offered
some presumption, that she was still not wholly un-
friendly to her. She reflected on the words of La
Motte," lam not master of myself, or my conduct;"
and tho' they afforded her no hope,she derived some
comfort, poor as it was, from the belief that he pit-
ied her. After some time spent in miserable reflec-
tion and various conjectures, her long agitated spir-
its seemed to demand repose, and she lay down to
sleep.
Adeline slept quietly for several hours, and awoke
with a mind refreshed and tranquillized. To pro-
long this temporary peace, and to prevent therefore,
the intrusion of her own thoughts, she examined the
books La Motte had sent her; among these she found
some that in happier times had elevated her mind
and interested her heart; their effect was now weak-
ened, they were still, however, able to soften for a
time the sense of her misfortunes.
But this Lethean medicine to a wounded mind
was but a temporary blessing; the entrance of La
Motte dissolved the illusions of the page, and awak-
ened her to a sense of her own situation. He came
with food, and having placed it on the table, left the
room without speaking. Again she endeavored to
read, but his appearance had broken the enchant-
ment; bitter reflection returned to her mind, and


OF THE FOREST.
brought with it the image of Theodore—of Theodore,
lost to her forever!
La Motte, mean while, experienced all the terrors
that could be inflicted by a conscience not wholly,
hardened to guilt. He had been led on by passion
to dissipation, and from dissipation to vice; but
having once touched the borders of infamy, the pro-
gressive steps followed each other fast, and he now
saw himself the pander of a villain, and the betray-
er of an innocent girl, whom every plea of justice
and humanity called upon him to protect. He con-
templated his picture—he; shrunk from it, but he
could change its deformity only by an effort too no-
bly daring for a mind already effeminated by vice.
He viewed the dangerous labyrinth into which he
was led, and perceived, as if for the first time, the
progression of his guilt: from this labyrinth he
weakly imagined farther guilt could alone extricate
him. Instead of employing his mind upon the means
of saving Adeline from destruction,and himself from
being instrumental to it, he endeavoured only to lull
the pangs of conscience und to persuade himself in-
to the belief that he must go on as he had begun.—
He knew himself to be in the power of the Marquis,
and he dreaded that power more than the sure, tho'
distant punishment that waits upon guilt. The hon-
or of Adeline, and the quiet of his own conscience,
he consented to barter for a few years of existence.
He was ignorant of the present illness of the mar-
quis, or he would have perceived that there was a
chance of escaping the threatened punishment at a
price less enormous than infamy, and he would per-
haps have endeavoured to save Adeline and himself
by flight. But the marquis, foreseeing the possi-
bility of this, had ordered his servants carefully to
conceal the circumstances which detained him, and
to acquaint La Motte that he should be at the abbey
in a few days, at the same time directing his valet
to await him there. Adeline, as he expected, had
neither inclination nor opportunity to mention it,
and thus La Motte remained ignorant of the cir-
cumstances which might have preserved him from
farther guilt. and Adeline from misery.
Most unwillingly had La Motte made his wife ac-
quainted with the action, which had made him ab-
solutely dependent upon the will of the marquis, but
■


30
THE ROMANCE
the perturbation of his mind partly betrayed him;
frequently in his sleep he triuttered incoherent sen-
tences, and frequently would start from his slumber
tmd call in passionate exclamation, upon Adeline.
These instances of a disturbed mind had alarmed
and terrified Madame La Motte, who watched while
he slept, and soon gathered from his words a confus-
ed idea of the marquis's designs.
She hinted her suspicions to La Motte, who re-
proved her for having entertained them : but his
manner, instead of repressing, increased her fears
for Adeline } fears, which the conduct of the mar-
'quis soon confirmed. On the night that he slept at
the abbey, it had occurred to her, that whatever
scheme was in agitation would now most probably
be discussed ; and the anxiety for Adeline made her
stoop to a meanness, which, in other circumstances
would have been despicable. She quitted her room,
and concealing herself in an apartment adjoining
that in which she had left the marquis and her hus-
band, listened to their discourse. It turned upon the
subject she had expected, and disclosed to her the
full extent of their designs. Terrified for Adeline,
and shocked at the guilty weakness of La Motte,-she
was for some time incapable of thinking, or deter-
mining how to-proceed. She knew her husband to
be under great obligation to the marquis, whose ter-
ritory thus afforded him a shelter from the world,
and that it was in the power of the former to betray
him into the hands of his enemies. She believed also
that the marquis would do this, if provoked ; yet
she thought, upon such an occasion, that La Motte
might find some way of appeasing the marquis with-
out subjecting himself to dishonor. After some far-
ther reflection, her mind became more composed,
and she returned to her chamber, where La Motte
soon followed. Her spirits, however, were not now
in a state to encounter either his displeasure, or Ins
opposition, which she had too much reason to.ex-
pect, whenever she should mention the subject of
her concern, and she therefore resolved not to notice
it till the morrow.
On the morrow, she told La Motte all he had ut-
tered in his dreams, and mentioned other circum-
stances, which convinced him it was in vain any
longer to deny the truth of her apprehensions. Ilia


OF THE FOREST.
31
wife then represented to him how possible it was to
avoid the infamy, into which he was about to dive,
by quitting the territories of the marquis, and plead-
ing so warmly lor Adeline, that La Motte, in sullen
silence, appeared to meditate on the plan. His
thoughts were, however, very differently engaged.
He was conscious, of having deserved from the mar-
quis a dreadful punishment, and knew that if he ex-
asperated him by refusing to acquiesce with his
wishes, he had little to expect from flight, for the eye
of justice and revenge would pursue him with inde-
fatigable research.
La Motte meditated how to break this to his wrTe,
for he perceived there was no other method ofcoun?
teracting her virtuous compassion for Adeline, and
the dangerous consequences to-be expected from it,
than by opposing it with terror for his safety, and
this could be done only by showing her the full ex-
tent of the evils that must attend the resentment of
the marquis. Vice had not yet so entirely darkened
his conscience, but that the blush of shame stained
his cheek, and his tongue faltered when he would
have told his guilt.
At length, finding it impossible to mention partic-
ulars, he told her that, on account of an affair,
which no intreaties should ever induce him to ex-
plain, bia life was in the power of the marquis.—
"You see the alternative," said he ; " take your
choice of evils, and, if you can, tell Adeline of her
danger, and sacrifice my life to save her from a sit-
uation which many would be ambitious to obtain."
Madame La Motte, condemned to the horrible al-
ternative of permitting the seduction of innocence,
or of dooming her husband to destruction, suffered
a distraction of thought, which defied all control.—
Perceiving, however, that an opposition to the de-
signs of the marquis would ruin La Motte, and avail
Adeline little, she determined tcVyield and endure
in silence.
At the time when Adeline was planning her es-
cape from the abbey, the significant looks of Peter
had led La Motte to suspect the truth, and to ob-
serve Uiem more closely. He had seen them sepa-
rate in the hall in apparent confusion, and had after-
wards observed them conversing together in the
cloisters. Circumstances so unusual, left him not a


32 THE ItOMANCE-
doubt that Adeline had discovered her danger, and
was concerting with Peter some means of escape.—
Affecting, therefore, to be informed of the whole af-
fair, he charged Peter with treachery towards him-
self, and threatened him with the vengeance of the
marquis if he did notdisclose all he knew.
The menace intimidated Peter ; and, supposing
that all chance of assisting Adeline was gone, he
made a circumstantial confession, and promised to
forbear acquainting Adeline with the discovery of
the scheme; in this promise he was seconded by in-
clination, for he feared to meet the displeasure,
which Adeline, believing he had betrayed her, might
express.
On the evening of the day on which Adeline's in-
tended escape was discovered, the marquis designed
to come to the abbey, and it had been agreed that he
should then take Adeline to his villa. La Motte bad
Immediately perceived the advantage of permitting
Adeline to repair, in the belief of being undiscover-
ed, to the tomb. It would prevent much disturbance
and opposition, and spare himself the pain he must
feel in her presence, when she should know that he
had betrayed her. A servant of the marquis might
go at the appointed hour, to the tomb, and, wrapt in
(he disguise of night, might take her quietly thence
In the character of Peter. Thus, without resistance,
she would be carried to the villa, nor discover the
mistake till it was too late to prevent its consequen-
ces.
When the marquis did arrive, La Motte, who was
not so much intoxicated by the wine he had drank,
as to forget his prudence, informed him of what had
happened and what he had planned, and the mar-
quis approving it, his servant was made acquainted
with the signal, which afterwards betrayed Adeline
to his power. m
A deep consciousness of the unworthy neutrality
she had observed in Adeline's concerns, made Ma-
dame La Motte anxiously avoid seeing her now that
she was again in the abbey. Adeline understood
this conduct, and she rejoiced that she was spared
the anguish of meeting her as an enemy whom she
had once considered as a friend. Several days now
passed in solitude, in miserable retrospection, and
drcidful expectation. The perilous situation of


OF THE FOREST.
33
Theodore was almost the constant subject of her
thoughts. Often did she breathe an agonizing with
for his safety, and often look round the sphere of
possibility in search of hope, but hope had almost
left the horizon of her prospect; and when it did ap-
pear, it sprung only from the death of the marquis,
whose vengeance threatened most certain destruc-
tion-
The marquis, meanwhile, lay at the inn, Caux,
in a state of very doubtful recovery. The physician
and surgeon, neither of whom he would dismiss, nor
suffer to leave the village, proceeded upon contrary
principles; and the good effect of what the one pre-
scribed, was frequently counteracted by the injudi-
cious treatment of the other. Humanity alone in-,
duced the physician to continue his attendance.—
The malady of the marquis was also heightened' by
the impatience ofhis temperl the terrors of death,
and the irritation ofhis passions. One moment he
believed himself dyings another he could scarcely
be prevented from attempting to follow Adeline to
the Abbey, go various were the fluctuations of his
mind, and so rapid the schemes that succeeded each
other, thai h's passions were in a continual state of
conflict. The physician attempted to persuade
him, that his recovery greatly depended upon his
tranquillity, and to prevail upon him to attempt, at
least some command of his feelings ; but he was
soon silenced in hopeless disgust, by the impatient
answers of the marquis.
At length the servant, who had carried off Ade-
line, returned, and the marquis having ordered him
into his chamber, asked so many questions in a
breath, that the man knew not which to answer.—
At length he pulled a folded paper from his pocket,
which he said had been dropped in the chaise by
Mademoiselle Adeline, and, as he thought his lord-
ship would like to see it, he had taken care of it.
The marquis stretched forth his band with eager-
ness, and received a note addressed to Theodore.—
On perceiving the superscription, the agitation of
jealous rage for a moment overcame him, and he
held it in his hand unable to open it.
He, however, broke the seal and found it to he a
note of inquiry, written by Adeline to Theodore,
V©l. II. 3


3t THE ROMANCE
during his illness, and which, from some accident,
she had been prevented from sending him.-The ten
der solicitude it expressed for his recovery, stung
the soul of the marquis, and drew from him a com-
parison of her feelings on the illness of his rival and
that of himself. "She could be solicitous for his re-
covery," said he, " but for mine, she only dreads it."
; As if willing to prolong the pain this little billet
had excited, he then read it again. Again he curs-
ed his fate and execrated his rival, giving himself
up as usual to the transports of his passion. He
was going to throw it from him, when his eyes
oaught the seal, and he looked earnestly at it. His
anger seemed now to ha,ve subsided, he deposited
the note carefully in his pocket book, and was for
sometime lost in thought.
After many days of hopes and fears, the strength
of his constitution overcame his illness, and he was
well enough to write several letters, one of which
he immediately sent off \o prepare La Motte for his
reception. The same policy which had prompted
him to conceal his illness from La Motte, now urg-
ed him to say, what he knew would not happen, that
he should reach the abbey on the day after his ser-
vant, fie repeated this injunction, that Adeline
should be strictly guarded, and renewed his promi-
ses of reward for the future services of La Motte.
LaMotte to whom each succeeding day had brought
new surprise and perplexity concerningthe absence
of the marquis, received this notice with uneasiness,
for he had begun to hope that the marquis had al-
tered his intentions concerning Adeline, being ei-
ther engaged in some new adventure, or obliged to
visit his estates in some distant province : he would
have been willing thus to have got rid of the affair,
which was to reflect so much dishonor on himself.
This hope was new vanished, and he directed
madame to prepare for the reception of the marquis.
—Adeline passed these days in a state of suspense,
which was now cheered by hope, and now darken-
«d by despair. This delay so much exceeding her
expectation, seemed to prove that the illness of the
marquis was dangerous ; and when she looked for-
ward to the consequences of bis recovery, she could
u»t be sorry that it wasse. So odious was the idea
i


OF THE FOREjJT.
of him to her mind, that she would not suffer her
lips to pronounce his name, nor make the inquiry of
Annette, which was of such consequence to her
peace.
It was about a week after the receipt of the mar-
Suis' letter, that Adeline one day saw from her win-
ow a party of horsemen enter the avenue, and knew
them to be the marquis and his attendants. Sbs re-
tired from the window in a state of mind not to be
described, and sinking into a chair, was for some
time scarcely conscious of the objects around her.—
When she had recovered from the first terror, which
his appearance excited, she again tottered to the
window ; the party was not in sight, hut she heard
the trampling of horses, and knew that the marquw
had wound round to the great gate of the abbey.—
She addressed herself to Heaven for support and
protection, and, her mind being now somewhat
composed, sat down to await the event.
La Motte received the marquis with expression*
of surprise at his long absence, and the latter, mere-
ly saying he had been detained by illness, proceeded
to inquire for Adeline. He was told she was in her
chamber, from whence she might be summoned if
b« wished to see her. The marquis hesitated, and
at length excused himself, but desired she might be
strictly watched. "Perhaps, my lord," said La
Motte smiling, "Adeline's obstinacy has been too
powerful for your passion ; you seem less interested
concerning her than formerly."
"Oh, by no means," replied the marquis; "sb*
interests me, if possible, more than ever ; so much
indeed, that I cannot have her toe closely guarded;
and I therefore beg, La Motte, that you will suffer
nobody to attend her, but when yon can observo
them yourself. Is the room where she is confined
sufficiently secure? La Motte assured him it was;
but at the same time expressed his wish that sha
was removed to the villa. " If by any means," said
he, "she should contrive to escape, I know what I
must expect from your displeasure ; and this reflec-
tion keeps my mind in continual anxiety."
"This removal cannot be at present," said the mar-
quis; she is safer here, and you do wrong to disturb
yourself with any apprehension of her escape, if her
chamber is really so secure as you represent it."


THE ROMANCE
"I can have no motive for deceiving you, my lord,
in this point."
*' 1 do not suspect you of any," said the marquis;
'*guard her carefully, and trust me she will not es-
cape. I can rely upon my valet, and if you wish it
he shall remain here." La Motte thought there
could be no occasion for him, and it was agreed that
the man should go home.
The marquis, after remaining about half an hour
in conversation with La Motte, left the abbey, and
Adeline saw him depart with a mixture of surprise
and thankfulness that almost overcame her. She
had waited in momentary expectation of being sum-
moned to appearand had been endeavouring to arm-
he r self with resolution to support his presence—
Che had listened to every voice that sounded from
below, and at every step that crossed the passage,
her heart had palpitated with dread, lest it should be
La Motte coming to lead her to the marquis. This
state of suffering had been prolonged almost beyond
her power of enduring it, when she heard voices un-
der her window^ and rising, saw the marquis ride
away. After giving way to the joy and thankfulness
that swelled her heart, she endeavored to account
for this circumstance, whi .h, considering what had
passed, was certainly very strange. It appeared, in-
deed, wholly inexplicable, and after much fruitless
inquiry, she quitted the subject, endeavoring to per-
suade herself that it could only portend good.
The time of LaMotte's usual visitation drew near,
and Adeline expected it in the trembling hope of
hearing that the marquis had ceased his persecu-
tion, but he was as usual, sullen and silent, and
it was not till he was about to quit the room, that
Adeline had the courage to inquire, when the mar-
quis was expected again?" La Motte, opening toe
door to depart, replied on the following day," and
Adeilne, whom fear and delicacy embarrassed, saw
she could obtain no knowledge of Theodore but by a
direct question; she looked earnestly as if she would
have spoken, and he stopped, but she blushed and
was still silent, till, upon his again attempting to
leave the room, she faintly called him back.
"I would ask," said she, " after that unfortunate
cheVaUer, who has incurred the resentment of ih«


OF THE FOREST.
3T
marquis by endeavoring to serve me. Has the mar-
quis mentioned him?" " He has," replied La-Motte,
"and your indifference towards the marquis is now
fully explained."
'* Since I must feel resentment towards those who
injure me," said Adeline," I may surely be allowed
to be grateful towards those who serve me. Had
the marquis deserved my esteem, he would, proba>
bly have possessed it."
"Well, well," said La Motte, " this young hero,
who it seems has been brave enough to lift his arm
against his colonel, is taken care of, and I doubt
not, will soon be sensible of the value of his quixot-
ism." Indignation, grief and fear struggled in the
bosom of Adeline; she disdained to give La Motte
an opportunity of again pronouncing the name of
Theodore; yet the uncertainty, under which she la-
bored, urged her to enquire whether the marquis
bad heard of him since he left Caux !" yes," said
La Motte, "he has been safely carried to his regi-
ment, where he is confined till the marquis can at-
tend to appear against him."
Adeline had neither power nor inclination to en-
quire farther, and, La Motte quitting the chamber,
she was left to the misery he had renewed. Though
this information contained no new circumstance of
misfortune, (for she now heard, confirmed what she
had always expected) a weight of new sorrow seem-
ed to fall upon her heart, and she perceived that she
had unconsciously cherished a latent hope of Theo-
dore's escape before he reached the place of his des-
tination. All hope was now, however, gone ; he
was suffering the miseries of a prison, and the tor-
tures of an apprehension for his own life and her
safety. She pictured to herself the damp, dark dun-
geon in which he was confined,loaded with chains,
and pale with sickness and grief; she heard him in
a voice that thrilled her heart, call upon her name,
and raise his eyes to heaven in silent supplication;
she saw the anguish of his countenance, the tears
that fell slowly on his cheek, and remembering, at
the same time, the generous conduct that had
brought him to this abyss of misery, and that it was
for her sake he suffered, grief resolved itself into
despair, her tears ceased to flow, and she sunk si-
lently into a state of dreadful torpor.


THE ROMANCE
On the morrow the marquis arrived and departed
as before. Several days then elapsed, and he did not
appear, till one evening, as La Motte and bis wife
were in their usual sitting room, he entered, and
conversed some time upon general subjects; from
which however, he by degrees fell into a reverie,
and, after a pause of silence, he rose and drew La
Motte to the window; "I would speak with you
alone," said he, "if you are at leisure; and if not,
another time will do."
La Motte assuring him he was perfectly so, would
have conducted him to another room, but the mar-
quis proposed a walk in the forest. They went out
together, and when they had reached a solitary
glade, where the spreading branches of the beech
and oak deepened thi shades of twilight, and threw
a solemn obscurity around, the marquis turned to
La Motte, and addressed him:
"Your condition, La Motte, is unhappy ; this ab-
bey is a melancholy residence for a man like you,
fond of society, and like you also qualified to
adorn it."
La Motte bowed, " I wish it were in my power to
restore you to the world," continued the marquis;
perhaps, if I knew the particulars of the affair
which has driven you from it, I might perceive that
my interest could effectually serve you. I think I
have heard you hint it was an affair of honor?"
La Motte was silent. I mean not to distress you
however; nor is it common curiosity that prompts
this enquiry, but a sincere desire to befriend you—
You have already informed me of some particulars
of your misfortunes ;I think the liberality of your
temper led you into expenses which you afterwards
endeavoured to retrieve by gaming?"
"Yes, my Lord," said La Motte, " 'tis true that I
dissipated the greater part of an affluent fortune in
luxurious indigencies, and that I afterwards took
unworthy means to recover it; but I wished to be
spared upon this subject- I would, if possible, lose
the remembrance of a transaction which must for-
ever stain my character, and the rigorous effect of
which, I fear, it is not in your power, my lord, to
soften."
"You may be mistaken on this point," replied the
marquis ; "my interest at court is by no means in-


OF THE FOREST.
considerable. Fear not from me any severity of
censure; lam not at all inclined to judge harshly
of the faults of others. I well know how to allow
for the emergency of circumstances; and I think,
La Motte, you have hitherto found me your friend."
"I have, my lord."
"And when you recollect that I have forgiven a
certain transaction of late date—"
"It is true, my lord, and allow me to say, I have
a just sense of your generosity. The transaction
you allude to is by far the worst of my life, and
what I have to relate cannot, therefore, lower me
in your opinion. When I had dissipated the greatest
part of my property in habits of voluptuous pleasure,
I had recourse to gambling to supply the means of
continuing them. A run of good luck, for sometime
enabled me to do this ; and encouraging my most
sanguine expectations, I continued in the same ca-
reer of success.
"Soon after tins,a sudden turn of fortune de-
stroyed my Irepes, and reduced me to the most des-
perate extremity. In one night my money was low-
ered to the sum of two hundred louis. These I re-
solved to stake also, and with them my life; for it
was my resolution not to survive their loss. Never
shall I forget the horrors of that moment on which
hung my fate, nor the deadly anguish that seized my
heart when my last stake was gone. I stood for
some time in a state of stupefaction, till roused to
a sense of my misfortune, my passion made me pour
forth execrations on my fortunate rivals, and act all
the frenzy of despair. During this paroxysm of
madness, a gentleman, who had been a silent ob-
server of all that passed, approached me.
"You are unfortunate, sir," said he. "I need
not he informed of that, sir, replied I."
"You have, perhaps, been ill used," resumed be.
"Yes, sir, lam ruined, and therefore it may be
said, I am ill used."
"Do you know the people you have played with?"
"No; but I have met them in the first circles."
"Then I am probably mistaken," said he,, and
walked away.
"His lust words roused me, and raised a hope that
my money had not been fairly lost. Wishing for
farther information, I went in search of the gentle-


THE ROMANCE

iran, hut he had left the rooms. l however stifled
r.iv transports, returned to the table where I had
lost my money, placed myself behind the chair of
one of the persons who had won it, and closely
watched the game. For some time I saw nothing
that could confirm my suspicions, but was at fength
convinced they were just.
"When the game was ended I railed one of my
adversaries out of the room, and, telling him what
I had observed, threatened instantly to expose him
if he did not restore my property. The man was,
for some time, as positive as myself; and, assuming
the bully, threatened me with chastisement for my
scandalous assertions. I was not however, in a
state of mind to be frightened, ami his manner ser-
ved only to exasperate my temper, already sufficient-
ly inflamed by misfortune. After retorting his
threats, I was about to return to the apartment we
had left, and expose what had passed, when with
an insidious smile, and a softened voice, he Begged
I would favor him with a few moments attention,
and allow him to speak with the gentleman his
partner. To the latter part of his request I hesita-
ted, but, in the mean time, the gentleman-himself
entered the room. His partner related to him, in a
few words, what had passed between us, and the
terror that appeared in his countenance sufficiently
declared his consciousness of guilt.
"They, then drew aside, and remained a few min-
utes in conversation together; after which they ap-
proached me with an offer, as they termed it, of a
compromise. I declared, however, against any
thing of this kind, and swore that nothing short of
the whole sum that I had lost should content me.—
'Is it not possible, monsieur, that you may be of-
fered something as advantageous as the whole?'
I did not understand their meaning ; but after they
oad continued for some time to give distant hints of
the same sort, they proceeded to explain.
*i Perceiving their characters wholly in my power,
they wished to secure my interest to their party,
and therefore informed me, that they belonged to
an association of persons, who lived upon the folly
and inexperience of others, they offered me a share
in their concern. My fortunes were desperate, and
pro-


the proposal now made to


OF THE FOREST.
41
duce an immediate supply, but enable me to return
to those scenes of dissipated pleasure, to which pas-
sion had at first, and long habit afterwards'attach-
ed me. I closed with the offer, an thus sunk from
dissipation into infamy."
La Motte paused, as if the recollection of those
times filled him with remorse. The marquis under-
stood his feelings. "You judge too rigorously of
yourself," said he ; there are few persons, let their
appearance of honesty be what it may, who in such
circumstances, would have acted better than you
have done. Had I been in your situation, I know
not how I might have acted. That rigid virtue
which shall condemn you, may dignify itself with
the appellation of wisdom, but I wish not to possess
it; let it still reside, w here it generally is to be found
in the cold bosoms of those, who, wanting feeling to
be men, dignify themselves with the title of philoso-
phers. But pray proceed."
"Our success was for some time unlimited, for we
held the wheel of fortune, and trusted not to her ca-
price. Thoughtless and voluptuous by nature, my
expenses fully kept pace wilh my income. An un-
lucky discovery of the practices of our party was at
length made by a young nobleman, which obliged
us to act for some time with the utmost circumspec-
tion. It would be tedious to relate the particulars,
which made us at length so suspected, that the dis-
tant civility and cold reserve of our acquaintance
rendered the frequenting of public assemblies both
painful and unprofitable. We turned our thoughts
to other modes of obtaining money ; and a swindling
transaction, in which I engaged, to a very largo
amount, soon compelled me to leave Paris. You
know the rest."
La Motte was now silent, and the marquis contin-
ued for some time musing. "You perceive, my lord,"
at length resumed La Motte, "You perceive my
case is hopeless."
"It is bad, indeed, hut not entirely hopeless. From
my soul I pity you. Yet if you should return to the
world, and incur the danger of prosecution, I think
my interest with the minister might save you from
any severe punishment. You seem, however, to
have lost your relish for society, andi perhaps, do
not wish to return to it."


THE ROMANCE
"Oh, my lord, can you doubt this? But I am over-
come with the excess of your goodness; would to
heaven it were in my power to prove the gratitude
it inspires."
"Talk not of goodness," said the marquis; "I will
not pretend, that my desire of serving you is unal-
loyed by any degree of self interest. I will not affect
to be more than man, and trust me, those who do
are less. It is in your power to testify your grati-
tude, and bind me to your interest for ever."
Hepaused. "Name but the means—cried La Motto,
name but the means; and if they are within the
compass of possibility they shall be executed."
The marqui3 was still silent. "Do you doubt my
sincerity, my lord, that you are silent? Do you fear
to repose a confidence in the man whom you have
already loaded with obligation i? who lives by your
mercy, and almost by your means?"
The marquis looked earnestly at him, but did not
speak. I have not deserved this of you, my lord;
speak, I entreat you."
"There are certain prejudices attached to the hu-
man mind," said the marquis, in a slow and solemn
voice, " which it requires all our wisdoni to keep
from interfering with our happiness ; certain set
notions acquired in infancy, and cherished involun-
tarily hy age, which grow up and assume a gloss so
plausible, that few minds, in what is called a civil-
ized country, can afterwards overcome them. Truth
is often perverted by education. While the refined
Europeans boast a standard of honor, and a sublim-
ity of virtue, which often leads them from pleasure to
misry,and from nature to error; the simple ,uni form-
ed American, follows the impulse of his heart, and
obeys the inspiration of wisdom." The marquis
paused, and La Motte -continued to listen in eager
expectation.
"Nature, u neon laminated by false refinement,"
resumed the marquis, " every where acts alike in
the great occurrences of life. The Indian discovers
his friend to be perfidious, and he kills him; the
wild Asiatic does the same; the Turk, when ambi-
tion fires, or revenge provokes, gratifies his passion
at the expense of life, and does not call it murder.—
Even the polished Italian, distracted by jealousy, or
tempted by a strong circumstance of advantage,


OF THE FOREST.
draws his stiletto, and accomplishes his purpose.—
It is the first proof of a superior mind to liberate it-
selffrom prejudices of country and education. You
are silent, La Motte; are you not of my opinion?"
"I am attending, my lord, to your reasoning."
'* There are, I repeat it," said the marquis, " peo-
ple of minds so weak as to shrink from acts they
have been accustomed to hold wrong, however ad-
vantageous. They never suffer themselves to bo
guided by circumstances, but fix for life upon a cer-
tain standard, from which they will on no account
depart. Self-preservation is the great law of na-
ture; when a reptile hurts us, or an animal of prey
threatens us, we think no farther, but endeavor to
annihilate it. When my life, or what may be es-
sential to my life, requires the sacrifice of another,
or even if some passions, wholly unconquerable, re-
quires it, I should be a madmam to hesitate. La
Motte, I think I may confide in you; there are ways
of doing certain things—you understand me. There
are times and circumstances, and opportunities—
you comprehend my meaning?"
"Explain yourself, my lord."
"Kind services that—in short there are services,
which excite all our gratitude, and which we can
never think repaid. It is in your power to place me
in such a situation."
"Indeed! my lord ; name the means."
"I have already named them. This abbey well
suits the purpose ; it is shut up from the eye of ob
servation ; any transaction may be concealed with-
in its walls -. the hour of midnight may witness ths
deed, and the morn shall not da'wn to disclose it—
These woods tell no tales. Ah, La Motte! ami
right in trusting this business with you? may I be-
lieve you are desirous of serving me, and of preserv-
ing yourself?"
The marquis paused, and looked steadfastly at
La Motte, whose countenance was almost conceal-
ed by the gloom of evening. "My lord, you may
trust me in any thing; explain yourself more fully."
"What security will you give me for your faith-
fullness?"
"My life, my lord ; is it not already in your pow-
er?"
The marquis hesitated, and then said —" To-nior-


44
THE ROMANCE
row, about this time I shall return-to the abbey,
and will then explain my meaning, if, indeed, you
- shall not already have understood it. You in the
mean time, will consider your own powers of reso-
lution, and be prepared either to adopt the purpose
I shall suggest, or to declare you will not."
La Motte made some confused reply. "Farewell,
till to morrow," said the marquis; "remember that
freedom and affluence are now before you." He
moved towards the abbey, and mounting his horse,
rode off with his attendants. La Motte walked
slowly home, musing on the late conversation.
—oooo—
CHAPTER IV.
"Danger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye canjix,d behold 1
Who stalks his round, a hideous form.
Howling amidst the midnight storm!
And with him thousand phantoms join' d!
Who prompt to deeds accurs'd the mind l
On whom the rav'ning brood of Fate,
Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait;
Who, Fear! this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild lihe thee.'" Colli xs.
The marquis was punctual to the hour. La
Motte received him at the gate, but he declined en-
tering, and said he preferred a walk in the forest.—
Thither, therefore, La Motte attended him. After
some general conversation, "well," said the marquis,
"have you considered what 1 said, and are you pie-
pared to decide?"
"I have, my lord, and will quickly decide, when
you shall farther explain yourself. Till then I can
form no resolution." The marquis appeared dissat-
isfied, and was a moment silent. "Is it then possi-
ble," heat length resumed, "that you do not under-
stand? This ignoran'ce is surely affected. La
Motte, I expect sincerity. Tell me therefore, is it
necessary I should say more?"
"It iax my lord," said La Motte, immediately.—
"If you fear to confide in me freely, how can I fully
accomplish four purpose?"


OF THE FOREST.
"Before I proceed farther," said the marquis, " let
me administer some oath which shall bind ymu to
secrecy. But this is scarcely necessary, for, could
I even doubt your word of honor, the remembrance
of a certain transaction would point out to youths
necessity of being as silent yourself as you must
whjh me to be." There was now a pause of silence,
durmg which both the marquis and La Motte be-
trayed some confusion. "I think, La Motte," said
be, " [ have given you sufficient proof that I can be
grateful; the services you have already rendered
me in respect to Adeline have not been ume-
warded."
"True, my lord, I am ever willing to acknowl-
edge this, and I am sorry that it has not been in my
power to serve you more effectually. Your farther
views respecting her 1 am ready to assist."
"I thank you—Adeline"—the marquis hesitated
—" Adeline," rejoined La Motte, eager to anticipate
his wishes, has beauty worthy of your pursuit. She
has inspired a passion of which she ought to be
proud, and, at any rate, she shall soon be yours.—
Her charms are worthy oP*—
"Yes, yes," interrupted the marquis ; but"—he
paused—" But they have given you too much troub-
le in the pursuit," said La Motte, "and to be sure,
my lord, it must be confessed they have; but this
trouble is all over—you may now consider her as
your own."
"[ would do so," said the marquis, fixing a look
of earnest regard upon La Motte—" 1 would do so."
"Name your hour, my lord ; you shall not be in-
terrupted.—Beauty, such as Adeline's—
"Watch her closely," interrupted the marquis,
"and on no account suffer her to leave her apart-
ment.—
Where is she now?"
"Confined in her chamber."
"Very well. But I am impatient."
M Name your time, my lord—to-morrow night1'—
** To-morrow night," said the marquis—" to-mor-
rew night. Do you understand me now?"
"Yes, my lord, this night, if you wish it so. But
had you not better dismiss your servants, and re-
main yourself in the forest. You know the door that
epens upon the woods from the west tower. Come


THE ROMANCE
thither about twelve—t will be there to conduct
you W her chamber. Remember then, my lord, that
»o night"—
"Adeline dies!" interrupted the marquis, in a
low voice scarcely human. Do you understand me
now?" La Motte shrunk aghast—" My lord!"
"La Motte," said the marquis. There was a si-
lence of several minutes, in which La Motte en-
deavored to recover himself. "Let me ask, my lord,
ihe meaning of this?" said he, when he had breath
to speak. "Why should you wish the death of Ade-
line—of Adeline, whom so lately you loved?"
"Make no enquiries for my motive," said the mar-
<yiis; "but it is as certain as that I live, that she you
name must die. This is sufficient." The surprise of
La Motte equalled his horror. "The means are va-
rious," resumed the marquis. I could have wished
that no blood might be spilt; and there are drugs
sure and speedy in their efl'ect, bu: they cannot bo
■oon or safely procured. I also wish it over, it
must be done quickly—this night."
"This night, my lord!"
"Aye, this night, La Motte; if it is to he, why not
•oon? have you no convenient drug at hand!"
"None, my lord!"
"I feared to trust a third person, orl should hare
been provided," said the marquis. As it is, take this
poinard; use it as occasion offers, but be resolute."
La Motte received the poinard with a trembling
hand, and continued to gaze upon it for some time
scarcely knowing what he did. "Put it up," paid
the marquis, "and endeavour to recollect yourself."
La Motte obeyed, but continued to muse in silence.
He saw himself entangled in the web which his
own crimes had woven. Being in the power of the
marquis,he knew he must either consent to the com-
mission of a deed, from the enormity of which, de-
praved as he was, he shrunk in horror, or sacrifice
fortune, freedom, and probably life itself, to the re-
fusal. He had been led on by slow gradations from
fully to vice, till he now saw before him an abys■ of
guilt which startled even the conscience that bo
long had slumbered. The means of retreating wore
desperate ; to proceed was equally so.
When he considered the innocence, and the help-
letiuess of Adeline, her orphan state, her former al-


OF THE FOREST.
47
fectionate conduct, and her confidence in his pro-
tection, bis heart melted with compassion for the
distress he had already occasioned her, and shrunk
in horror from the deed he was urged to commit.—
But when, on the other hand, he contemplated the
destruction that threatened him from the vengeance
of the marquis, and then considered the advantages
that*were offered him of favor, freedom, and proba-
bly fortune, terror and temptation contributed to
overcome the pleadings of humanity, and silence the
voice of conscience. In this state of tumultuous
uncertainty he continued for some time silent, until
the voice of the marquis roused htm, to a conviction
of the necessity of appearing to acquiesce in his de-
signs.
"Do you hesitate f" said the marquis—" No, my
lord, my resolution is fixed, I will obey you. But
methinks it would be better to avoid hlood-shed.—
Strange secrets have been revealed by"—
"Aye, but how avoid it?" interrupted the mar-
quis, " Poison I will not venture to procure. I have
given you one sure instrument of death. You also
may fmd it dangerous to enquire for a drug." La
Motte perceived that he could not purchase poison
without incurring a discovery much greater than
he wished to avoid. "You are right, my lord, and E
will follow your orders implicity." The marquis
now proceeded in broken sentences, to give farther
directions concerning this dreadful scheme.
"In her sleep," said he, "at midnight; the family
will then be at rest." Afterwards they planned a
story, which was to account for her disappearance,
and by which it was to seem that slie had sought an
escape in consequence of her aversion to the addres-
see of the marquis. The doors of her chamber and
of the west tower were to be left open to corrobor-
ate this account, and many other circumstances
were to be contrived to confirm the suspicion. They
farther consulted how the marquis was to be infor-
med of the event; and it was agreed that he should
some as usual to the abbey on the following day.—
"To night tAfiTi," sahl the marquis, " I may r«ly on
your resolution." "You may, my lord.!'
"Farewell then, till we meet again"—
"When we meet again, it will bo done," said La


48 THE ROMANCE
He followed the marquis to the abbey, and having
seen him mount his horse and wished bhn a goou
night, he retired to his chamber, where he shut him-
self up.
Adeline, meanwhile, in the solitude of her prison,
gave way to the despair which her condition inspir-
ed. She tried to arrange her thoughts, and to argue
herself into some degree of resignation ; but reflec-
tion, by representing the past, and reason, by antic-
ipating the future, brought before her mind the
full picture of her misfortunes, and she sunk in
despondency. Of Theodore, who by a conduct bo
noble, had testified his attachment and involved
himself in ruin, she thought with a degree of an-
guish infinitely superior to any she had felt upon
any other occasion.
That the very exertions, which had deserved all
her gratitude, and awakened all her tenderness
should be the cause of his destruction, was a cir-
cumstance so much beyond the ordinary bounds of
misery, that her fortitude sunk at once beforeit.—
The idea of Theodore suffering—Theodore dying;—
was forever present to her imagination, and fre-
quently excluding the sense of her own danger, made
her conscious only of his. Some times the hope Itu
had given her of being able to vindicate his conduct,
or at least to obtain a pardon, would return; but it
was like the faint beam of an April morn, transient
and cheerless. She knew that the marquis, stung
with jealousy, and exasperated to revenge, would
pursue him with unrelenting malice.
Against such an enemy whattould Theodore op-
pose? Conscious rectitude would not avail him to
ward off the blow which disappointed passion and
powerful pride directed. Her distress was consid-
erably heightened by reflecting that no Intelligence
of in in could reach her at the abbey, and that she
must remain, she knew not how long, in the most
dreadful suspense concerning bis fate. From the
abbey she saw no possibility of escaping. She was
a prisoner in a chamber inclosed at every avenue.
She had no opportunity of conversing with any per-
son who could afford her even a chance of relief;
and she saw herself condemned to await in passive
silence the impending destiny, infinitely more dread-
firi to her imagination than death itself.


OF THE FOREST. - 49
Thus circumstanced, she yielded to the pressure
of her misfortunes, and would sit for hours motion-
less and given up to thought. "Theodore!" she
wauld frequently exclaim, "you cannot hear my
voice, you cannot fly to help me ; yourself a prison-
er and in chains." The picture was too horrid. The
swelling anguish of her heart would subdue her ut-
terance—tears bathed her cheeks, and she became
insensible to every thing but the misery of Theo-
dore.
On this evening her mind had been remarkably
tranquil; and as she watched from her window,
with a still and melancholy pleasure, the setting sun,
the fading splendor of the western horizon, and
the gradual approach of twilight, her thoughts bore
her back to the time when, in happier circumstan-
ces, she had watched the same appearances. She
recollected also the evening of her temporary escape
from the abbey, when from this same wirfdow she
had vieweft the declining sun—how anxiously she
had awaited the fall of twilight—how much she
had endeavored to anticipate the events of her fu-
ture life—with what trembling fear she had descen-
ded from the tower, and ventured into the forest.
These reflections produced others that filled her
heart with anguish and h&r eyes with tear?.
While she was lost in melancholy reverie, she
saw the marquis mount his horse and depart from
the gates. The sight of him revived in all its force,
a sense of the misery he inflicted on her beloved
Theodore, and a consciousness of the evils which
more immediately threatened herself. She with-
drew from the window in an agony of tears, which
continued for a considerable time, her frame was at
length quite exhausted arid she early retired to rest.
La Motte remained in his chamber till supper
obliged him to descend. At table his wild and hag-
gard countenance, which in spite of all his endeav-
ors, betrayed the disorder of his mind, and "his long
and frequent fits of abstraction, surprised as well as
alarmed Madame La Motte. When Peter left the
room she tenderly inquired whathad disturbed him,
and he, with a distorted smile, tried to be gay, but
the effort was beyond his art, and he quickly relaps-
ed into silence; or when Madame La Motte spoke
and he strove to conceal the absence of his thoughts
Vol. II. 4


50
THE ROMANCE
he answered so entirely from the purpose, that his
Abstraction became still more apparent. Observing
this, Madame La Motte appeared to take no notice
of his present temper, and they continued to sit in
uninterrupted silence till the hour of rest, when they
retired to their chamber.
La Motte lay in a state of disturbed watchfulness
for some time, and his frequent starts awoke mad-
ams, who however, being pacified by some trifling
excuse, soon went to sleep again. This agitation
continued till near midnight, when, recollecting that
the time was now passing in idle reflection which
ought to be devoted to action, he stole silently from
his bed, wrapped himself in his night-gown, and ta-
king the lamp which burned nightly in his cham-
ber, passed up the spiral staircase. As he went, he
frequently looked back, and often started and listen-
ed to the hollow sighings of the blast.
His hand shook so violently, when he attempted
to unlock the door of Adeline's chamber, mat he was
obliged to set the lamp on the ground, and apply
both his hands. The noise he made with the key'
induced him to believe he must have awakened her,
but when he opened the door, and perceived the
.stillness that reigned within, he was convinced she
was asleep. When he approached the bed he heard
her gently breathe, and soon after sigh—and he
stopped; but silence returning, he again advanced,
and then heard her sing in her sleep. As he listen-
ed, he distinguished some notes of a melancholy lit-
tle air, which, in her happier days she had often
sung to him. The low and^mournful accent in
which she now uttered them expressed too well
the tone of her mind.
La Motte now stepped hastily towards the bed, .
when, breathing a deep sigh, she was again silent.
He undrew the curtain, and saw her lying in a pro-
found sleep, her cheek yet wet with tears, resting
upon her arm. He stood a moment looking at her;
and as he viewed her innocent and lovely counte-
nance, pale in grief,the light of the lamp,which shone
strong upon her eyes, awoke her, and perceiving a
man, she uttered a scream. Her recollection return-
ing, she knew him to be La Motte, and it instantly
recurring to her that the marquis was at hand, she
raised herself in bed, and implored pity and proteo-


OF THE FOREST.
51
tion. La Motte stood looking eagerly at her, but
without replying.
The wildness of his looks, and the gloomy silence
be preserved, increased her alarm, and with tears
of terror she renewed her supplication. "You once
saved me from destruction," cried she; "O save me
now ! have pity upon me. I have no protector but
you."
"What is it you fear?" said La Motte, in a tone
scarcely audible. "O save me—save me from the
marquis."
"Rise then," said he, "and dress yourself quickly.
I shall be back again in a few minutes." He lighted
a candle that stood on the table, and left the cham-
ber.
Adeline immediately arose, and endeavored to
dress; but her thoughts were so bewildered that she
scarcely knew what she did, and her whole frame
so violently agitated that it was with the utmost
difficulty^ she preserved herself from fainting. She
threw her clothes hastily on, and then sat down to
await the return of La Motte. A considerable time
elapsed, yet he did not appear; and having again
endeavored to compose her spirits, the pain of sus-
pense at length became so insupportable, that she
opened the door of her chamber, and went to the
top of the staircase to listen. She thought she
heard voices below; but, considering that if the
marquis was there, her appearance could only in-
crease her danger, she checked the step she had al-
most involuntarily taken to descend. Still she list-
ened, and still thought she distinguished voices.—
Soon after she heard a door shut and then footsteps,
and hastened back to her chamber.
Near a quarter of an hour elapsed and La Motte
did not appear. When again she thought she heard
a murmur of voices below, and also passing steps,
and at length her anxiety not suffering her to re-
main in her room, she moved through the passage
that communicated with the spiral staircase j but
all was now still. In a few moments, however, a
light flashed across the hall,-and La Motte appeared
at the door of the vaulted room. He looked up and
seeing Adeline in the gallery, beckoned her to de-
scend.
She hesitated and looked towards her chamber;


53 THE ROMANCE
but La Motte now approached the stairs, and with
faultering steps she went to meet him. "I fear the
marquis may see me," said she, whispering "where
is he?" La Motte took her hand and led her on, as-
suring her she had nothing to fear from the marquis.
The wildness of his looks, however, and the tremb-
ling of his hand, seemed to contradict this assurance,
and she inquired whither he was leading her. "To
the forest," said La Motte, "that you may escape
from the abbey—a horse awaits you without. I can
save you by no other means," new terror seized her.
She could scarcely believe that La Motte, who had
hitherto conspired with the marquis, and had so
closely confined her, should now himself undertake
her escape, and she at this moment felt a dreadful
presentiment, which it was impossible to account
for, that he was leading her out to murder her in the
forest. Again shrinking back, she supplicated his
mercy. He assured her he meant only to protect
her, and desired she would not waste time.
There was something in his manner that spoke
sincerity, and she suffered him to conduct her to a
side door that opened into the forest, where she
could just distinguish through the gloom a man on
horseback. This brought to her remembrance the
night in which she had quitted the tomb, when trust-
ing to the person who appeared, she had been car-
ried to the marquis' villn. La Motte called, and
was answered by Peter, whose voice somewhat re-
assured Adeline.
He then told her that the marquis would return
to the abbey on the following morning, and that this
could be the only opportunity of escaping his de-
signs; that she might rely upon his (La Motte's)
word, that Peter had orders to carry her wherever
she chose; but as he knew the marquis would be
indefatigable in search of her, he advised her by all
means to leave the kingdom, which she might do
with Peter, who was a native of Savoy, and would
convey her to the house of his sister. There she
might remain till La Motte himself, who did not
now think it would be safe to continue much longer
in France, should join her. He entreated her, what-
ever might happen, never to mention the events
which had transpired at the abbey. "To save you,
Adeline, I have risked my life; do not increase my


OF THE FOREST. 63
danger and your own, by any unnecessary discover-
ies. We may never meet again, but I hope you will
be happy ; and remember when you think of me,
that I am not quite so bad as I have been tempted
to be."
Having said this, he gave her some money, which
he told her would be necessary to defray the expen-
ses of her journey. Adeline could no longer doubt
his sincerity, and her transports of joy and gratitude
would scarcely permit her to thank him. She wish-
ed to have bid Madame La Motte farewell, and in-
deed earnestly requested it; but he again told her
she had no time to lose, and wrapping her in a large
cloak, he lifted her upon the horse. , She bade him
adieu with tears of gratitude, and Peter set off as
fast as the darkness would permit.
When they had got some way, " I am glad with
all my heart, ma'amselle," said he, to see you again.
Who would have thought, after all, that my mas-
ter himself would have bid me take you away!
Well, to be sure strange things come to pass; but
we shall have better luck this time." Adeline, not
choosing to reproach him with the treachery of
which she feared he had been formerly guilty, thank-
ed him for his good wishes, and said she hoped
they should be more fortunate." But Peter, in his
usual strain of eloquence proceeded to undeceive
her in this point, and to acquaint her with every
circumstance which his memory, and it was natur-
ally a strong one, could furnish.
Peter expressed such an artless interest in her
welfare, and such a concern for her disappointment,
that she could no longer doubt his faithfulness : and
this conviction not only strengthened her confi-
dence in the present undertaking, but made her lis-
ten to his conversation with kindness and pleasure.
"I should never have staid at the abbey till this
time," said he, " If I could have got away; but my
master frightened me so about the marquis, and I
had not money enough to carry me to my own coun-
try, and I was forced to stay. It's well we have got
some solid louis d'ors now; for 1 question, ma'am-
selle, whether the people on the road would have
taken those trinkets you formerly talked of for mon-
ey."
"Possibly not," said Adeline; "I am thankful to


54 THE ROMANCE
Monsieur La Motte, that We have more certain
means of procuringconvenienciea. What route shall
you take when we leave the forest, Peter?" Peter
mentioned very correctly the greater part of the
road to Lyons; "and then," said he, " we can ea-
sily get to Savoy, and that will be nothing. My sis-
ter, God bless her! I hope she is living; I have not
seen her many a year, but if she is not, all the people
will be glad to see me, and you will easily get a lodg-
ing, ma'amselle, and every thing you want."
Adeline resolved to go with him to Savoy. La
Motte, who knew the character and designs of the
marquis, had advised her to leave the kingdom, and
told her what her fears would have suggested, that
the marquis would be indefatigable in search of her.
His motive for this advice must be a desire of serv-
ing her ; why else, when she was already in his pow-
er, should he remove her to another place, and even
furnish her with money for the expenses of a jour-
ney?
At Leloncourt, where Peter said he was well
known, she would be most likely to meet with pro-
tection and comfort even should his sister be dead;
and its distance and solitary situation were circum-
stances that pleased her. These reflections would
have pointed out to her the prudence of proceeding
to Savoy, had she been less destitute of resources in
Prance; in her present situation they proved it to
be necessary.
She inquired farther concerning the route they
were to take, and whether Peter was sufficiently ac-
quainted with the road.—"When once 1 get to
Thiers, I know it well enough," said Peter, " for I
have gone it many a time in my younger days, and
any body will tell us the way there." They travel-
led for several hours in darkness and silence, and it
was not till they emerged from the forest that Ade-
line saw the morning light streak the eastern clouds.
The sight cheered and revived her ; and as she trav-
elled silently along, her mind revolved the events of
the past night and meditated plans for the future.—
The present kindness of La Motte appeared so very
different from his former conduct, that it astonish-
ed and perplexed her, and she could only account
for it by attributing it to one of those sudden impul-
ses of humanity, which some times operate even
upon the most depraved hearts.


'of the forest.
But when she recollected his former words, "that
he was not master of himself;*' she could scarcely
believe that mere pity could induce him to break the
bonds which had hitherto so strongly held him ; and
then, considering the altered conduct of the marquis
she was inclined to think that she owed her liberty
to some change in his sentiments towards her ; yet
the advice La Motte had given her to quit the king-
dom, and the money with which he had supplied
her for that purpose, seemed to contradict this opin-
ion, and involved her again in doubt.
- Peter now got directions to Thiers, which place
they reached without any accident, and there stop-
ped to refresh themselves. As soon as Peter thought
the horse sufficiently rested, they again set forward,
and from the rich plain of the Lyonnois, Adeline, for
the first time, caught a view of the distant Alps,
whose majestic heads seemed to prop the vault of
heaven, and All her mind with sublime emotions.
In a few hours they reached the vale in which
stands the delightful city of Lyons, whose beautiful
environs, studdied with valies, and rich with culti-
vation, withdrew Adeline from the melancholy con-
templation of her own circumstances, and her more
painful anxiety for Theodore.
When they reached that busy city, her first can;
was to inquire concerning the passage of the Rhono
but she forbore to make the inquiries of the people
of the inn, considering, that if the marquis should*
trace her thither, they might enable him to pursue
her route. She therefore sent Peter to the quays tn
hire a boat, while she herself took a slight repast,
it being her intention to embark immediately. Pe-
ter presently returned, having engaged a boat .and
men to take them up the Rhone to the nearest part
of Savoy, from whence they were* to proceed by land
to the village of Leloncourt.
Having taken some refreshment, she ordered him
to conduct her to the vessel. A new and strikini;
scene presented itself to Adeline, who looked with
surprise upon the river, gay with vessels, and the
quay crowded with busy faces, and felt the contrast
which the cheerful objects around bore to herself;
to her, an orphan, desolate and helpless, and flying
from persecution and her country.. She spoke with
the master of the boat, and having sent Peter back


& THE ROMANCE
to the inn for .the horse, (La Motte's gift to Peter in
lieu of some arrears of wages,) they embarked.
As they slowly passed up the Rhone, whose steep
banks crowned with mountains,exhibited the most
various, wild and romantic scenery, Adeline satin
a pensive reverie. The novelty of the scene through
which she floated, now frowning with savage gran-
deur, and now smiling in fertility, and gay with
towns and villages, soothed her mind, and her sor-
row gradually softened into a gentle and not un-
pleasing melancholy. She had seated herself at the
head of the boat, where she watched its sides cleave
the swift stream, and listened to the dashing of the
waters.
The boat, slowly opposing the current, passed a-
long for some hours, and at length the veil of evening
was stretched over the landscape. The weather
was fine, and Adeline, regardless of the dews that
now fell, remained in the open air, observing the ob-
jects darken around her, the gay tints of the hori-
zon fade away, and the stars gradually appear,
trembling upon the lucid mirror of the waters. The
scene was now sunk in deep shadow, and the silence
of the hour was broken only by the measured dash-
ing of the oars, and now and then by the voice of
Peter speaking to the boatmen. Adeline sat lost in
thought; the forlornness of her circumstances came
heightened to her imagination.
She saw herself surrounded by the darkness and
stillness of night, in a strange place, far distant from
any friends, going, she scarcely knew whither,under
the guidance of strangers, and pursued, perhaps by
an inveterate enemy. She pictured to herself the
rage of the marquis, now that he had discovered
her flight, nnd though she knew it very unlikely
he should follow her by water, for which reason she
had chosen that manner of travelling, she trembled
at the portrait her fancy drew. Her thoughts then
wandered to the plan she should adopt after reach-
ing Savoy; and much as her experience had preju-
diced her against the manners of a convent, she saw
bo place more likely to afford her a proper asylum.
At length she retired to the little cabin for a few
hours' repose.
She awoke with the dawn, and h6r mind being
too much disturbed to sleep again, she rose and


OF THE FOREST.
57
watched the gradual approach of day. As she mus-
ed, she expressed trie feelings of the moment in the
SONNET.
Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose.
And wake the blushes of the rose,
That all night long oppress'd with dews,
And veifd in chilling shade its hues,
Reel in* d, forlorn, the languid head,
And sadly sought its parent bed;
Warmthfrom her ray the trembling flower derives,
And, sweetly blushing through its tears, revives,
Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose,
And melt the tears that bend the rose;
But can tlieir charms suppress the sigh,
Or chase the tear from Sorrow's eye 1
Can all their lustrous light impart
One ray of peace to Sorrow's heart?
Ah ! no—their fires herfainting soul oppress—
Eve's pensive shades more sooth her meek distress!
When Adeline left the abbey, La Motte had re-
mained for some time at the gate listening to the
steps of the horse that carried her, till the sound
was lost in distance ; he then turned into the hall
with a lightness of heart to which he had long been
a stranger. The satisfaction of having thus pre-
served her, as he hoped, from the designs of the mar-
quis, overcame for a while all sense of the danger in
which this step must involve him! But when he re-
turned entirely to his own situation, the terrors of
the marquis' resentment struck their full force upon
his mind, and he considered how he might best es-
cape it.
It was now past midnight—the marquis was ex-
pected early on the following day ; and in this in-
terval, it at first appeared probable to him that he
might quit the forest. There was only one horse;
but he considered whether it would be best to set
off immediately for Auboine* w here a carriage might
he procured to convey his family and his moveables
from the abbey, or quietly to await the arrival of
the marquis, and endeavor to impose upon him by
a forged story of Adeline's escape.


58
.THE ROMANCE
The time which must elapse before a carriage
could reach the abbey, would leave him scarcely
sufficient time to escape from the forest; what mon-
ey he had remaining from the marquis' bounty could
not carry him far; and when it was expended he
must probably be at a loss for subsistence, should he
not before then be detected. By remaining at the
abbey it would appear that he was unconscious of
deserving the marquis' resentment; and though he
could not expect to impose a belief upon him that his
orders had been executed, he might make it appear
that Peter only had been accessory to the escape of
Adeline ; an account which would seem the more
probable from Peter's having been formerly detected
in a similar scheme. He believed also that if the
marquis should threaten to deliver him into the
hands of justice, he might save himself by a men-
ace of disclosing the crime he had commissioned
him to perpetrate.
Thus arguing, La Motte resolved to remain at the
abbey and await the event of the marquis' disap-
pointment.
When the marquis did arrive, and was informed
of Adeline's flight, the strong workings of his soul,
which appeared in his countenance, for a while
alarmed and terrified La Motte. He cursed himself
and her in terms of such coarseness and vehemence
as La Motte was astonished to hear from a man
whose manners were generally amiable, whatever
might be the violence and criminality of his passion.
To invent and express these terms seemed to give
him not only relief but delight; yet he appeared
more shocked at the circumstance of her escape,
than exasperated at the carelessness of La Motte,
and recollecting at length that he wasted time, he
left the abbey, and dispatched several of his servants
in pursuit of her.
When he was gone, La Motte, believing his story
had succeeded, returned to the pleasure of consider-
ing that he had done his duty, and to the hope that
Adeline was now beyond the reach of pursuit. This
calm was of short continuance. In a few short hours
the marquis returned, accompanied by the officers
of justice. The affrighted La Motte, perceiving
him approach, attempted to conceal himself; but
was seized and carried to the marquis, who drew
him aside.


OF THE FOREST^
59
"I am not to be imposed upon," said he, "by such
a superficial story as you have invented ; yon know
your life is in my hands ; tell me instantly where
you have secreted Adeline, or I will charge you
with the crime you have committed against me;
but upon your disclosing the place of her conceal-
ment, X will dismiss the officers, and if you wish it,
to hesitate, and may now know that I will not be
trifled with."
La Motte attempted to appease the marquis, and
affirmed that Adeline was really fled he knew not
whither. "You will remember my lord, that your
character is also in my power; and that if you pro-
ceed to extremities, you will compel me to reveal in
the face of day that you would have made me a
murderer."
"And who will believe you ?" said the marquis.—
"The crimes that banished you from society will be
no testimony of your veracity, and that with which
I now charge you will bring with it a sufficient pre-
sumption that your accusation is malicious. Offi-
cers, do your duty."
They entered the room and seized La Motte,
whom terror now deprived of all power of resist-
ance, could resistance have availed, him, and in the
perturbation of his mind he informed the marquis
that Adeline had taken the road to Lyons. This
discovery, however,was made too late to serve him-
self; the marquis seized the advantage it offered,
but the charge had been given, and with the anguish
of knowing that he had exposed Adeline to danger
without benefitting himself, La Motte submitted in
silence to his fate. Scarcely allowing him time to
collect what little effects might be easily carried
with him, the officers conveyed him from the abbey;
but the marquis, in consideration of the extreme dis-
tress of Madame La Motte, directed one of his ser-
vants to procure a carriage from Auboine, that she
might follow her husband.
The marquis in the mean time, now acquainted
with the route Adeline had taken, sent forward his
faithful valet to trace her to her place of conceal-
ment and return immediately with intelligence to
the villa.
Abandoned to despair, La Motte and his wife quit-


£0 fHE ROMANCE
ted the forest of Fontainville, which had for so ma-
ny months afforded them an asylum, and embarked
once more upon the tumultuous world, where justice
would meet La Motte in the form of destruction.—
They had entered the forest as a refuge, rendered
necessary by the former crimes of La Motte, and for
some time found in it the security they sought; but
other offences, for even in that sequestered spot there
happened to be temptation, soon succeeded, and hia
life, already sufficiently marked by the punishment
of vice, now afforded him another instance of this
great truth, " that where guilt is, there peace cannot
enter."
CHAPTER V.
"Hail! awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
"And woo the weary to profound repose."—Beattic
Adeline and Peter, meanwhile, proceeded on
their voyage without any accident, and landed in
Savoy, where Peter placed her upon the horse, and
walked beside her. When he came within sight of
his native mountains, his extravagant joy burst out
into frequent exclamations, and he would often ask
Adeline, if she had ever seen such hitts in France,
"No, no," said he, " the hills there are very well for
French hills, but they are not to be named on the
same day with ours." Adeline, lost in admiration
of the astonishing and tremendous scenery around
her, assented very warmly to the truth of Peter's as-
sertion, which induced him to expatiate more large-
ly upon the advantages of his country; its disadvan-
tages he totally forgot; and though he gave way hia
last sous to the children of the peasantry that ran
barefooted by the side of the horse, he spoke of noth-
ing but the happiness and content of the inhabitants.
His native village, indeed, was an exception to the
general character of the country, and to the usual
effects of an arbitrary government; it was flourish-
ing healthy and happy; and these advantages it
chiefly owed to the activity and attention of the be-
nevolent clergyman whose care it was.
Adeline, who now began.tofeel the effects of long


OF THE FOREST, 81
anxiety and fatigue, much -wished to arrive at the
end of her journey, and inquired impatiently of Pe-
ter concerning it. Her spirits, thus weakened, the
gloomy grandeur of the scenes which had bo lately
awakened emotions of delightful sublimity, now aw-
ed her into terror; she trembled at the sound of the
torrents rolling among the cliffs and thundering in
the vale below, and'shrunk from the view of the
precipices, which sometimes overhung the road, and
at others appeared beneath it. Fatigued as she was,
she frequently dismounted to climb on foot the steep
flinty road, which she feared to travel on horseback.
The day was closing when they drew near a small
village at the foot of the Savoy Alps, and the sun in
all his evening splendour, now sinking behind their
summits, threw a farewell gleam athwart the land-
scape, so soft and glowing as drew from Adeline,
lanquid as she was, an exclamation of rapture.
The romantic situation of the village next attiact-
ed her notice. It stood at the foot of several stu-
pendous mountains, which formed a chain round a
lake at some little distance, and the woods, that
swept from the summits, almost embosomed the vil-
lage. The lake, unruffled by the lightest air, reflec-
ted the vermeil tints of the horizon with the sub-
lime scenery on its borders, darkened every instant
with the falling twilight.
When Peter perceived the village, he burst into a
shout of joy. "Thank God," said he, "we are near
home ; there is my dear native place. It looks just
as it did twenty years ago, and there are the same
old trees growing round our cottage yonder, and
the huge rock that rises above it. My poor father
died there ma'amselle. Pray heaven my sister be
olive ; it is a long while since I saw her." Adeline
listened with a melancholy pleasure to these artless
expressions of Peter, who, in retracing the scenes
of his former days, seemed to live them over again.
As they approached the village he continued to
point out various objects of his remembrance. "And
there too is the good pastor's chateau ; look, ma'am-
selle, that white house, with the smoke curling, that
stands on the edge of the lake yonder. I wonder
whether he is alive yet. He was not old when I left
the place, and as much beloved as ever man was,
but death spares nobody!"


62
THE ROMANCE
They had by this time reached the village, which
was extremely neat, though it did not promise much
accommodation. Peter had hardly advanced ten
steps before he was accosted by some of his old ac-
quaintance, who shook hands, and seemed not to
know how to part with him. He inquired for his
sister and was told she was alive and well. As they
passed on, so many of his old friends flocked round
him, that Adeline became quite weary of delay.—
Many whom he had left in the vigor of life were
now tottering under the infirmities of age, while
their sons and daughters, whom he had known only
in the playfulness of infancy, were grown from his
remembrance, and in the pride of youth. At length
they approached the cottage, and were met by his
sister, who having heard of hfs arrival, came and
welcomed him with unfeigned joy.
On seeing Adeline, she seemed surprised, but as-
sisted her to alight, and conducting her intoa small
but neat cottage, received her with a warmth of rea-
dy kindness which would have graced a better situ-
ation. Adeline desired to speak with her alone, for
the room was now crowded with Peter's friends—
and then acquainting her with such particulars of
her circumstances as it was necessary to communi-
cate, desired to know, if she could be accommoda-
ted with lodging in the cottage. "Yes, ma'amsel-
le," said the good woman, "such as it is, you are
heartily welcome ; I am only sorry it is not better.
But you seem ill, ma'amselle; what shall I get you?"
Adeline, who had been long struggling with fa-
tigue and indisposition, now yielded to their pres-
sure. She said she was indeed ill; but hoped that
rest would restore her, and desired a bed might be
immediately prepared. The good woman went out
to obey her, and soon returning, showed her to a lit-
tle cabin, where she retired to a bed, whose cleanli-
ness was its only recommendation.
But, notwithstanding her fatigue, she could not
sleep, and her mind, in spite of all her efforts, return-
ed to the scenes that were passed, or presented
gloomy and imperfect visions of the future.
The difference between her own condition and
that of other persons, educated as she had been,
struck her forcibly, and she wept. *; They," said she,
*' have friends and relations, all striving to save


OF THE FOREST.
them not only from what may hurt, but what may
displease them; watching, not only for their pres-
ent safety, but for their future advantage, and pre-
venting them even from injuring themselves. But
during my whole life I have never known a friend:
have been in general, surrounded by enemies, and
very seldom exempt from some circumstance either
of danger or calamity. Yet surely lam not to he
forever wretched ; the time will come when—"
She began to think she might one day be haftiy;
but recollecting the desperate situation of Theo-
dore,—" No," said she, "1 can never hope even for
peace!"
Eearly the following morning the good woman of
the house came to inquire how she had rested, and
found she had slept lit tic, and was much worse than
on the preceding night. The uneasiness or her mind
contributed to heighten the feverish symptoms that
attended her, and in the course*of the day her disor-
der began to assume a serious aspect. She observed
its progress with composure, resigning herself to the
will of God, and feeling little to regret in lif». Her
kind hostess did every thing in her power to relieve
her, and there was neither physician nor apotheca-
ry in the village, so that nature wos deprived of
none of her advantages. Notwithstanding this, the
disorder rapidly increased, and on the third day from
its lirst attack she became delirious; after which
she sunk into a state of stupefaction.
How long she remained in this deplorable condi-
tion she knew not; but on recovering her senses,she
found herself in an apartment very different from
any she remembered. It was spacious and almost
beautiful, the bed and every thing around being in
one style of elegant simplicity. For some minutes
she lay in a trance of surprise, endeavoring to rec-
ollect her scattered ideas of the past, and almost
fearing to move, lest the pleasing visions should van-
ish from her eyes.
At length she ventured to raise herself, when she
presently heard a soft voice speaking near her, and
the bed curtain was gently undrawn by a beautiful
girl. As she leaned forward over the bed, and with
a smile of mingled tenderness and joy, inquired of
her patient how she did. Adeline gazed in silent
admiration upon the most interesting countenance


THE ROMANCE
she had ever seen, in which the expression of sweet-
ness, united with lively sense and refinement, was
chastened by simplicity.
Adeline at length recollected herself sufficiently
to thank her kind inquirer, and begged to know to-
whom she was obliged and where she was? The
lovely girl pressed her hand; "'tis we who are
obliged," said she. " Oh ! how I rejoice to find you
have recovered your recollection." She said no
more", but flew to the door of the apartment, and dis-
appeared. In a few minutes she returned with an
elderly lady, who, approaching the bed with an air
of tender interest, asked concerning the state of
Adeline; to which the latter replied as well as
the agitation of her spirits would permit, and re-
peated her desire of knowing to whom she was so
greatly obliged. "You shall know that hereafter,"
said the lady; at present be assured that you are
with those who will think their care much overpaid
by your recovery; submit, therefore, to every thing
that may conduce to it, and consent to be kept as
quiet as possible."
Adeline gratefully smiled, and bowed her head in
silent assent. The lady now quitted the room for a
medicine; having given which to Adeline, the cur-
tain was closed, and she was left to repose. But
her thoughts were too busy to suffer her to profit by
the opportunity. She contemplated the past, and
viewed the present, and when she compared them,
the contrast struck her with astonishment. The
whole appeared like one of those sudden transitions
so frequent in dreams, in which we pass from grief
and despair, we know not how, to comfort and de-
light.
Yet she looked forward to the future with a trem-
bling anxiety, that threatened to retard her recov-
ery, and which, when she remembered the words of
her generous benefactors, she endeavored to sup-
press. Had she better known the disposition of the
persons in whose house she now was, her anxiety,
as far as it regarded herself, must in a great meas-
ure have been done away ; for La Luc, its owner,
was one of those rare characters to whom misfor-
tune seldom looks in vain, and whose native good-
ness, confirmed by principle, is uniform and unas-
suming in its acts. The following little picture of


OF THE FOREST.
65
his domestic life, his family and his manners, will
more fully illustrate his character. It was drawn
from the life, and its exactness will, it is hoped,
compensate for its length.
THE FAMILY OF LA LUC,
"But ha^f manhind, like HandePs fool, destroy.
Through rage and ignorance, the strain of joy;
Irregularly wild, their passions roll
Through Nature's finest instrument, the soul;
While men of sense, with Handel's happier shill,
Correet the taste and harmonize the will
Teach their affeetions, like his notes to flow,
JVur rais'd too high, nor even sunk too low,'
• Till every virtue, measur'd and refin'd,
As fits the concert of the master mind,
Melts in its hindred sounds, &ndpours along
Th? according music of the moral svng*"
OiWTHORNE.
In the village of Leloncnurt, celebrated for its pic-
turesque situation at the foot of the Savoy Alps, liv-
ed Arnaud La Luc, a clergyman, descended from an
ancient family of France, whose decayed fortunes
occasioned them to seek a retreat in Switzerland, in
an age when the violence of civil commotion seldom
spared the conquered. He was minister of the vil-
lage,and equally loved for the piety and benevolence
of the christian, as respected for the dignity and
elevation of the philosopher. His was the philoso-
phy of nature, directed by common sense. He des-
pised the jargon of the modern schools and the bril-
liant absurdities of systems, which have dazzled
without enlightening, and guided without convinc-
ing their disciples.
His mind was penetrating; his views extensive;
and his systems, like his religion, were simple, ra-
tional and sublime. The people of his parish look-
ed up to him as to a father; for while his precepts
directed their minds, his example touched their
hearts.
In early youth La Luc lost a wife whom he ten-
derly loved. This event threw a tincture of soft and
interesting melancholy over his character, which
remained when time had mellowed the reraem-
Vol. II. - 5


GG
THE ROMANCE

brancc that occasioned it. Philosophy had strength-
ened, not hardened his heart; it enabled him to re-
sist the pressure of affliction, rather than to over-
come it.
Calamity taught him to feel with peculiar sym-
pathy the distresses of others. His income from the
parish was small, and what remained from the di-
vided and reduced estates of his ancestors did not
much increase it; hut though he could not always
relieve the necessities of the indigent, his tender
pity and holy conversation seldom failed in adminis-
tering consolation to the mental sufferer. On these
occasions the sweet and exquisite emotions of his
heart have often induced htm to say, that " could
the voluptuary he once sensible of these feelings, he
would never after forego the '.luxury of doing good.'
Ignorance of true pleasure," he would say, "more
frequently than temptation to thitt which is false,
leads to vice."
La Luc had one son and a daughter, who were too
young, when their mother died to lament her loss.
He loved them with peculiar tenderness, as the chil-
dren of her whom he never ceased to deplore ; it was
for some time his sole amusement to observe the
gradual unfolding of their infant minds, and to bend
them to virtue. His was the deep and silent sorrow
of the heart; his complaints he never obtruded upon
others, and very seldom did he even mention his
wife. His grief was too sacred for the eye of the
vulgar. Often he retired to the deep solitude of the
mountains, and amid their solitary and tremendous
scenery would brood over the remembrance of times
past, and resign himself to the lnxuiy of grief. On
his return from these little excursions he was al-
ways more placid and contented. A sweet tranquil-
lity, which arose almost to happiness, was diffused
over his mind, and his manners were now more than
usually benevolent. As he gazed on his children
and fondly kissed them, a tear would sometimes
steal into his eye, but it was a tear of tender regret,
unmingled with the.darker qualities of sorrow, and
was most precious to his heart.
On the death of his wife he received into his house
a maiden sister, a sensible worthy woman, who was
deeply interested in the happiness of her brother.—
Her affectionate attention and judicious conduct an-


OF THE FOREST.
C7
ticipated the effect of time in softening the poignan-
cy of his distress, and her unremitted care of his
children, while it proved the goodness of her own
Heart, attached her more closely to his.
It was with inexpressible pleasure that he traced
in the infant features of Clara the resemblance, of
her mother. The same gentleness of manner, and
the same sweetness of disposition, soon displayed
themselves,and as she grew up, heractions frequent-
ly reminded him so strongly of his lost wife, as to
fix him in reveries which absorbed all his soul.
Engaged in the duties of his parish, the education
of his children, and in philosophic research, his
years passed in tranquility. The tender melancho-
ly with which affliction had tinctured his mind, was
by long indulgence, become dear to him, and he
would not have relinquished it for the brightest
dream of airy happiness. When any passing inci-
dent disturbed him, he retired for consolation to the
idea of her he so faithfully loved, and yielding to a
gentle, and, what the world would call, a romantic
Badness, gradually reassumed his composure. This
was the secret luxury to which he withdrew from
temporary disappointment—the solitary enjoyment
which dissipated the cloud of care, and blunting the
sting of vexation—which elevated his mind above
this world, and opened to his view the sublimity of
another.
The spot he now inhabited, the surrounding sce-
nery, the romantic beauties of the neighboring walks
were dear to La Luc, for they had once been loved
by Clara; they had been the scenes of their tender-
ness, and of his happiness.
His chateau stood, on -the borders of a small lake
that was almost environed by mountains of stupen-
dous height, which shooting into a variety of gro-
tesque forms, composed a scenery singularly solemn
and sublime. Dark woods intermingled with bold
projections of rock, sometimes barren, and some-
times covered with the purple bloom of wild flow-
ers, impended over the lake, and were seen in the
clear mirror of its waters. The wild and Alpine
heights which rose above were either crowned with
perpetual snows, or exhibited tremendous crags and
masses of solid rock, whose appearance was contin-
ually changing as the rays of light were variously


G8 , THE ROMANCE
reflected on their surface, and whose summits were
often wrapt in impenetrable mists. Some cottages
and hamlets, scattered on the margin of the lake, or
seated in picturesque points of view on the rocks
above, were the only objects that reminded the be-
holder of humanity.
.On the side of the lake nearly opposite to the cha-
teau, the mountains receded, and a long chain of
Alps were seen sretching in perspective. Their in-
numerable tints and shades, some veiled in blue
mists, some tinged with rich purple, and others glit-
tering in partial light, gave luxurious and magical
coloring to the scene.
The chateau was not large, but it was convenient
and was characterised by an air of elegant simplici-
ty and good order. The entrance was a small hall,
which, opened by a glass door into the garden, af-
forded a view of the lake, with the magnifficent
scenery exhibited on its borders. On the left of the
hall was La Luc's study , where be usually passed his
mornings; and adjoining a small room fitted up
with chymical apparatus, astronomical instruments
and other implements of science. On the right was
the family parlour, and behind it, a room which be-
longed exclusively to Madame La Luc. Here were
deposited various medicines and botanical distilla-
tions, together with the apparatus for preparing
them. From this room the whole village was liber-
ally supplied with physical comfort; for it was the
pride of Madame to believe herself skilful in reliev-
ing the disorders of ber neighbors.
Behind the chateau rose a tuft of pines, and in
front a gentle declivity, covered with verdure and
flowers, extended to the lake, whose waters flowed
.even with the grass, and gave freshness to the aca-
cias that waved over its surface. Flowering shrubs
intermingled with mountain ash, cypress, and ever-
green oak. marked the boundary of the garden.
At the return of spring it was Clara's care to di-
rect the young shoots of the plants, to nurse the bud-
ding flowers, and to shelter them with the luxuri-
ant branches of the shrubs from the cold blasts that
descended from the mountains. In summer she usu-
ally rose with the sun, and visited her favorite
flowers while the dew yet hung glittering on their
leaves. The freshness of early day, with the glow-


OF THE FOREST.
CD
ing coloring which then touched the scenery, gave
a pure and exquisite delight to her innocent heart.
Born amid the scenes of grandeur and sublimity, she
had quickly imbibed a taste for their charms, which
taste was heightened by the influence of a warm
imagination. To view the sun rising above the
Alps, tinging their snowy heads with light, and sud-
denly darting his rays over the whole face of nature,
to see the fiery splendor of the clouds reflected in
the lake below, and the roseate tints first steal upon
the rocks above, were among the earliest pleasures
of which Clara was susceptible. From being de-
lighted with the observance of nature, she grew
pleased with seeing her finely imitated, and soon
displayed a taste for poetry and painting. When
she was about sixteen she often selected from her
father's library those of the Italian poets most celer
brated for picturesque beauty, and would spend the
first hours of morning in reading them under the
shade of the acacias that bordered the lake. Here
too she would often attempt rude sketches of the
surrounding scenery, and at length, by repeated ef-
forts, assisted by some in at met ion from her brother,
she succeeded so well as to produce twelve drawings
in crayon, which were judged worthy of decorating
the parlor of the chateau.
Young La Luc played the flute, and she listened
to him with exquisite delight, particularly when
he stood on the margin of the lake, under her beloved
acacias. Her voice was sweet and flexible, though
not strong, and she soon learned to modulate It to
the instrument. She knew nothing of the intrica-
cies of execution ; her airs were simple, and her
style equally so; but she soon gave them a touching
expression, inspired by the sensibility of her heart
which seldom left those of her hearers unaffected.
It was the happiness of La Luc to sec his children
happy,and in one of his excursions to Geneva, where
he went to visit some relations of bis late wife, he
bought Clara a lute. She received it with more
* gratitude than she could express ; and, having learn
ed one air, she hastened to her favorite acacias,
and played it again and again, till she forgot every
thing besides. Her little domestic duties, her books,
her drawing, even the hour which her father dedi-
cated to her improvement, when she met her broth-


TO
THE ROMANCE
cr in the library, and with him partook of knowledge,
even this passed unheeded by. La Luc suffered it
to pass. Madame was displeased that her neice ne-
glected her domestic duties, and wished to reprove
her, but La Luc begged her lo be silent. "Let ex-
perience teach her, her error," said he; " precept
seldom brings conviction to young minds."
Madame objected "that experience was a slow
teacher." '' It is a sure one,'' rephed La Luc, " and
often the quickest of all teachers; when it cannot
lead us into serious evil, it is well to trust to it."
The second day passed with Clara as the first, and
the third as the second. She could now play sever-
al tunes ; she came to her father and repeated what
she had learnt.
uVt supper the cream was not dressed, and there
was no fruit on the table. La Luc inquired the tea-
son ; Clara recollected it and blushed. She observ-
ed that her brother was absent, but nothing was
said. Towards the conclusion of the repast, he ap-
peared; his countenance expressed unusual satis-
faction, but he seated himself in silence. Clara in-
quired what had detained him from supper, and
learnt that he had been to a sick family in the
neighborhood with the weekly allowance which
her father gave them. La Luc had entrusted the
care of this family to his daughter, and it was her
duty to have carried them their little allowance on
the preceding day, but she had forgotten every
thing but music.
"How did you find the woman ?" said La Luc to
his son.
"Worsif?sir,he replied, for her medicines had not
been regularly given, and the children had had little
or no food to-day."
Clara was shocked. "No food to-day !" said she
to herself; and I have been playing all day on my
lute,under the acacias by the lake!" Her father did
not seem to observe her emotion, but turned to his
son, "I left her better," said the latter; "the med-
icines 1 carried eased her pain, and I had the pleas-*
ure of seeing her children make a joyful supper."
Clara, perhaps for the first time in her life, envied
him his pleasure; her heart was full and she sat si-
lent. "No food to-day!" thought she.
She retired pensively to her chamber. The sweet


OF THE FOREST. 71
serenity with which she usually went to rest was
vanished, for she could no longer reflect on the past
day with satisfaction.
"What a pity," said she, "that what is so pleasing
should be the cause of so much pain! This lute is
my delight, and my torment !" This reflection oc-
casioned her much internal debate ; but before she
could come to any resolution upon the point in ques-
tion she fell asleep.
She awoke very early the next morning, and im-
patiently watched the progress of the dawn. The
sun at length appearing she arose, and, determining
to make all the atonement in her power for her for-
mer neglect, hastened to the cottage.
Here she remained a considerable time, and when
she returned to the chateau her countenance had
recovered all its usual serenity. She resolved, how-
ever, not to touch her lute that day. Till the hour
of breakfast she busied herself in binding up the
flowers, and pruning the shoots that were too luxu-
riant, and she at length found herself, she scarcely
knew how, beneath her beloved acacias by the side
of the lake. "Ah!" said she with a sigh, "how
sweetly would the song I learned yesterday, sound
now over the waters !" But she remembered her de-
termination, and checked the step she was involun-
tarily taking towards the chateau.
She attended her father in the library at the usual
hour, and learned, from his discourse with her broth-
er on what had been read the two preceding days,
that she had lost much entertaining knowledge.—
She requested her father would inform her to what
this conversation alluded; but he calmly replied, that
she had preferred another amusement aT the time
when the subject was discussed, and must therefore
content herself with ignorance.
"You would reap the rewards of study from the
amusements of idleness," said he; "learn to be rea-
sonable, do not expect to unite inconsistencies."
Clara felt the justness of this rebuke and, remem-
bered, her lute. "What mischief has it occasioned IV
sighed she. "( will prove that I am able to control
my inclinations when 1 see it necessary so to do."—
Thus resolving, she applied herself to study with
more than usual assiduty.
She adhered to her resolution, and towards the


7-2
THE ROMANCE
close of the day went into the garden to amuse her
self. The evening was still and uncommonly beau-
tiful. Nothing was heard but the faint shivering of
the leaves, which returned but at intervals, making
silence more solemn, and the distant murmurs of
the torrents that rolled among the cliffs. As she
stood by the lake and watched the sun slowly sink-
ing below the Alps, whose summits were tinged
with gold and purple ; as she saw the Jast rays of
light gleaming upon the waters whose surface was
not curled by the lightest air, she sighed, "Oh, Iww
enchanting would be the sound of my lute at this
moment, on this spot, and when every thing is so
still around me!"
The temptation was too powerful for the resolu-
tion of Clara; she ran to the chateau, returned with
the instrument to her dear acacias, and beneath their
shade continued to play till the surrounding objects
faded in darkness from her sight. But the moon
afrose, and shedding a trembling lustre on the lake,
made the scene more captivating than ever.
It was impossible to quit so delightful a spot;
Clara repeated her favorite airs again and again.—
The beauty of the hour awakened all her genins;
she never played with such expression before, and
she listened with increasing rapture to the tones as
they languished over the waters and died away on
the distant air. She was perfectly enchanted. "No
—Nothing was ever so delightful as to play on the
lute beneath her acacias, on the margin of the lake,
by moonlight!"
When she returned to the chateau, supper was
over. La Luc had observed Clara, and would not
suffer her* to be disturbed. When the enthusiasm
of the hour was passed, she recollected that she had
broken her resolution and the reflection gave her
pain. "I prided myself on controlling my inclina-
tions," said she, "and I have weakly yielded to their
direction. But what evil ha^e I incurred by indulg-
ing them this evening? I have neglected no duty,
for I had none to perform. Of what then have I to
accuse myself? Ft wouhl have been absurd to have
kept my resolution, and denied myself a pleasure
when there appeared no reason for this self denial."
She paused, not quite satisfied with this reason-
ing. Suddenly resuming her inquiry, "but how,"


OP THE FOREST.
73
said she, am I certain that I should have resisted
my inclinations if there had been any reason for op-
posing them ? If the poor family whom I neglected
yesterday had been unsupplied to-day, I fear! should
again have forgotten them while I played on my
lute on the banks of the lake."
She then recollected all that her father had at dif-
ferent times said on the subject of self-command,
and sire fr'lt some pain.
"No," said she^" if I do not consider that to pre-
serve a resolution that 1 had once solemnly formed
is a sufficient reason to control my inclinations, I
fear no other motive would long>e«train me. I se-
riously determined not to touch my mta^his whole
day, and I have broken my resolution. To-morrow
perhaps I may be tempted to neglect some duty, for
I have discovered that 1 cannot rely on my own pru-
dence. Since I cannot conquer temptation, I will
fly from it."
On the following morning she brought her lute to
La Luc, and begged he would receive it again, and
at least keep it till she had taught her inclinations to
submit to control.
The heart of La Luc swelled as she spoke. "No,
Clara," said he, "it is unnecessary that I should re-
ceive your lute; the sacrifice you would make
proves you worthy of my confidence. Take back
the instrument; since you have sufficient resolution
to resign it when it leads you from duty, I doubt not
that you will be able to control its influence now
that it is restored to you."
Clara felt a degree of pleasure and pride at these
words, such as she had never before experienced;
but she thought that to deserve the commendation
they bestowed it was necessary to complete the sac-
rifice she had begun. In the virtuous enthusiasm of
the moment the delights of music were forgotten in
those of aspiring.to well earned.praise, and when
she refused the lute thus offered, she was conscious
only of exquisite sensations.-—" Dear sir," said she,
tears of pleasure swelling in her eyes, " allow me to
deserve the praises you bestow, and then I shall in-
deed be happy."
La Luc thought she had never resembled her mo-
ther so much as at this instant, and tenderly kissing
her, he for some moments wept in silence. When


7^ THE ROMANCE
he was able to speak, "you do already deserve my
praises," said he, "and I restore your lute as a re-
ward tor the conduct which excites them." This
scene called back recollections too tender for the
heart of La Luc, and giving Clara the instrument he
abruptly quitted the room.
La Luc's son a youth of much promise, was de-
signed by his father for the church, and had received
from him an excellent education, which, however,
it was thought necessary he should finish at an uni-
versity. That of Geneva was fixed upon by La Luc.
His scheme had been to make his son not a scholar
only; he was ambitious that he should also be en-
viable as a man. From early infancy he had accus-
tomed him to hardihood and endurance, and as he
advanced in youth he encouraged him in manly ex-
ercises, and acquainted him with the useful arts as
well as with abstract science.
He was high spirited and ardent in his temper, but
his heart was generous and affectionate. He look-
ed forward to Geneva, and to the world it would
disclose, with the sanguine expectations of youth;
and in the delight of these expectations was absorb-
ed the regret he would otherwise have felt at a sep-
aration from his family.
A brother of the late Madame La Luc, who was
by birth an English woman, resided at Geneva with
his family. To have been related to his wife was a
sufficient claim upon the heart of La Luc, and he
had therefore, always kept up an intercourse with
Mr. Audley though the difference in their characters
and manner of thinking would never permit this as-
sociation to advance into friendship. La Luc now
wrote to him, signifying an intention of sending his
eon to Geneva, and recommending him to his care;
to this letter Mr. Audley returned a friendly answer,
and in a short time after an acquaintance of La Luc's
being called to Geneva, bad determined that his son
should accompany him.
The separation was painful to La Luc, and almost
insupportable to Clara. Madame was grieved, and
took care that he should have a sufficient quantity
of medicines put in his travelling trunk; she was
also at some pains to point out their various virtues
and the different complaints for which they were
requisite ; but she was careful to deliver her lecture
during the absence of her brother.


OF THE FOREST.
75
La Luc, with his daughter, accompanied his son
on horseback to the next town, which was about
eight miles from Leloncourt,and there again enfor-
cing all the advice he had formerly given him'res-
pecting his conduct and pursuits, and again yielding
to the tender weakness of the father, he bade him
farewell, Clara wept, and felt more sorrow at his
parting than the occasion could justify; but this
was almost the first time she had known grief, and
she artlessly yielded to its influence.
La Luc' and Clara travelled pensively back, and
the day was closing when they came within view of
the lake, and soon after of the chateau. Never had
it appeared gloomy till now; but now Clara wan-
dered forlornly through every apartment where she
had been accustomed to see her brother, and recol-
lected a thousand little circumstances, which, had
he been present, she would have thought immateri-
al, but on which imagination now stamped a value.
The garden the scenes around, all wore a melan-
choly aspect, and it was long ere they resumed their
natural character, and Clara recovered her vivacity.
Near four years had elapsed since this separation,
when one evening, as Madame La Luc and her
neice were sitting at work together in the parlor, a
good woman in the neighborhood desired to be ad-
mitted. She came to ask for some medicines, and
the advice of Madame La Luc. "Here is a sad ac-
cident happened at our house, madame," said she; -
"I am sure my heart aches for the poor young crea-
ture." *
Madame La Luc desired she would explain her-
self, and the woman proceeded to say, that her broth-
er Peter, whom she had not seen for so many years
was arrived, and had brought a beautiful young ladv
to her cottago, who she verily believed was dying.
She described her disorder, and acquainted madame
with what particulars of her mournful story Peter
had related, failing not to exaggerate such as her
compassion for the unhappy stranger and her love
ofithe marvellous prompted.
The account appeared a very extraordinary one
to Madame; but pity for the forlorn condition of the
.young sufferer induced her to enquire farther into
the affair. "Do let me go to her, madam," said
Clara, who had been listening with ready compaa-


76
THE ROMANCE
•ion to the poor woman's narrative ; "Do suffer me
to go—she must want comforts, and I wish much to
see how she is." Madame asked some farther ques-
tions, concerning her disorder, and then taking off
her spectacles, she rose from her chair, and said she
would go herself. Clara desired to accompany her.
They put on their hats and followed the good wo-
man to the cottage, where, in a very small, close
room, on a miserable bed, lay Adeline, pale, emaci-
ated, and unconscious of all around her. Madame
turned to the woman and asked how long the
young lady had been in this way, when Clara went
up to the bed and taking the almost lifeless hand that
lay on the quilt, looked anxiously in her face. "She
observes nothing, said she; "poor creature! I wish
she was at the chateau, she would be better accom-
modated, and I could nurse her there."
The woman told Madame La Luc, that the young
lady had lain in that state for several hours. Mad-
ame examined her pulse and shook her head. "This
room is very close," said she, "very close indeed,"
cried Clara eagerly ; "surely she would be better at
'the chateau, if she could be moved."
"We will see about that," said her aunt; "in the
mean time let ine speak to Peter; it is some years
since I saw him." She went to the other room, and
the woman ran out of the cottage to look for him.—
When she was gone—"this is a miserable habitation
. for the poor stranger," said Clara; "she will never
be well here; do, inadame, let her be carried to our
house: I am sure my father would wish it. Besides
there is something in her features, even inanimate
as they now are, that prejudices me in her favor."
"Shall I never persuade you to give up that roman-
tic notion of judging people by their faces?" said
her aunt. "What sort of a face she has, is of very
little consequence ; her condition is lamentable, and
I ain desirous of altering it; but I wish first to ask
Peter a few questions concerning her."
"Thank you dear aunt," said Clara; she will be
removed then?" Madame La Luc was going to re-
ply ; but Peter now entered, and expressing great
joy at seeing her again, inquired how Monsieur La
Luc and Clara did. Clara immediately welcomed
honest Peter to his native place, and he returned her
salutation with many expressions of surprise at finds


OP THE FOREST. 77
ing her so much grown. "Though I have so often
dandled you in my arms, ma'amselle, I should never
have known you again. Young twigs shoot fast, as
they say."
Madame La Luc now inquired into the particulars
of Adeline's story, and heard as much as Peter
knew of it, being only that his late master found her
in a very distressed situation, and that he had him-
self brought her from the abbey to save her from a
French marquis. The simplicity of Peter's manner
would not suffer her to question bis veracity though
some of the circumstances he related excited all her
surprise, and awakened all her pity. Tears frequent-
ly stood in Clara's eyes during the course of his nar-
rative, and when he concluded, she said, "dear mad-
ame, I am sure when my father learns the history of
this unhappy young woman, he will not refuse to
be a parent to her, and I will be her sister."
'' She deserves it all," said Peter, "for she is very
good indeed." He then proceeded in a strain of
praise, which was very unusual with him. "£ will
go home and consult my brother about her," said
Madame La Luc, rising; "she certainly ought to be
removed to a more airy room. The chateau is so
near, that I think she maybe carried thither with-
out much risk."
"Heaven bless you, madame," cried Peter, rubbing
his hands, " for your goodness to my poor young la-
dy."
La Luc had just returned from his evening walk
when they reached the chateau. Madame told him
where she had been, and related the history of Ad-
eline and her present condition.—" By all means
have her removed hither," said La Luc, whose eyes
bore testimony to the tenderness of his heart. "She
can be better attended to here' than in Susan's cot-
tage."
"I knew yon would say so, my dear father:" said
Clara; "I will go and order the green bed to be pre-
pared for her." *
"Be patient niece," said Madame La Luc; "there
is no occasion for such haste; some things are to be
considered first; but you are young and romantic."
La Luc smiled. "The evening is now closed," re-
sumed madame; "it will therefore, be dangerous to
remove her before morning. Early to-morrow a


78
THE ROMANCE
room shall be got ready, and she shall be brought
here ; in the mean time I will go and make up a
medicine, which I hope may be of service to her."
Clara reluctantly assented to this delay, and Mad-
ame La Luc retired to her closet.
On the following morning, Adeline, wrapped in
blankets, and sheltered as much as possible from
the air, was brought to the chateau, where the
good La Luc desired she might have every atten-
tion paid her, and where Clara watched over her
with unceasing anxiety and tenderness. She re-
mained in a state of torpor during the greater part
of the day, but towards evening she breathed more
freely; and Clara who still watched by her bed, had
at length the pleasure of perceiving that her senses
were restored. It was at this moment that she
found herself in the situation from which we have
digressed to give this account of the venerable I-H
Luc and his family. The reader will find that his
virtues and his friendship to Adeline deserved this
notice.
—oooo—
CHAPTER VI.
"Still Fancy to herself unhind,
Awahes to grief the soften'd mind,
Mnd points the bleeding friend."
Colli its.
Adeline, assisted by a fine constitution, and
the kind attention of her new friends, was in little
more than a week so much recovered as to leave her
chamber. She was introduced to La Luc, whom
she met with tears of gratitude, and thanked for his
goodness in a manner so warm, yet so artless, as
interested him still more in her favor. During the
progress of her recovery, the sweetness of her behav-
iour had entirelywon the heart of Clara, and great-
ly interested that of her aunt, whose reports of Ad-
eline, together with the praises bestowed by Clare,
had excited both esteem and curiosity in the breast
of La Luc; and he now met her with an expression
of benignity which spake peace and comfort to her
heart. She had acquainted Madame La Luc with


OF THE FOREST.
79

such particulars of her story as Peter, cither through
ignorance or inattention, had not communicated,
suppressing only, through a false delicacy perhaps,
an acknowledgment of her attachment to Theo-
dore. These circumstances were repeated to La
Luc, who, ever sensible to the sufferings of others,
was particularly interested by the singular misfor-
tunes of Adeline.
Near a fortnight had elapsed since her removal to
the chateau, when one morning La Luc desired to
speak with her alone. She followed him into the
study, and then in a manner the most delicate, he
told her that as he found she was so unfortunate in
her father, he desired she would henceforth consid-
er him as her parent, and his house as her home.—
"You and Clara shall be equally my daughters,"
continued he; " I am rich in havingsuch children."
The strong emotions of surprise and gratitude for
sometime kept Adeline silent. " Do not thank me,"
said La Luc; "I know all yon would say and I
know also that I am doing my duty. I thank Cod
that my duty and my pleasures are generally in uni-
son." . Adeline wiped away the tears that his good-
ness had excited, and was going to speak ; but La
Luc pressed her hand, and turning away to conceal
his emotion, walked out of the room.
Adeline was now considered a part of the family,
and in the parental kindness of La Luc, tin- sisterly
affection of Clara, and the steady and uniform re-
gard of Madame, she would have been happy as she
was thankful, had not unceasing anxiety for the
fate of Theodore, of whom, in this solitude, she
was less likely than ever to hear, corroded her heart
and embittered every moment of reflection. Even
when sleep obliterated for a moment the memory of
the past, his image frequently arose to her fancy ac-
companied by alt the exaggerations of terror. She
saw In in in chains, and struggling in the grasp of ruf-
fians, orsaw him led, amidst the dreadful prepara-
tions for execution, into the Meld. She saw the ago-
ny of his look, and heard him repeat her name in
frantic accents, till the horrors of the scene over-
came her, and she awoke.
A similarity of taste and character attached her
to Clara, yet the misery that preyed upon her heart
was of a nature too delicate to be spoken of, and she


80
THE ROMANCE
never mentioned Theodore eren to her friend. Her
illness had yet left her weak and languid, and the
perpetual anxiety of her mind contributed to pro-
long this state. She endeavored, by strong and
almost continual efforts, to abstract "her thoughts
from their mournful subject, and was often success-
ful. La Luc had an excellent library, and the in-
struction it offered at once gratified her love of
knowledge, and withdrew her mind from painful
recollections. His conversation too afforded her
another refuge from misery.
But her chief amusement was to wander among
the sublime scenery of the adjacent country, some-
times with Clara, though oftener with no other com-
panion than a book. There were indeed times when
the conversation of her friend imposed a painful re-
straint, and, when given up to reflection, she would
ramble alone through scenes, whose solitary gran-
deur assisted and soothed the melancholy of her
heart. Here she would retrace all the conduct of
her beloved Theodore, and endeavor to recollect
his exact countenance, his air, his manner. Now
she would weep at the remembrance, and then sud-
denly considering that he had perhaps already suf-
fered an ignomineous death for her sake, even in
consequence of the very action which had proved
his love, a dreadful despair would seize her, and ar-
resting her tears, wduld threaten to bear down every
barrier that fortitude and reason could oppose.
Fearing longer to trust her own thoughts, she
would hurry home, and by a desperate effort would
try to lose in the conversation of La Luc, the re-
membrance of the past. Her melancholy, when he
observed it, La Luc attributed to a-sense of the cru-
el treatment she had received from her father; a cir-
cumstance which by exciting his compassion, en-
deared her more strongly to his heart; while that
love of rational conversation, which in her calmer
hours so frequently appeared, opened to him a new
source of amusement in the cultivation of a mind
eager for knowledge, and susceptible of all the en-
ergies of genius. She found a melancholy pleasure
in listening to the soft tones of Clara's lute, and
would often soothe her mind by attempting to re-
peat the airs she heard.
The gentleness of her manners, partaking so


OP THE FOREST.
61
much of that pensive character which marked La
Luc's, was soothing to his heart, and tinctured his
behavior with a degree of tenderness that impar-
ted comfort to her, and gradually won her entire
confidence and affection. She saw with extreme
concern the declining state of his health, and united
her efforts with those of the family to amuse and
revive him.
The pleasing society of which she partook, and
the quietness of the country, at length restored her
mind to a state of tolerable composure. She was
now acquainted with all the wild walks of the
neighboring mountains, and never tired of viewing
their astonishing scenery, she often indulged herself
in traversing alone their unfrequented paths where
now and then a peasant from a neighboring village
was all that interrupted the profound solitude. She
generally took with her a book, that if she perceiv-
ed her 'thoughts inclined to fix on one object of her
grief, she might force them to a subject less danger-
ous to her peace. She had become a tolerable profi-
cient in English while at the convent where she re-
ceived her education, the instruction of La Luc who
was welt acquainted with the language, now served
to perfect her. He was partial to the English ; he
admired their character, and the constitution of
their laws, and his library contained a collection of
Jheir best authors, particularly of their philoso-
phers and poets. Adeline found that no Species of
writing had power so effectually to withdraw her
ralnd from the contemplation of its own misery, as
the higher kinds of poetry, and in these her taste
soon taught her to distinguish the superiority of the
English from that of the French. The genius of the
language, more perhaps than the genius of the peo-
ple, if indeed, the distinction may be allowed, occa-
sioned this.
She frequently took a volume of Shakespeare or
Milton, and having gained some wild eminence,
would seat herself beneath the pines, whose low
murmurs soothed her heart and conspired with the
Visions of the poet to lull her to forget fulness of
grief.
One evening, when Clara was engaged at home,
Adeline wandered alone to a favorite spot among
the rocks that bordered (he lake. It was anemin-
Voil. II. 6


THE ROMANCE
ence that commanded, an entire view of the lake,
and of the stupendous mountains that environed it.
A few ragged thorns grew from the precipice be-
neath, which descended perpendicularly to the wa-
ter's edge ; and above rose a thick wood of larch,
pine, and fir, intermingled with some chesnut and
mountain ash. The evening was fine, and the air
so still that it scarcely waved the light leaves of
the trees around, or rimpled the broad expanse of
the waters below. Adeline gazed on the scene with
a kind of still rapture, and watched the sun sinking
amid a crimson glow, which tinted the bosom of the
lake and the snowy heads of the distant Alps. The
delight which the scenery inspired
H Sooth'1'd each gust of passion into peace,
"All but the swellings of tlic soften'd heart,
"That waken, not disturb, thc tranquil mind."'
was now heightened by the tones of a French horn,
and, looking on the lake, she perceived at some dis-
tance a pleasure boat. As it was a spectacle rather
uncommon in this solitude she concluded the boat
contained a party of foreigners come to view the
wonderful scenery of the country, or perhaps ofGe-
nevoise who chose to amuse themselves on the lake
as grand, though much less extensive than their
own; and the latter conjecture was probably just.
As she listened to the mellow and enchanting tones
of the horn which gradually sunk away in distance.,
the scene appeared more lovely than before, and
finding it impossible to forbear attempting to paint
in. language what was so beautiful in reality, she
composed the following
STANZAS
How smooth that lake expands its ample breast!
Where smiles in soften'd glow the sumemr shy.;
How vast the rocks that oc'r its surface rest!
How wild the scenes its winding shores supply!
JVoio down the western steep slow sinks the sun.
And paints with yellow gleam the tufted woods;
While here the mountain-shadows, broad and dun,
Sweep oeV the chrystal mirror of the floods.


84 THE ROMANCE
of Adeline, the more complacent pleasure of La Luc
and the transports of Clara, as the scenes of this ro-
mantic country shifted to their eyes. Now frown-
ing in dark and gloomy grandeur, it exhibited only
tremendous rocks and cataracts rolling from the
heights into some deep and narrow valley along
which their united waters roared and foamed, and
burst away to regions inaccessible to mortal foot;
and now the scenes arose less fiercely wild:
"The pomp of groves and garniturt offields,"
were intermingled with the ruder features of nature,
and while the snow froze on the summit of the
mountain the vine blushed at its foot.
Engaged in interesting conversation, and by the
admiration which the country excited, they travel-
led on till noon, when they locked round for a pleas^
ant spot where they might rest and take refresh-
ment. At some little distance they perceived the
ruins of a fabric which had once been a castle;
it stood almost on a point of rock that overhung a
deep valley; and its broken turrets rising from
among the woods that embosomed it, heightened the
picturesque beauty of the object.
The edifice invited curiosity, and the shades re-
pose. La Luc and his party advanced.
"Deep struck wiVtawe, they marked the dameo'crthrown,
Where once the beauty bloom*dt the warrior shone;
They saw the castle's mould'ring towers decay'd,
The loose stone totCring o'er the trembling shade."
They seated themselves on the grass under the
shade of some high trees near the ruins. An open-
ing in the woods afforded a view of the distant Alps;
the deep silence of solitude reigned. For some time
they were lost in meditation. Adeline felt a sweet
eomplacency, such as she had long been a stranger
to. Looking at La Luc, she perceived a tear steal-
ing down his cheek, while the elevation of his mind
was strongly expressed on his countenance. Ha
turned on Clara his eyes, which were now filled with
tenderness, and made an effort to recover himself.
•' The stillness and iotal seclusion of this scene,"
•aid Adeline, "those stupendous mountains, the


OF THE FOREST.
85
gloomy grandeur of these woods, together with that
monument of faded glory, on which the hand of
time is so emphatically impressed, diffuse a sacred
enthusiasm over the mind, and awaken sensations
truly sublime."
La Luc was going to speak, but Peter coming for-
ward, desired to know whether he had not better
open the wallet, as he fancied his honor and the
young ladies must be again hungry, jogging on so
far up hill and down before dinner. They acknowl-
edged the truth of honest Peter's suspicion, and ac-
cepted his hint. Refreshments were spread on the
grass, and having seated themselves under the can-
opy of waving woods, surrounded by the sweets of
wi\d flowers they inhaled the pure breeze of the
Alps, which might be called spirit of air, and par-
took of a repast which these circumstances render-
ed delicious.
When they arose to depart, " I am unwilling,"
said Clara, " to quit this charming spot. How de-
lightful would it be to pass one's life beneath these
shades with the friends who are dear to one!" La
Luc smiled at the romantic simplicity of the idea;
but Adeline sighed deeply to the image of felicity,
and of Theodore, which it recalled, and turned
away fo conceal her tears.
They now mounted their horses, and soon after
arrived at the foot of Montanvert. The emotion of
Adeline as she contemplated in various points of
view the astonishing objects around her, surpassed
all expression ; and the feelings of the whole party
were too strong to admit of conversation. The pro-
found stillness which reigned in these regions of
solitude inspired awe, and heightened the sublimi-
ty of the scenery to an exquisite degree. "It seems"
said Adeline, "as if we were walking over the ruin's
of the world, and were the only persons who had
survived the wreck. I can scarcely persuade my-
self that we are not left alone on the globe."
"The view of these objects," said La Luc, " lifts
the soul to their Great Author, and we contemplate
with a feeling almost too vast for humanity ; the sub-
limity of his nature is the grandeur of his works."
La Luc raised his eyes, tilled with tears to heaven,
and was for some moments lost in silent adoration.
They quitted these scenes with extreme reluctance


THE ROMANCE
but the hour of the day, and the appearance of the
clouds, which seemed gathering for a storm, made
them hasten their departure. Could she have been
sheltered from its fury, Adeline almost wished to
have witnessed the tremendous effect of a thunder-
storm in these regions.
They returned to Leloncourt by a different route,
and the shade of the overhanging precipices- was
deepened by the gloom of the atmosphere. It was
evening when they came within view of the lake,
which the travellers rejoiced to see—for the storm
so long threatened was now fast approaching; the
thunder murmured among the Alps; and the dark
vapours that rolled heavily along their sides heigh-
tened their dreadful sublimity. La Luc would have
quickened his pace, but the road winding down the
steep side of a mountain made caution necessary.—
The darkened air and the lightning that now flash-
ed across the horizon terrified Clara, but she with-
held the expression of her fear in consideration of
her father. A peal of thunder which shook the
earth to its foundations, and was reverberated in
tremendous echoes from the cliffs, burst over their
heads. Clara's horse took fright at the sound, and
setting off, hurried her with amazing velocity down
the mountain towards the lake, which washed its
foot. The agony of La Luc, who viewed her prog-
ress in the horrible expectation of seeing her dash-
ed down the precipice that bordered the road, is not
to be described.
Clara kept her seat, but terror had almost depriv-
ed her of sense. Her efforts to preserve herself were
mechanical, for she scarcely knew what she did.—
The horse however carried her safely almost to the
foot of the mountain, but was making towards the
lake, when a gentleman who travelled along the
road caught the bridle as the animal endeavored
to pass. The sudden stopping of the horse threw
Clara to the ground, and impatient of restraint, the
animal burst ftom the hands ol the stranger, and
plunged into the lake. The violence of the fall de-
prived her of recollection; but, while the stranger
endeavored to support her, his servant ran to fetch
water.
She soon recovered, and unclosing her eyes found
herself in the arms of a chevalier, who appeared to


OF THE FOREST.
support her with difficulty. The compassion expres-
sed in his countenance, while he inquired how she
did, revived her spirits, and she was endeavoring
to thank him for his kindness when La Luc and
Adeline came up. The terror impressed on her fa-
ther's features were perceived by Clara; languid as
she was, she tried to raise herself, and said with a
faint smfte, which betrayed instead of disguising
her sufferings,* dear sir, 1 am not hurt." Her pale
countenance and the blood that trickled down her
pale cheek contradicted her words. Bdt La Luc to
whom terror had s igg€ stad the utmost possible evil,
now rejoiced to hear her speak ; he recalled some
presence of mind, and while Adeline applied her
salts, he chaffed her temples.
When she reeved she told how much she was
obliged to the stranger. La Luc endeavored to ex-
press his gratitude ;lrtU the former interrupting
him, begged he might be spared the pain of receiv-
ing thanks for having followed only an impulse of
common humanity.
They were now not far from Leloncourt; but the
evening was almost shut in, and the thunder mur-
mured deeply among the hills. La Luc was distres-
sed how to convey Clara home. In endeavoring to
raise hA from the ground, the stranger betrayed
such evident symptoms of pain, that La Luc en- .
quired concerning it. The sudden jerk which the
horse had given the arm ofthe chevalier,inescaping
from his hold, had violently sprained his shoulder,
and rendered his arm almost useless. The pain
was exquisite, and La Luc, whose fears for his
daughter were now subsiding, was shocked at the m
circumstance, and pressed the stranger to accompa-
ny him to the village, where relief might be obtain-
ed. He accepted the invitation, and Clara, being at
length placed on a horse led by her father, was con-
ducted, to the chateau.
When madame, who had been looking out for La
Luc some time, perceived the cavalcade approach-
ing, she was alarmed, and her apprehensions were
confirmed when she saw the situation of her niece.
Clara was carried into the house; and La Luc would
have sent for a surgeon, but there was none wthin
eeveral leagues of the village, neither were there
any ofthe physical profession within the same dis-


THE ROMANCE
lance. Clara was assisted to her chamber by Ade-
line, and Madame La Luc undertook to examine the
wounds. The result restored peace to the family;
fur, though she was much bruised, she had escaped
material injury ; a slight contusion on the forehead
had occasioned the bloodshed which at first alarm-
ed La Luc. Madame undertook to restore her niece
in a few days with a balsam composed by herself, on
the virtues of which she discanted with great elo-
quence, till La Luc interrupted her by reminding
her of the condition of her patient.
Madame having bathed Clara's bruises, and giv-
en her a cordial of incomparable efficacy, left her,
and Adeline watched in the chamber of her friend
_ till she retired to her own for the night.
La Luc, whose spirits had suffered much pertur-
bation was now tranqulised by the report his sis-
ter made of Clara. He introduced the stranger and
having mentioned the accident he had met with,
desired that he might have immediate assistance.
Madame hastened to her closet, and it is perhaps
difficult to determine whether she felt most concern
for the sufferings of her guest, or pleasure at the op-
portunity thus offered of displaying her physical
skill. However this might he, she quitted the room
with great alacrity, and very quickly returned with
a phial containing her inestimable balsam, and hav-
ing given the necessary directions for the application
of it, she left the stranger to the care of his servant.
La Luc insisted that the chevalier, M. Verneuil,
should not leave the chateau that night, and he ve-
ry readily submitted to be detained. His manners
during the evening were as frank and engaging as
the hospitality and gratitude of La Luc were sin-
cere, and they soon entered into interesting conver-
sation. M. Verneuil conversed like a man who had
seen much, and thought more, and if he discovered
any prejudice in his opinions, it was evidently the
prejudice of a mind which, seeing objects through
the medium Of its own goodness, tinges them with
the lines of its predominant quality, La Luc wast
much pleased, for in his retired situation he had
not often an opportunity of receiving the pleasure
which results from a communion of intelligent
minds. He found that M. Verneuil had travelled.
La Luc having asked some questions relative to


OF THE FOREST. 89
England they fell into discourse concerning the na-
tional characters of the French and English.
'' It ia the privilege of wisdom," said M. Ver-
neuil," to look beyond happiness, I own I had rath-
er be without it. When we observe the Euglish,
their laws, writings and conversations, and at the
same time mark their countenances, manners, and
mark the frequency of suicides among them, we are
apt to believe that wisdom and happiness are in-
compatible. If, on the other hand, we turn to their
neighbors, the French, and see their wretched poli-
cy, their sparkling, but sophistical discourses, friv-
olous occupations, and withal, their gay, animated
air, we shall be compelled to acknowledge, that hap-
piness and folly too often dwell together."
"It is the end of wisdom," said La Luc, "to at-
tain happiness, and I can hardly dignify that con-
duct or course of thinking which tends to misery,
with the name of wisdom. By this rule, perhaps
the folly, as we term it, of the French, deserves,
since its effect is happiness, to be called wisdom.—
That airy thoughtlessness, which seems alike to
contemn reflection and anticipation, produces all
the effect of it without reducing its subjects to the
mortification of philosophy. But in truth, wisdom
is an exertion of mind to subdue folly: and as tho
happiness of the French is less the consequence of
mind than of constitution, it deserves not the honor
of wisdom."
Discoursing on the variety of opinions that are"
daily formed on the same conduct, La Luc observed
how much that which is commonly called opinion is
the result of passion and temper.
"True," said M. Verneuil, "there is a tone of
thought as there is a key note in music, that leads all
its weaker affections. Thus, where the powers of
judging may be equal, the disposition to judge is dif-
ferent, and the actions of men are at least but too
often arraigned by whim and caprice, by partial van-
ity and the humour of the moment."
Here La Luc took occasion to reprobate the con-
duct of those writers, who, hy showing the dark side
only of human nature, and by dwelling on the evils
only which are incident to humanity, h&ve sought
to degrade man in his own eyes, and to make him
discontented with life, "What should we say of a


00
THE ROMANCE
painter," continued La Luc, "who collected in
his piece objects of a black hue only, who present-
ed you with a black man, a black horse, a black
dog, &c. and tells you that his is a picture of nature
and that nature is black? 'Tis true, you would, re-
ply, the objects you exhibit do exist in nature, but
they form a very small part of her works. You say
that nature is black, and to prove it, you have col-
lected on your canvass all the animals of this hue
that exist. But you have forgot to paint the green
earth, the blue sky, the white man, and objects of
all those various hues with which creation abounds
and of which black is a very inconsiderable part."
The countenance of M. Verneuil lightened with
peculiar animation during the discourse of La Luc.
"To think well of his nature," said he, " is neces-
sary to the happiness and dignity of man. There is
a decent pride which becomes every mind and is
congenial to virtue. That consciousness of innate
dignity, which shows him the glory of his nature,
will be his best protection from the meanness of
vice. Where this consciousness is wanting," con-
tinued M. Verneuil, "there can be no sense of
moral honor, and consequently none of the higher
principles of action. What can be expected of nim
who says, it is his nature to be mean and selfish?
Or who can doubt that he, who thinks thus, thinks
from the experience of his own heart, from the ten-
dency of his own inclinations. Let it always be re-
membered, that he who would persuade men to be
good ought to show them that they are great."
"You speak," said La Luc, "with the honest
enthusiasm of a virtuous mind ; and in obeying the
impulse of your heart, you utter the truths of philos-
ophy ; and trust me, a bad heart and a truly philo-
sophic head have never been united in the same in-
dividual. Vicious inclinations not only corrupt the
heart, but the understanding, and thus lead to false
reasoning. Virtue only is on the side of truth."
La Luc and his guest, mutually pleased with each
other entered upon the discussion of subjects so in-
teresting to them both, that it was late before they


OF THE FOREST. 91
CHAPTER VII.
"'Twos such a scene as gave a hind relief
To memory, in sweetly pensive grief."
Virgil's Tomb.
"Mine be the breeiy hill, that shirts the down,
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my
grave."—The Minstrel.
Repose had so much restored Clara, that when
Adeline, anxious to know how she did, went early
in the morning to her chamber, she found her alrea-
dy risen, and ready to attend the family at breakfast.
Monsieur Verneuil appeared also, but his looks be-
trayed a want of rest, and indeed he had suffered
during the night a degree of anguish from his arm,
which it was an effort of some resolution to endure
in silence. It was now swelled and somewhat in-
flamed, and this might in some degree be attributed
to the effect of Madame La Luc's balsam, whose
restorative qualities had for once failed. The whole
family sympathised with his sufferings, and ma-
dame at the request of M. Verneuil abandoned her
balsam, and substituted an emollient fomentation.
From an application of this, he, in a short time,
found an abatement of the pain, and returned to the
breakfast table with greater composure. The hap-
piness which La Luc felt at seeing his daughter in
safety, was very apparent; but the warmth of grati-
tude towards her preserver he found it difficult to
express. Clara spoke the genuine emotions of her
heart with artless but modest energy, and testified
sincere concern for the sufferings she had occasion-
ed M. Verneuil.
The pleasure received from the company of his
guest, and the consideration of the essential ser-
vices he had rendered him, co-operated with the
natural hospitality of La Luc, and he pressed M.
Verneuil to remain some time at the chateau—" I
can never repay the services you have done me,"
said La Luc, " Yet I seek to increase my obligations
to you by requesting you will prolong your visit,


9G THE ROMANCE
and thus allow me an opportunity of cultivating
your acquaintance."
M. Verneuil, who at the time, he met La Luc waa
travelling from Geneva to a distant part of Savoy,
merely for the purpose of viewing the country, being
now delighted with his host and every thing around
him, willingly accepted the invitation. In this cir-
cumstance, prudence concurred with inclination,
for to have pursued his journey on horseback, in his
present situation, would have been dangerous, if
not impracticable.
The ^norning was spent in conversation, in which
M. Verneuil displayed a mind enriched with taste,
enlightened by science, and enlarged by observa-
tion. The situation of the chateau and the fea-
tures of the surrounding scenery charmed him, and
in the evening he found himself able to walk with
I* Luc and explore the beauties of this romantic
region. As they passed through the village, the
salutations of the peasants, in whom love and re-
spect were equally blended, and their eager inqui-
ries after Clara, bore testimony to the character of
La Luc, while his countenance expressed a serene
satisfaction arising from the consciousness of de-
serving and possessing their love—" 1 live surroun-
ded by my children," said he, turning to M. Ver-
neuil, who had noticed their eagerness, " for such I
consider my parishioners. In discharging the duties
of my office, I am repaid not only by my own con-
science, but by their gratitude. There is a luxury
in observing their simple and honest love, which I
would not exchange for any thing the world calls
blessings."
"Yet the world, Sir, would call the pleasures of
which you speak romantic," saidM. Verneuil; " for
to be sensible of this pure and exquisite delight re-
quires a heart untainted with the vicious pleasures
Of society—pleasures that deaden its finest feelings
and poison the source of its truest enjoyments."
They pursued their way along the borders of the
lake, sometimes under the shade of hanging wood,
and sometimes over hillocks of turf, where the scene
opened in all its wild magnificence. M. Verneuil
often stopped in raptures, to observe and point out
the singular beauties it exhibited, while La Luc,
pleased with the delight his friend expressed, sur-


OF THE FOREST.
93
veyed with more than usual satisfaction the objects
which had so often charmed him before. But there
was a tender melancholy in the tone of his voice,
and his countenance, wiiich arose from the recol-
lection of having often traced those scenes, and
partook of the pleasure they inspired, with her who
had long since bade them an eternal farewell.
They presently quitted the lake, and winding up
a steep ascent between the woods, came, after an
hour's walk, to a green summit which appeared,
among the savage rocks that environed it, like the
blossom on the thorn. It was a spot formed for sol-
itary delight, inspiring that soothing tenderness so
dear to the feeling mind, and which calls back to
memory the images of passed regret, softened by
distance and endeared by frequent recollection.—
Wild shrubs grew from the crevices of the rocks
beneath, and the high trees of pine and cedar that
waved above, afforded a melancholy and romantic
shade. That silence of the scene was interrupted
only by the breeze, as it rolled over the woods, and
by the solitary notes of the birds that inhabited the
cliffs.
From this point the eye commanded an entire
view of those majestic and sublime Alps, whose as-
pect fills the soul with emotions of indescribable
awe, and seems to lift it to a nobler nature. The
village, and the chateau of La Luc appeared in the
bosom of the mountains, a peaceful retreat from the
storms that gathered on their tops. All the facul-
ties of M. Verneuil were absorbed in admiration,
and he was for some time quite silent; at length,
bursting into a rhapsody, he turned, and would
have addressed La Luc, when he perceived him at
a distance leaning against a rustic urn, over which
drooped, in beautiful luxuriance, the weeping wil-
low.
As he approached, La Luc quitted his position,
and advanced to meet him, while M. Verneuil in-
quired upon what occasion the urn had been erect-
ed. La Luc, unable to answer, pointed to it, and
walked silently away - and M. Verneuil, approach-
ing the urn, read the following inscription


94
THE ROMANCE
TO THE
MEMORY OF CLARA LA LUC
THIS URN
IS ERECTED OJV THE SPOT
WHICH BHB LOVED,
In testimony of the affection of
A HUSBAND.
✓ M. Verneuil now comprehended the whole, and
feeling for his friend, was hurt that he had noticed
this monument of his grief. He rejoined LaL.uc,who
was standing on the point of eminence contemplat-
ing the landscape below with an air more placid,
and touched with the sweetness of piety and resig-
nation. He perceived that It. Verneuil was some-
what disconcerted, and he sought to remove his un-
easiness. "You will consider it," said he, "as a
mark of my esteem that I have brought you to this
spot. It is never profaned by the presence of the un-
feeling. They would deride the faithfulness of an
attachment which has so long survived its object,
and which, in their own breasts, would qnickly
have been lost amidst the dissipation of general so-
ciety. I have cherished in my heart the remem-
brance of a woman whose virtues claimed all my
love: I have cherished it as a treasure to which I
could withdraw from temporary cares and vexation
in the certainty of finding a soothing, though mel-
ancholy comfort."
La Luc, paused. If. Verneuil expressed the sym-
pathy he felt, but he knew the sacredness ot sorrow
and soon relapsed into silence. "One of the bright-
est hopes of a future state," resumed La Luc, "fis,
that we shall meet again those whom we have lov-
ed upon earth. And perhaps our happiness may be
permitted to consist very much in the society of our
friends, purified from the frailties of mortality, with


OF THE FOREST.
9G
the finer affections more sweetly attuned, and with
the faculties of mind infinitely more elevated and
enlarged. We shall then be enabled to comprehend
subjects which are too vast for humajt conception;
to comprehend, perhaps, the sublimity of that Dei-
ty who first called us into being. These views of
futurity, my friend, elevate us above the evils of this
world, and seem to communicate to us a portion of
the nature we contemplate."
"Call them not the illusions of a visionary brain,"
proceeded La Luc; "I trust in their reality. Of
this I am certain, that, whether they are illusions
or not, a faith in them ought to be cherished for the
comfort it brings to the heart, and reverenced for
the dignity it imparts to the mind. Such feelings
make a happy important part of our belief in the fu-
ture existence; they give energy to virtue, and sta-
bility to principle."
"This," said M. Verneuil," is what I have often
felt, and what every ingenuous mind must acknowl-
edge."
La Luc and M. Verneuil continued in conversa-
tion till the sun had left the scene. The mountains,
darkened by twilight, assumed asublimer aspect,
while the tops of some of the highest Alps were yet
illuminated by the sun's rays, and formed a striking
contrast to the shadowy obscurity of the world be-
low, as they descended through the woods, and
margin of the lake, the stillness and solemnity of
the hour diffused a pensive sweetness over their
minds, and sunk them into silence.
They found supper spread, as was usual, in the
hall, of which the windows opened into a garden,
where the flowers might be said to yield their fra-
grance in gratitude to the refreshing dews. The
windows were embowered with eglantine and other
sweet shrubs,which hung in wild luxuriance around
and formed a beautiful and simple decoration.-—
Clara and Adeline loved to pass the evenings in this
Iiall, where they had acquired the first rudiments of
astronomy, and from which they had a wide view of
the heavens. La Luc pointed out to them the plan-
ets and the fixed stars, explained their laws, and
from thence taking occasion to mingle moral with
scientific instruction, would often ascend towards
that great First Cause, whose nature soars beyond
the grasp of human comprehensions.


THE ROMANCE
"No study," he would sometimes say, " so much
enlarges the mind, or impresses it with so sublime
an idea of the Deity, as that of astronomy. When
the imagination launches into the regions of space,
and contemplates the innumerable worlds which are
scattered through it, we are lost in astonishment
and awe. This globe appears as a mass of atoms
in the immensity of the universe, and man a mere
insect. Yet how wonderful! that man, whose frame
is so diminutive in the scale of beings,-should have
powers which spurn the narrow boundaries of time
and place, soar beyond the sphere of his existence,
penetrate the secret laws of nature, and calculate
does this prove the spirituality of our being! Let
the materialist consider it, and blush that he has
ever doubted."
In this hall the whole family now met at supper,
and during the remainder of the evening. the con-
versation turned upon general subjects, in which
Clarajoined in modest and judicious remarks. La
Luc had taught her to familiarize her mind to rea-
soning, and had accustomed her to deliver her sen-
timents freely. She spoke them with a simplicity
extremely engaging, and which convinced her hear-
ers that the love of knowledge, not the vanity of
talking, induced her to converse. M. Vernon 11 ev-
idently endeavored to draw forth her sentiments,
and Clara, interested by the subjects he introduced,
a stranger to affectation, and pleased with the opin-
ions he expressed, answered them with frankness
and animation. They retired mutually pleased with
each other.
M. Verneuil was aboutsix and thirty ; his figure
manly, his countenance frank and engaging. A
quick penetrating eye, whose fire was softened by
benevolence, disclosed the chief traits of his char-
acter ; he was quick to discern,but generous to ex-
cuse the follies of mankind; and, while no one more
sensibly felt an injury, none more readily accepted
the concession of an enemy.
He was by birth a Frenchman. A fortune, lately
devolved to him, had enabled him to execute the
plan, which his active and inquisitive mind had
suggested, of viewing the most remarkable parts of
the continent


OF THE FOREST.
97
He was peculiarly susceptible of the beautiful
and sublime In nature. To such a taste, Switzer-
land and the adjacent country was, of all others, the
otost interesting, and he found the scenery it exhib-
ited infinitely surpassing all that Ins glowing imag-
ination had painted ; he saw with the eye of a paint-
er and felt with the rapture of a poet.
In the habitation of La Luc he met with tin.- hos-
pitality, the frankness, and the simplicity, so char-
acteristic of the country; in his venerable host lie
saw the strength of philosophy united with the fin-
est tenderness of humanity: a philosophy which
taught him to correct his feelings, not to annihilate
them ; in Clara, the bloom of beauty, with the most
perfect simplicity of heart; and in Adeline all the
charms of elegance and grace, with a genins deserv-
ing of the highest culture. In this family picture,
the goodness of Madame La Luc was not unperceiv-
ed or forgotten. The cheerfulness and harmony
that reigned within the chateau was delightful;
but the philanthropy which, flowing from the heart
of the pastor, was diffused through the whole vil-
lage, and united the inhabitants in the sweet and
firm bonds of social compact, was divine. J'he
beauty of his situation conspired with these circum-
stances to make Leloncourt seem almost a paradise.
M. Verneuil sighed that he must so soon quit it. "I
ought to seek no farther," said he, "forhere wisdom
and happiness dwell together."
The admiration was reciprocal; La Luc and his
family found themselves much interested in M.
Verneuil, and looked forward to the time of his de-
parture with regret. Eo warmly they pressed him
*to prolong his visit, and so powerfully his own in-
clinations seconded theirs, that he accepted the in-
vitation. La Luc omitted no circumstance which
might contribute to the amusement of his guest, who,
having in a few days recovered the use of his arm,
they made several excursions among the mountains.
Adeline and Clara, whom the care of Madame had re-
stored to her usual health, were generally of the party.
After spending a week at the chateau, M. Vern-
euil bade adieu to La Luc and his family. They
parted with mutual regret, and the former promised
that when he returned to Geneva, he would take
Lelonco'irt in his way. As he said this, Adeline,
Vol. II. 7


M
THE ROMANCE

who had for some time observed, with much alarm,
La Luc's declining health, looked mournfully on his
countenancej and uttered a secret prayer that he
might live to receive the visit of JU. Verneuil. i
Madame was the only person who did not lament
bis departure, she saw that the efforts of her broth-
er to entertain his guest was more than his present
atate of health would admit of, and she rejoiced in
the quiet that would return to him.
But this quiet brought La Luc no respite from the
illness ; the fatigue he had suffered in his late excur-
sions seemed to have increased his disorder, which
in a short time assumed the aspect of a consump-
tion. Yielding to the solicitations of his family, he
went to Geneva for advice, and was there recom-
mended to try lheairof Nice.
The journey thither, however, was of considerable
length, and, believing bis life to be very precarious,
he hesitated whether to go. He was also unwilling
to leave the duty of his parish, unperformed for so
long a period as his health might require: but this
was an objection which would not have withheld
him from Nice, had his faith in the climate been
equal to that of his physicians.
His parishioners felt the life of their pastor to be
of the utmost consequent to them. It was a gener-
al cause, and they testified at once his worth, and
their sense of it, by going in a body to solicit him to
leave them. He was much affected by this instance
of their attachment. Such a proof of regard, joined
with the entreaties of his own family, and a con-
sideration that for their sakes it was a duty to en-
deavor to prolong his life, was too powerful to be
withstood, and he determined to set out for Italy.
It was settled that Clara and Adeline, whose
health La Luc thought required change of air, and
scene, should accompany him, attended by the faith-
ful Peter.
On the morning of his departure, a large body of
bis parishioners assembled round the door to bid him
farewell. It was an affecting scene; they might
meet *d more. At length, wiping the tears from his
eyes, La Luc said, "Let us trust in God my friends;
he has power to heal all disorders both of body and
mind. We shall meet again, if not in this world, I
bope in abetter. Let our conduct be such as to en-
sure that better."


OF THE FOREST. 99
k
The sobs of the people prevented a reply. There
was scarcely a dry eye in the village ; for there was
scarcely an inhabitant of it th;it was not now as-
sembled in the presence of La Luc. he shook hands
with them all, "Farewell, my friends," said he, "we
shall meet again." "God grant we may," said they
with one voice of fervent petition.
Having mounted his horse, and Clara and Adeline
being ready they took a last leave of Madame La
Luc, and quitted the chateau. The people unwilling
to leave La Luc, the greater part of them accompa-
nied him to some distance from the village. As he
moved slowly on he cast a last lingering look at his
little home where he had spent so many peaceful
years, and which he now gazed on perhaps for the
last time, and tears rose to his eyes; but he check-
ed them. Every scene of the adjacent country cal-
led upas he passed, some tender remembrance. He
looked towards the spot consecrated to the memory
of his deceased wife ; the dewy vapours of the morn-
ing veiled it. Li Luc felt the disappointment more
deeply, perhaps, than reason could justify; but
those who know from experience how much the im-
agination loves to dwell on any object, however re-
motely connected with that of our tenderness, will
feel with him. This was an object around which
the affections of La Luc had settled themselves;
it was a memorial to the eye, and the view of it
awakened more forcibly in the memory every tender
idea that could associate with the primary subject
of his regard. In such cases, fancy gives to the
illusions of strong" affection, the stamp of reality,
and they are cherished by the heart with romantic
fondness.
His people accompanied him for near a mile from
the village, and could scarcely then be prevailed on
to leave him ; at length he once more bade them
farewell, and went on his way, followed by their
prayers and blessings.
La Luc and his little party travelled slowly on,
Mnk in pensive silence, a silence too pleasingly sad
to be soon relinquished, and which they indulged
without fear of interruption. The solitary grandeur
of the scenes through which they passed, and the
soothing murmur of the pines that waved above,
aided this soft luxury of meditation.


100
THE ROMANCE
They proceeded by easy stages ; and, after travel-
ling for some days amon 2: the romantic mountains
and green valleys ftf Piedemont, they entered the
rich country of Nice. The gay and luxuriant views
which now opened upon the travellers ad they
wound among the hills, appeared like scenes of
fairy enchantment, or those produced by the lonely
visions of the poets. While the spiral summits of
the mountains exhibited the snowy severity of win-
ter, the pine, the cypress, the olive and the myrtle
shaded their sides with the green tints of spring,
and groves of orange, lemon and citron, spread
over their feet the full glow of autumn. As they
advanced, the scenery became still more diversified;
and at length, between the receding heights, Ade-
line caught a glimpse of the distant waters of the
Mediterranean, fading into the blue and cloudless
horizon. She had never till now seen the ocean;
and this transient view of it roused her imagina-
tion, and made her watch impatiently for a nearer
prospect. f
It was towards the close of day when the travel-
lers, winding round an abrupt projection of that
range of Alps which crown the ampitheatre that
environs Nice, looked down upon the green hilts
that stretch to the shores, on the city, and its an-
cient castle, and on the wide waters of the Mediter-
ranean, with the mountains of Corsica in the farther
distance. Such a sweep of sea and land, so varied
with the gay, the magnificent, and the awful, would
have fixed any eye in admiration ; for Adeline and
Clara, novelty and enthusiasm added their charms
to the prospect. The soft and salubrious air seem-
ed to welcome La Luc to this smiling region and
the serene atmosphere to promise invariable sum-
mer.
They at length descended upon the little plain
where stands the city of Nice, and which was tire
most extensive piece of level ground they had pas-
sed since they had entered the country. Here in the
bosom of the mountains, sheltered from the north
and the east, where the western gales alone seemed
to breathe, all the blooms of spring and the riches
of autumn were united. Trees of myrtle bordered
the road, which wound among groves of orange,
taou&l and burgamot, whose delicious fragrance


OF THE FOREST.
101
comes to the sense mingled with the breath of roses
and carnations that blossomed in their shade. The
gently swelling hills that rose from the plain were
covered with vines, and crowned with cypresses,
olives, and date trees; beyond, there appeared the
sweep of lofty mountains whence the travellers had
descended, and whence rose the little river Paglion,
swollen by the snows that melt on their summits,
and which, after meandering through that plain,
washes the walls of Nice, where it falls into the
Mediterranean. In this blooming region, Adeline
observed that the countenances of the peasants,
meagre and discontentedjTormed a melancholy con-
trast to the face of the country, and she lamented
again the effects of an arbitrary government where
the bounties of nature, which were designed for all,
are monopolized by a few, and the many are suffer-
ed to starve, tantalized by surrounding plenty.
The city lost much of its enchantment on a nearer
approach; its narrow streets and shabby houses but
ill answered the expectation which a distant view
of its ramparts and its harbor, gay with vessels,
seemed to authorize. The appearance of the inn
at which La Luc now alighted did not contribute
to soften his disappointment; but if he was surpriz-
ed to find such indifferent accommodations at the
inn of a town celebrated as the resort of valetudi-
narians, he was still more so when he learned the
difficulty of procuring furnished lodgings.
After much search, he procured apartments in a
small but pleasant house, situated a little way out
of the town; it had a garden, and a terrace which
overlooked the sea, and was distinguished by an air
of neatness very unusual in the houses of Nice. He
agreed to board with the family, whose table like-
wise accommodated a gentleman and lady, their
lodgers, and thus he became a temporary inhabitant
of this charming climate. •
On the following morning, Adeline rose at an ear-
ly hour, eager to indulge the new and sublime emo-
tion with which a view of the ocean inspired her,
and walked with Clara towards the hills that afford-
ed a more extensive prospect. They pursued their
way for some time between high, embowering
banks, till they arrived at an eminence, whence


102
THE ROMANCE
"Heaven, earth, ocean, smil'd."
"They sat down on a rock, overshadowed by lofty
palm trees, to contemplate at leisure the magnificent
scene. The sun was just emerged from the sea,
over which his rays shed a flood of light, and darted
a thousand brilliant tints on the vapours that ascend-
ed the horizon, and floated there in light clouds,
leaving the bosom of the waters below clear as
crystal, except where the white surges were seen
to beat upon the rocks ; and discovered the distant
sails of the fishing boats, and the far distant high-
lands of Corsica, tinted voth ethereal blue. Clara
after some time, drew forth her pencil, hut threw it
aside in despair. Adeline, aa they returned home
through a romantic glen, when her senses were no
longer absorbed in the contemplation of this grdnd
scenery, and when its images floated on her mem-
ory only in softened colours, repeated the following
lines:
SUNRISE—A SONNET. ,
Oft let me wander, at the break of day,
Thro' the cool vale, o'erhung wWi waving woods;
Drink the rich fragrance of the budding May,
And catch the murmur of the distant floods;
Or rest on the fresh bank of limpid rill,
Where sleeps tl'e vVlet in the dewey shade,
Where opening lilies balmy sweets distU,
And the wild mushrose weeps along the glade;
Or climb the eastern cliff, whose airy head
Hangs rudely o'er the blue and misty main;
Watch tJicfne hues of mor n through ether sprtad\
And paint with roseate glow the crystal plain.
Oil! who can speak the rapture of the soul,
When o'er the waves the sun first steals to sight,
And all the world of waters as they roll,
And heaven's vast vault unveils in living light!
So life's young hour to man enchanting smiles,
With sparkling health, and joy, and fancy's fairy
}l- wiles!
-.
La Luc in his walks met with some sensible and
agreeable companions, who, like himself came to
Nice in search of health. Of these, he soon formed


OP THE FOREST.
103
a small, but pleasant society, among whom was a
Frenchman, whose mild manners, marked with a
deep and interesting melancholy, had particularly
attracted La Luc. He very seldom mentioned him-
self, or any circumstance that might lead to a
knowledge of his family; but, on other subjects,
conversed with frankness and much intelligence.—
LaLuchad frequently invited him to his lodgings,
but he had always declined the invitation, and this
in a manner so gentle as to disarm displeasure, and
convince La Luc that his refusal was the conse-
quence of a certain dejection of mind which made
him reluctant to meet other strangers.
The description which La Luc had given of this
foreigner, had excited the curiosity of Clara; and
the sympathy which, the unfortunate feel for each
other, called forth the commiseration of Adeline;
for that he was unfortunate she could not doubt.
On their return from an evening walk, La Luc
pointed out the chevalier, and quickened his pace
to overtake him. Adeline was for a moment impel-
led to follow, but delicacy checked her steps; she
knew how painful the presence of a stranger often
is to a wounded mind, and forbore to intrude her-
self on his notice for the sake of only satisfying an
idle curiosity. She turned, therefore, into another
path; but the delicacy which now prevented the
meeting, accident in a few days defeated, and La
Luc introduced the stranger. Adeline received him
with a soft smile,but endeavored to restrain the
expression of pity which her features had involun-
tarily assumed ; she wished him not to know that
she observed he was unhappy.
After this interview, he no longer rejected the
invitations of La Luc, but made him frequent vis-
its, and often accompanied Adeline and Clara in
their rambles. The mild and sensible conversation
of the former seemed to sooth his mind ; and in her
presence, he frequently conversed with a degree of
animation which La Luc till then had not observed
in him, Adeline too derived from the similarity of
their taste, and his intelligent conversation, a de-
gree of satisfaction which contributed, with the
compassion his dejection inspired, to win her con-
versation, and she conversed with an easy frank-
ness rather unusual to her.


104 THE ROMANCE
Hig visits soon became more frequent. He walked
with La Luc and his family; he attended them on
their little excursions to view those magnificent re-
mains of Roman antiquity which enrich the neigh-
bourhood of Nice. When the ladies sat at home
and worked, he enlivened the hours by reading to
them, and they had the pleasure to observe his
spirits somewhat relieved from the heavy melancho-
ly that had oppressed him.
M. Amand was passionately fond of music. Clara
hadsnot forgot to bring her beloved lute; he would
sometimes strike the cords in the most sweet and
mournful symphonies, but never could be prevailed
on to play. When Adeline or Clara played, he
would sit in deep reverie, and lost to every object
around him, except when he fixed his eyes in
mournful gaze on Adeline, and a sigh would some
times escape him.
One evening, Adeline, havingexcused herself from
accompanying La Luc and Clara in a visit to a
neighboring family, she retired to the terrace of tho
garden, which overlooked the sea, and as she view-
ed the tranquil splendour of the sitting sun, and his
glories reflected on the polished, surface of the
waves, she touched the strings of the lute in softest
harmony, her voice accompanying it with words
which she had one day written, after having read
that rich effusion of Shakspeare's genius, "A
Midsummer Night's Dream."
TITANIA TO HER LOVER.
Oh ! fly with me through distant air,
To isles that gem the ,western deep!
For laughing Summer revels there,
And hangs her wreath on every sleep.
As through the green transparent sea,
Light floating on its waves we go,
The nymphs shall gaily welcome me
Far in the coral caves below.
For oft upon their margin stands,
When twilight leads the/resigning hours,
I come with all my jocund bands
To charm them from their sea-green bovfrt.


OF THE .FOREST.
And well they love our sports to view.
And on the ocean's breast to lave;
And oft, as we the dance renew,
They call up music from the wave.
Swift hie we to that splendid clime,
Where gay Jamaica spreads her scene,
Lifts the blue mountain—wild—sublime!
And sooths her vales of vivid green.
Where, throned high in pomp of shade,
The Power of Vegetation reigns,
Expanding wide, o'er hill and glade,
Shrubs of aUgrowth—fruit of all stains
She steals the sun-beam' s ferved glow,
To paint her flowers of mingling hue
And o'er the grape the purple throw,
Breahing from verdant leaves to view.
There, myrtle bowers, and citron grope,
O'er canopy our airy dance;
And Vtcre the sea breeze loves to rove
When trembles day's departing glance.
And when the false moon steals away,
Or ere the chasing morn doth rise,
Oft fearless, we our gambols play
By Ute fire-worm's radiant eyes;
And suck the honied reeds that swell
In tufted plumes of silver white;
Or pierce the cocoa's milky cell,
To sip the neetar of delight!
And when the shahing thunders roll,
And lightnings strike athwart the gloom,
We shelter in the cedar's bole,
And revel mid the rich perfume!
But chief we love, beneath the palm,
Or verdant plantings spreading leaf,
To hear, upon the midnight calm,
Sweet Philomela pour her grief.
To mortal sprite such dulcet sounds,
Such blissful hours, were never known!
0! fiy with me my airy round,
And I will make them all your own!


106 THE ROMANCE
Adeline ceased to sing—when she immediately
heard repeated in a low voice,
"To mortal sprite such dulcet soundst
Such blissful hours, were never known?"
and turning her eyes whence it came, she saw M.
Amand. She blushed and laid down the lute, which
he instantly took up, and with a tremulous hand
drew forth tones
H That might create a soul under the ribs of Death."
In a melodious voice, that trembled with sensibility,
he sang the following
SONNET.
How sweet is Love's first gentle sway,
When crown'd with flowers he softly smiles!
His blue eyes fraught with tearful wiles.
Where beams of tender transport play;
Hope leads him on his airy way,
^nd faith and fancy still beguiles—
Faith quickly tangled in her toils—
Fancy, whose magic forms so gay
The fair Deceiver's self deceive—
How sweet is Love's first gentle sway!
JVc'cr would that heart he bids to grieve
From sorrow's soft enchantment stray—
JVe'cr—till the god, exulting in his art,
Relentless frowns and wings the envenom'd dart!
Monsieur Amand paused ;—he seemed much op-
pressed—and at length, bursting into tears, laid
down the instrument and walked abruptly away to
the farther end of the terrace. Adeline, without
seeming to observe his agitation, rose and leaned
upon the wall, below which a group of fishermen
were busily employed in drawing a net. Inafew
moments he returned, with a composed and soften-
ed countenance. "Forgive this abrupt conduct,**
said he; "I know not how to apologize for it but by
owning its cause. When 1 tell you, madame, that
my tears flow to the memory of a lady who strongly
resembled you, and who is lost to me for ever, you


OP THE FOREST.
will know how to pity me."—His voice faltered and
he paused. Adeline was silent. "The lute," be
resumed, '* was her favorite instrument, and when
you touched it with such melancholy expression, I
eaw ber very Image before me. But alas! why do I
distress you with a knowledge of my sorrows ! she
is gone, and never to return!—And you, Adeline,
He checked his speech ; and Adeline, turning on
him a look of mournful regard, observed a wfldness
in his eyes which alarmed her. "These recollec-
tions are too painful," said she in a gentle voice;
"let us return to the house; M. La Luc is probably
come home."—Oh no!" replied M. Amand; "no,
this breeze refreshes me. How often at this hour
have I talked with her, as I now talk with you!
Such were the soft tones of her voice; such the in-
effable expression of her countenance."
Adeline interrupted him. "Let me beg of you to
consider your health; this dewy air cannot be good
for invalids." He stood with his hands clasped, and
seemed not to hear her. She took up the lute to go,
and passed her fingers lightly over the chords. The
sounds recalled his scattered senses; he raised his
eyes, and fixed them in a long unsettled gaze upon
hers. "Must I leave you here?" said she, smiling,
and standing in an attitude to depart. "Ientreat
you to play again the air I heard just now," said
M. Amand in a hurried voice. "Certainly!" and
she immediately began to play. He leaned against
.A palm tree in an attitude of deep attention, and as
the sounds languished on the air, his features grad-
ually lost their wild expression, and he melted into
tears. He continued to weep silently till the song
concluded, and it was some time before be recovered
his voice enough to say, " Adeline, I cannot thank
you for this goodness. My mind has recovered Its
bias ; you have soothed a broken heart. Increase
the kindness you have shown me by promising nev-
er to mention what you have witnessed this evening,
and I will endeavor never again to wound your
sensibility by a similar offence." Adeline gave the
required promise; and M. Amand, pressing her
hand, with a melancholy smile hurried from the
garden, and she saw him no more that night.


108
THE ROMANCE
La Lite had been near a fortnight at Nice, and
his health, instead of amending, seemed rather to
decline, yet he wished to make a longer experiment
of the climate. The air, which failed to restore her
venerable friend, revived Adeline, and the variety
and the novelty of the surrounding scenes amused
her mind, though, since they could not obliterate
the memory of past, or suppress the pang of present
affliction, they were ineffectual to dissipate the
sick languor of melancholy. Company, by compel-
ling her to withdraw her attention from the subject
of her sorrow, afforded her transient relief, but the
violence of the exertion generally left her more de-
pressed. It was in the stillness of solitude, in the
tranquil observance of beautiful nature, that her
mind recovered Its tone, and, indulging the pensive
Inclination now become habitual to it, was soothed
and fortified. Of all the grand objects which na-
ture had exhibited, the ocean inspired her with the
most sublime admiration. She loved to wander
along on its shores, and when she could escape so
long from the duties of the forms of society, she
would sit for hours on the beach watching the rol-
ling waves and listening to their dying murmur, till
her softened fancy recalled long lost scenes, and
restored the image of Theodore, when tears of de-
spondency too often followed those of pity and
regret. But those visions of memory, painful as
they were, no longer excited that frenzy of grief
they formerly awakened in Savoy; the sharpness
of misery was passed, though its heavy influence
was not perhaps less powerful. To these solitary
Indulgences generally succeeded calmness, and
what Adeline endeavoured to believe was resig-
nation.
She usually rose early, and walked down to the
Chore to enjoy, in the cool and silent hours of the
morning, the cheering beauty of nature, and inhale
the pure sea breeze. Every object then smiled in
fresh and lively colours. The blue sea, the brilliant
sky, the distant Ashing boats, with their white
■ails and the voices of the fishermen borne at inter-
vals on the air, were circumstances which re-ani-
mated her spirits, and, in one of her rambles, yield-
ing to that taste of poetry which had seldom forsa-
ken her, abe repealed the following lines.


OF THE FOREST.
MORNING, ON THE SEA SHORE.
What print of fairy feet is here
On Neptune's smooth and yellow sands?
What midnight revel's airy dance.
Beneath the moon-beam's trembling glance,
Has blest these shores 1— What sprightly binul
Have chas'd the waves uncheck'd by fear?
Whoe'er they were they fled from morn,
For mnv, all silent and forlorn,
These tide-forsaken sands appear—
Return, sweet spirits, the scene to cheer!
In vain the call!—till moonlight's how
Again diffuse its softer power,
Titania, nor her fairy loves,
Emerge from India's spicy groves,
Then, when the shadowy hour returns.
When sUence^eigns o'er air and earth,
And every star in ether burns,
They come to celebrate their mirth;
In frolic ringlettrip the ground,
Bid music's voice on silence win
Till mag'tr, echoes answer round—
Thus do their festive rites begin.
O fairy forms ! so coy to mortal keen,
Your mystic steps to poets only shown,
O! lead me to the brook, or hallow'd glen,
Retiring far, with winding woods o'ergrown!
Where'er ye best, delight to rule;
If in some forest's lone retreat,
Thither conduet my willing fcet,
To the light brink of fountain cool,
Where, sleeping in the midnight dew,
&$ Spring's young buds of every hue,
Yielding their sweet breath to the air;
To fold their silken leaves from harm,
And their chill heads in moonshine warm,
To bright Titania's tender care.
There, to the night- birtls plaintive chomt
Your carrols sweet ye love to raise,
With oaten reed and past'ral lays;
And guard with forceful spell htr haunt,


OF THE FOREST.
HI
ence." Yet while she spoke, the tears in her eyes
contradicted the assertion of her lips. "You have
been unhappy, Adeline !—Yes—I knew it from the
first. The smile of pity which you gave me, assur-
ed me that you knew what it wa| to suffer." The
desponding air with which he spoke renewed her
apprehension of a scene similar to the one she had
lately witnessed, and she changed the subject, but
he soon returned to it. "You bid me hope much
from time! My wife! My dear wife !"—his tongue
faltered—" It is now many months since I lost her
—yet the moment of her death seems but as yester-
day.'* Adeline faintly smiled. You can scarcely
judge of the effect of time, yet you have much to
hope for." He shook his head. "But I am again
intruding my misfortunes on your notice; forgive
this perpetual egotism. There is a comfort in the
pity of the good, such as nothing else can impart;
this must plead my excuse; may you, Adeline, ne-
ver want it. Ah! those tears—" Adeline hastily
dried them. M. Amand forebore to press the sub-
ject, and immediately began to converse on different
topics. They returned towards the chateau, but
La Luc being from home, M. Amand took leave at
the door. Adeline retired to her chamber oppressed
by her own sorrows, and those of her amiable
friend.
Near three weeks had now elapsed at Nice, dur-
ing which the disorder of La Luc seemed rather to
increase than to :tbate, when his physician very
honestly confessed the little hope he entertained
from the climate, and advised him to try the effect
of a sea voyage, adding, that* if the experiment
failed, even the air of Montpelier appeared to him
more likely to afford relief than that of Nice. La
Luc received this disinterested advice with a mix-
ture of gratitude and disappointment. The cir-
cumstances which had made him reluctant to quit
Savoy, rendered him yet more so to protract hw
absence and increase his expenses: but the ties of
affection that bound him to his family, and the love
of life, which so seldom leaves us, again prevailed
over inferior considerations, and he determined
to coast the Mediterranean as Jar as Languedoc,
where, if the voyage did not answer his expecta-
tions, he would land and proceed to Montpelier.


THE ROMANCE
When M. A ma ad learned that La Luc designed
to quit Nice in a few days, he determined not to
leave it before him. During this interval, he had
not sufficient resolution to deny himself the frequent
conversation of Adeline, though her presence, by
reminding him of his lost wife, gave him more pain
than comfort. He was the second son of a French
gentleman of family, and had been married about a
year to a lady to whom he had long been attached,
when she died in her lying-in. The infant soon
followed its mother, and left the disconsolate father
abandoned to grief, which had prayed so heavily on
his health, that his physician thought it necessary
to send him to Nice,- From the air of Nice, how-
ever, he had derived no benefit, and he now deter-
mined to travel farther into Italy, though he no
longer felt any IMerest in those charming scenes
which in happier days, and with her whom he never
ceased to lament, would have afforded him the
highest degree of mental luxury; now he sought
only to escape from himself, or rather'from the im-
age of her who had once constituted his truest hap-
piness.
La Luc having laid his plan, hired a small vessel,
and in a few days embarked, with a sick hope, bid-
ding adieu to the shores of Italy and the towering
Afn«, and seeking, on a new element, the health
which had hitherto mocked his pursuit.
M. Ainand took a melancholy leave of his new
friends, whom he attended to the sea-side. When
he assisted Adeline on board, his heart was too ful1
to suffer him to say farewell ; but he stood long on
the beach pursuing with his eyes her course over
the waters, and waving his hands, till tears dimmed
his sight. The breeze wafted the vessel gently from
the coast, and Adeline saw herself surrounded by
the undulating waves of .the ocean. The shore ap-
peared to recede, its mountains to lessen, the gay
colors of its landscape to melt into each other, and
in a short time the figure of M. Amand was seen no
more. The town, of Nice, with its castle and har-
bor, next faded away in distance, and the purple
tint of the mountains was at length all that re-
mained on the verge of the horizon. She sighed aa
•he gazed, and her eyes filled with tears. "So van-
ished my prospect of happiness," said she; "and my


OF THE FOREST.
113

future view is like the waste of waters that sur-
round me." Her heart was full, and she retired
from observation to a remote part of the deck where
she indulged her tears as she watched the vessel cut
its way through the liquid glass. The water was
so transparent that she saw the sun-beams
playing at a considerable depth, and fish of various
colors glance athwart the current. Innumerable
marine plants spread their vigorous leaves on the
rocks below, and the richness of their verdure form-
ed a beautiful contrast to the flowing scarlet of the
coral that branched beside them.
The distant coast at length entirely disappeared.
Adeline gazed with an emotion the most sublime,
on the boundless expanse of waters that spread on
all sides; she seemed as if launched into a new
world; the grandeur and immensity of the view as-
tonished and overpowered her; for a moment she
doubted the truth of the compass, and believed it to
be almost impossible for the vessel to find its way
over the pathless waters to any shore. And when
she considered that a plank alone separated her
from death, a sensation of unmixed terror superse
ded that of sublimity, ami she hastily turned her
eyes from the prospect and her thoughts from the
subject.
—0000—
CHAPTER VIII.
"Ts there a heart that music cannot melt?
Alas. how is that rugged heart forlorn!
Is there who ne'er the myotic transports felt
Of solitude and mctancholij born?
He need not woo the muse—he is her scorn."
Beattie.
Towards evening, the captain, to avoid the dan-
ger of encountering a Barbary corsair, steered fur
the French coast, and Adeline distinguished in the
gleam of the setting sun, the shores of Provence,
feathered with wood, and green with pasturage
La Luc, languid and ill, had retired to the cabin,
whither Clara attended him. The pilot at the
helm, guiding the small vessel through the sound-
ing waters, and one solitary sailor, leaning with
Vol. II. a


?' 114 THE ROMANCE
i
crossed arms against the mast, and now and then
ainging parts of mournful ditty, were all of the
brew except Adeline that remained upon deck—
and Adeline silently watched the declining sun,
'which threw a saffron glow upon the waves, and on
the sails, gently swelling in the breeze that was
now dying away. The sun at length sunk below
the ocean, and twilight stole over the scene, leaving
the shadowy shores yet visible, and touching with
a solemn tint the waters that stretched wide around.
She sketched the picture, but it was with a faint
pencil.
NIGHT.
O'er the dim breast of ocearfs wave
Night spreads afar her gloomy wings,
And pensive thought, and silence brings,
Save -when the distant water* lave I
Or when the mariner's lone voice
Swells faintly in the passing gale,
Or when the screaming sea-guU poise
O'er the tall mast and swelling sail-
Bounding the gray gleam of the deep,
Where fanciedforms arouse the mind^
Dark sweeps the shore, on whose rude steep
Sighs the sad spirit of the wind.
Sweet is its voice upon the air
At evening's melancholy close,
While the smooth wave in silence flows!
Sweet, sweet the peace its stealing accents bear!
Blest be thy shades, O Night, and blest the song
Thy loiv winds breath the distant shores along!
As the shadows thickened, the scene sunk into
deeper repose. Even the sailor's song had ceased,
no sound was heard but that of the waters dashing
beneath the vessel, and their fainter murmur on the
pebbly coast. Adeline's mind was in unison with
the tranquillity of the hour; lulled by the waves,
she resigned herself to a still melancholy and sat
lost in a reverie. The present moment brought to
her recollection her voyage upon the Rhone, when
seeking refuge from the terors of the Marquis de
Montalt, she so anxiously endeavored to anticipate
her future destiny. She then, as now, had watched
the fall of evening and the fading prospect, and she


. OF THE FOREST. * 115
remembered what a desolate feeling had accompa-
nied the impression which those objects made. She
had then no friends—no asylum—no certainty of
escaping the pursuit of her enemy. Now she had
found affectionate friends, a secure retreat, and
was delivered from the terrors she then suffered,
but still she was unhappy. The remembrance of
Theodore—of Theodore, who had loved her so
truly, who had encountered and suffered so much
for her sake, and of whose fate she was now igno-
rant as when she traversed the Rhone, was an in-
cessant pang to her heart. She seemed to be more
. remote than ever from the possibility of hearing of
him. Sometimes a faint hope crossed her that he
had escaped the malice of his persecutor; but when
she considered the inveteracy and power of the
latter, and the heinous light in which the law re-
gards an assault upon a superior officer, even thi?
poor hone vanished, and left her to tears and an-
guish, such as this reverie, which began with a
sensation of only gentle melancholy, now led to.
She continued to muse till the moon arose from the
bosom of the ocean, and shed her trembling lustre
upon the waves, diffusing peace and making silence
more solemn; beaming a soft light on the white
sails and throwing upon the waters the tall shadow
of the vessel, which now seemed to glide along un-
opposed by any current. Her tears had somewhat
relieved the anguish of her mind, and she again re-
posed in placid melancholy, when a strain of such
tender and epchanting sweetness stole on the si-
lence of the hour, that it seemed more like celestial
than mortal music: so soft, so soothing, it sunk
upon her ear, that it recalled her from misery to
hope and love. She wept again—but these were
tears which she would not have exchanged for
mirth and joy. She looked around, but perceived
neither ship or boat; and as the undulating sounds
swelled in the distant air, she thought they came
from the shore. Sometimes the breeze wafted them
away, and again returned them in tones of the most
languishing softness. The links of the air thus bro-
ken, it was music rather than melody that she
caught, till, the pilot gradually steering nearer the
coast, she distinguished the notes of a song familiar
to her ear. She endeavored to recollect where she


OF' THE FOREST.
117
After a pleasant voyage of a few days, the shores
of Provence receded, and that of Languedoc, which
had long hounded the distance, became the , grand
object of the scene, and the sailors drew near their
port. They landed in the afternoon at a small town
situated at the foot of a woody eminence, on the
right overlooking the sea, and on the left the rich
plains of Languedoc, gay with the purple vine. La
Luc determined to defer his journey till the follow-
ing day, ind was directed to a small inn at the ex-
tremity of the town, where the accommodation,
such as it was, he endeavored to Aie contented
with.
In the evening, the beauty-of the hour, and the
desire of exploring new scenes, invited Adeline to
walk. La Luc was fatigued and did not go out, and
Clara remained with him. Adeline took her way
to the woods that rose from the margin of the sea,
and climbed the wild eminence on which they hung.
Often as she went she tinned her eyes to catch be-
tween the dark foliage the blue water of the bay,
the white sail that flitted by, and the trembling
gleam of the setting sun. When she reached the
summit, and looked down over the dark tops of the
woods on the wide and various prospect, she was
seized with a kind of still rapture impossible to be
expressed, and stood, unconscious of the flight of
time, till the sun had left the scene, and twilight
threw its solemn shade upon the mountains. The
sea alone reflected the fading splendor of the west;
its tranquil surface was partially disturbed by the
low wind that crept in tremulous lines along the
waters, whence rising to the woods, it shivered their
light leaves, and died away. Adeline, resigning
herself to the luxury of sweet and tender emotions,
repeated the following lines;
SUNSET.
Soft oVr the mountain's purple broiv
Meek txvilight draws her shadows gray;
From tufted woods, and i'alties low,
Lighvs magic colors steal away.
Yet still amid (he spreading gloom, ," .
Rcsplervlent glow the western wave*, '',
. That roll o'er Neptune'*, coral eaves "* ^


THE ROMANCE
A zone of light on evening's dome,'
On this-ione summit let me rest
Ami view the forms to fancy dear,
Till on the ocean's darken'd bixast
The stars of evening tremble clear;
Or the moon's pale orb appear.
1 hrowing her line of radiance wide \
Far o'er the lightly curling tide, >
That seems the yellow sands to chide )
No sounds o"er silence now prevail,
Save of the dying wave bcluxv,
Or sailor's song borne on the gale.
Or oar at distance strihing slow,
So sweet! so tranquil! may my evening ray
Set to this world—and rise in future day'
Adeline quitted the heights, and followed a nar-
row path that wound to the beach below ; her mind
was now particularly sensible to fine impressions,
and the sweet notes of the nightingale amid the
stillness of the woods again awakened her enthusi-
i, — f -
Her lengthen'd shade, when evening flings.
From mountain cliffs and forests green,
And sailing slow on silent wings
Along the glimm'ring west is seen;
I love o'er pathless hills to stray,
Or trace the winding vale remote,
And pause sweet bird! to hear tJnj lay,
While moonbeams on the thin cloud float,
T'dl o'er the mountain's dewy head
Pate midnight steals to wahe the dead.
Far through the heaven's ethereal blue,
Wafted on spring's light airs you come,
With blooms, and flowers, and genial dew,
From climes where summer joys to roam,
0, welcome to your long lost home!
.Child of tlie melancholy song!
'. W^o lov'st the lonely woodland glade
; To mourn, unseen, tite bougfis among .
asm.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Child of the melancholy song!


OP THE FOREST. '118
Where twilight spreads her pensive shade,
Again thy dulcet voice I had!
O, pour again the liquid note
Thai dies upon the evening gale!
For fancy loves the hindred tone;
Her griefs the plaintive accents own.
She loves to hear thy music float
At solemn midnight's stillest hour,
And think on friends for ever lost.
On joys by disappointment crost,
And weep anew love's charmful power!
Then memory wakes the magic smile,
Th' impassion'd voice, the melting eye,
That won't the trusting heart beguile,
And wakes again the hopeless sigh!
Her shill the glowing tints revive
Of scenes that time had bade decay;
She bids the soften' d passion live—
The passions urge again their sway.
Yet o'er the long regretted scene
Thy song the grace of sorrow throws;
A melancholy charm serene,
More ran than all that mirth bestows.
Then hail, sweet bird! and hail thy pensive tear!
To taste, tofancy, andtovirtuc dear!
The spreading dusk at lengtH reminded Adeline of
her distance from the inn, and that she had her way
to fmd through a wild and lonely wood ; she bade
adieu to the syren that had so long detained her,
and pursued the path with quick steps. Having
followed it for some time, she became bewildered
among the thickets, and the increasing darkness
did not allow her to judge of the direction she was
in. Her apprehensions heightened her difficulties;
she thought she distinguished the voices of men at
some little distance, and she increased her speed till
she found herself on the sea sands over which the
woods impended. Her breath was now exhausted,
she paused a momenfrto recover herself, and fear-
fully listened ; but, instead of the voices of men, she
heard faintly swelling in the breeze, the notes of
mournful music. Her heart, ever sensible to the
impressions of melody, melted with the tones, and
her fears were for a moment lulled in sweet en-


120
THE ROMANCE
chantment. Surprise was soon mingled with de-
light, when as the sounds advanced, she distin-
guished the tone of that instrument, and the melody
of that well known air, which she had heard a few
preceding evenings from the shores of Provence.—
But she had no time for conjecture—footsteps ap-
proached, and she renewed her speed. She was now
emerged from the darkness of the woods, and the
moon, which shone bright, exhibited along the level
sands the town and port in the distance. The steps
that had followed, now came up with her, and she
perceived two men, but they passed in conversation
without noticing her—and as they passed she was
certain she recollected the voice of him who was
then speaking. Its tones were so familiar to her
ear, that she was surprised at the imperfect memo-
ry which did not sutler her to be assured by whom
they were uttered. Another step now followed, and
a rude voice called her to stop. As she hastily turn-
ed her eyes, she saw imperfectly by the moonlight
a man in a sailor's habit pursuing, while he renewed
the call. Impelled by terror, she fled along the
sands, but her steps were short and trembling;
those of her pursuer's strong and quick.
She had just strength sufficient to reach the men
who had before passed her, and to implore their
protection, when herjnirsuer came up with them,
hut suddenly turned into the woods on the left, ana
disappeared.
She^had no breath to answer the inquiries of the
strangers who supported her, till a sudden exclama-
tion, and the sound of her own name drew her
eyes attentively upon the person who uttered them,
and in the rays which shnne strong upon his fea-
tures, she distinguished M. Verneuil! Mutual sat-
isfaction and explanation ensued, and when he
learned that La Luc and his daughter were at the
inn, he felt an increased pleasure in conducting her
thither. He said that he had accidentally met with
an old friend in Savoy, whom he now introduced
by the name of Mauron, and who had prevailed on
him to change his route and to accompany him to
the shores of the Mediterranean. They had embark-
ed from the coast of Provence only a few preceding
days, and had that evening landed in Languedoc
on the estate of M. Mauron. Adeline had now no


OF THE FOREST.
121
doubt that it was the flute of M. Verneuil, and
which had so often delighted her at Leloncourt, that
ehe had heard on the sea.
When they reached the inn, they found La Luc
under great anxiety for Adeline, in search of whom
he had sent several people. Anxiety yielded 10
surprise and pleasure, when he perceived her with
M. Verneuil, whose eyes beamed with unusual ani-
mation on seeing Clara. After mutual congratula-
tions, M. Verneuil observed, and lamented, the very
indifferent accommodation which the inn afforded
his friends, and M« Mauron immediately invited
them to his chateau with a warmth of hospitality
that overcame every scruple which delicacy or pride
could oppose. The woods that Adeline had trav-
ersed formed a part of his demesne, which extend-
ed almost to the inn ; but he insisted that his car-
riage should take his guests to the chateau, and de-
parted to give orders for their reception.
The presence of M. Verneuil, and the kindness of
his friends, gave La Luc an unusual flow of spirits;
he conversed with a degree of vigour and liveliness
to which he had long been unaccustomed; and the
smile of satisfaction that -Clara gave to Adeline
expressed how much she thought he was already
benefitted by the voyage. Adeline answered her
look with a smile of less confidence, for she attrib-
uted his present animation to a more temporary
cause.
About half an hour after the departure of M. Mau-
ron, a boy who served as waiter, brought a message
from achevalier then at the inn, requesting to speak
with Adeline. The man who bad pursued her afong
the sands instantly occurred to her, and she scarce-
ly doubted that the stranger was some person be-
longing to the Marquis de Montalt, perhaps the
marquis himself, though that he should have dis-
covered her accidentally, in so obscure a place, and
so immediately upon her arrival, seemed very im-
probable. With trembling lips, and a countenance
as pale as death, she inquired the name of the chev-
alier. The boy was not acquainted with it. La
Luc asked what sort of a person he was; but the
boy, who understood little of the art of describing,
gave such a confused account of him, that Adeline
could only learn that he was not large, but of the


122
THE ROMANCE
middle stature. This circumstance, however, con-
vincing her that it was not the Marquis de Montalt
who desired to see her, she asked whether it would
be agreeable to La Luc to have the stranger admit-
ted. La Luc said " by all means;" and the waiter
withdrew. Adeline sat in trembling expectation
till the door opened, and Louis de la Motte entered
the room. He advanced with an embarrassed and
melancholy air, though his countenance had been
enlightened with a momentary pleasure when he
first beheld Adeline—Adeline who was still the idol
of his heart. After the first salutations were over,
all apprehensions of the Marquis being now dissi-
pated, ahe inquired when Louis had seen Monsieur
and Madame La Motte.
"I ought rather to ask you that question," said
.Louis in some confusion, "for I believe you have
seen them since I have; and the pleasure of meeting
you thus is equalled by my surprise. I have not
heard from my father for some time, owing probably
to my regiment being removed to new quarters."
He looked as if he wished to be informed with
whom Adeline now was ; but as this was a subject
upon which it was impossible she could speak in
the presence of La Luc, she led the conversation to
general topics, after having said that Monsieurund.
Madame La Motte were well when she left them.—
Louis spoke little, and often looked anxiously at
Adeline, while his mind seemed labouring under
strong oppression. She observed this, and recol-
lecting the declaration he had made her on the
.morning of his departure from the abbey, she at-
tributed his present embarrassment to the effect of
a passion yet unsubdued, and did not appear to
notice it.
After he had sat near a quarter of an hour, under
a struggle of feelings which he could neither con-
quer or conceal, he rose to leave the room, and as
he passed Adeline, said in a low voice, "do permit
me to speak with you alone for five minutes." She
hesitated in some confusion, and then saying there
were none but friends present, begged he would be
seated. "Excuse me," said he in the same low
accent; "What I would say nearly concerns you,
and you only. Do favour me with a few moments'
attention." He said this with a look that surprised


OF THE FOREST.
123
her; and having ordered candles in another room,
she went thither.
Louis sat for some moments silent, and seemingly
in great perturbation of mind. At length he said,
"1 Know not whether to rejoice or to lament at this
unexpected meeting, though, if you are in safe
hands, I ought certainly to rejoice, however hard
the task that now falls to my lot. I am not ignor-
ant of the dangers and persecutions you have suf-
fered, and cannot forbear expressing my anxiety to
know how you are now circumstanced. Are you
indeed with friends?" " I am," said Adeline; " M.
La Mo tie informed you." "No," replied Louis,
with a deep sigh, "not my father." He paused.—
"But I do indeed rejoice," resumed he, " O! how
sincerely rejoice! that you are in safety. Could you
know, lovely Adeline, what I have suffered!" He
checked himself. "I understand you had something
of importance to say, Sir," said Adeline; "you
must excuse me if I remind you that I-have not
many moments to spare."
"It is indeed of imfbrirtance," replied Louis;
"yet I know not how to mention it, how to soften—
This task is too severe. Alas! my poor friend!"
"Who is it you speak of, Sir," said Adeline, with
quickness. Louis rose from his chair, and walked
about the room. "I would prepare you for what I
have to say," he resumed, "but upon my soul I am
not equal to it."
"i entreat you to keep me no longer in suspense,"
said Adeline, who had a wild idea that it was Theo-
dore he would speak of. Louis still hesitated.—" Is
it—o is it ?—I conjure you tell me the worst at
once," said she, in'a voice of agony. "I can bear
it—indeed I can."
Theodore! Theodore <" faintly articulated Adeline,
"he lives, then!"—" He does," said Louis, " but"
—he stopped. "But what?" cried Adeline, trem-
bling violently; "If he Is living, you cannot tell me
worse than my fears suggest; I entreat you therefore
not to hesitate."—Louis resumed his seat, and en-
deavoring to assume a collected air, said, "beis
living, madame, but he is a prisoner; and—ffr why
should I deceive you? I fear he has little to hope in
this world."

friend 1" exclaimed Louis, "O


OF THE FOREST. 125
just crossed a part of the Gulf of Lyons, and was
on his way to Savoy, whither he should set out early
in the morning.
"We are lately come from thence," said Adeline,
'' may I ask to what part of Savoy you are going ?''
"To Leloncourt," he replied—" To Lcloncourt!"
said Adeline, in some surprise. "1 am a stranger to
the country," resumed Louis,*' but I go to serve my
friend. You seem to know Leloncourt." '; 1 do, in-
deed," said Adeline. ''You probably know then
that M. La Luc lives there, and will guess the mo-
tive of my journey."
"O heavens! is it possible ?" exclaimed Adeline,
"is it possible that Theodore Pcyrou is a relation
of M. La Luc!"
"Theodore! what of my son ?" asked La Luc, in
surprise and apprehension. "Your son!" said Ad-
eline, in a trembling voice, " your son!" The aston-
ishment and anguish depicted on her countenance
increased the apprehensions of this unfortunate
father, and he renewed his question. But Adeline
was totally unable to answer him ; and the distress
of Louis, in thus unexpectedly discovering the fa-
ther of his unhappy friend, and knowing that it
was his task to disclose the fate of his son, deprived
him for some time of all power of utterance, and La
Luc and Clara, whose fears were every instant
heightened by this dreadful silence, continued to
repeat their questions.
At length, a sense of the approaching sufferings
of the good La Luc overcoming every other feeling,
Adeline recovered strength of mind sufficient to
try to soften the intelligence Louis had to commu-
nicate, and to conduct Clara to another room.—
Here she collected resolution to tell her, and with
much tender consideration, the circumstances of
her brother's situation, concealing only her knowl-
edge of his sentence being already pronounced.—
This relation necessarily included the mention of
their attachment, and in the friend of her heart
Clara discovered the innocent cause of her brother's
destruction. Adeline also learned the occasion
of that circumstance which had contributed to
keep her ignorant of Theodore's relationship to
La Luc; she was told the former had taken the
name of Peyrou, with an estate which had been


126 THE ROMANCE
left bim about a year before by a relation of his
mother's upon that condition. Theodore had been
designed for the church, but his disposition inclined
him to a more active life than the clerical habit
would admit of, and on his accession to this estate,
he had entered into the service of the French king.
In the few and interrupted interviews which had
been allowed them at Caux, Theodore had men-
tioned his family to Adeline only in general terms,
and thus, when they were so suddenly separated,
had, without designing it, left her in ignorance of
his father's name and place of residence.
The sacredness and delicacy of Adeline's grief,
which had never permitted her to mention the sub-
ject of it even to Clara, had since contributed to
deceive her.
The distress of Clara, on learning the situation of
her brother, could endure no restraint. Adeline,
who had commanded her feelings so as to impart
this intelligence with tolerable composure, only by
a strong effort of mind, was now almost overwhelm-
ed by her own and Clara's accumulated suffering.
While they wept forth the anguish of their hearts,
a scene, if possible, more affecting, passed between
La Luc and Louis, who perceived it was necessary
to inform him, though cautiously and by degrees, of
the full extent of his calamity. He therefore told
La Luc, that though Theodore had been first tried
for the offence of having quitted his post, be was
now condemned on a charge of assault made upon
his general officer, the Marquis de Montalt, who had
brought witnesses to prove that his life had been
endangered by the circumstance; and who, having
pursued the prosecution with the most bitter ran-
cour, had at length obtained the sentence which
the law could not withhold, but which every other
officer in the regiment deplored.
Louis added, that the sentence was to be executed
in less than a fortnight, and that Theodore, being
very unhappy at receiving no answers, to the letters
he had sent his father, wishing to see him once
more, and knowing that there was now no time to
be lost, had requested him to go to Leloncourt, and
acquaint his father with his situation.
La Luc received the account of his sun's condition
with a distress that admitted neither of tears or


\ OF THE FOREST. 197
complaint. He asked where Theodore was, and
desiring to be conducted to him, he thanked Louis
for all his kindness, and ordered post-horses imme-
diately.
A carriage was soon ready, and this unhappy
father, after taking a mournful leave of M. Verncuil,
and sending a compliment to M. Mauron, attended
by his family, set out for the prison of his son. The
journey was a uilent one; each individual of the
party endeavored, in consideration of each other,
to suppress the expression of grief, but was unable
to do more. La Luc appeared calm and complacent;
he seemed frequently to be engaged in prayer ; but
a struggle for resignation and composure was some-
times visible upon his countenance, notwithstand-
ing the efforts of his mind.
CHAPTER IX.
"And mm»M with disgrace the dart of death."'
Seward.
We now return to the Marquis de Montalt, who
having seen La Motte safely lodged in the prison of
D J, and learning the trial would not come on
immediately, had returned to his villa on the bor-
ders of the forest, where he expected to hear news
of Adeline. It had been his intention to follow his
servants to Lyons; but he now determined to wait
a few days for letters, and he had little doubt that
Adeline, since her flight had been so quickly pur-
sued, would be overtaken, and probably before she
could reach that city. In this expectation he had
been miserably disappointed ; for his servants in-
formed him, that though they traced her thither,
they had neither been able to follow her route be-
yond, nor to discover her at Lyons. This escape
she probably owed to having embarked on the
Rhone, for it does not appear that the marquis' peo-
ple thought of seeking her on the course of that
river.
His presence was soon after required at Vaceau,
where the court martial was then sitting; thither
therefore he went with passions still more cxasper-


OF THE FOREST.
equally surprised and afflicted, and who was very
anxious to see him once again, accepted his proposal
of going himself to Savoy. *' My letters, I strongly
suspect, have been intercepted by the marquis,"
said Theodore; u if so, my poor father will have the
whole weight of this calamity to sustain at once,
unless I avail myself of your kindness, and I shall
neither see him nor hear from him before I die.—
Louis! there are moments when my fortitude
shrinks from the conflict, and my senses threaten to
desert me."
No time was to be lost; the warrant for his exe-
cution had already received the kings signature, and
Louis immediately stt forward for Savoy. The let-
ters of Theodore had indeed been intercepted by or-
der of the marquis, who, in the hope of discovering
the asylum of Adeline, had opened and afterwards
destroyed them.
But to return to La Luc, who now drew near Va-
eeau, and whom his family observed to be greatly
changed in his looks since he had heard the late ca-
lamitous intelligence; he uttered no complaint;
but it was too obvious thai, his disorder had made a
rapid progress. Louis, who during the journey,
proved the goodness of his disposition by the defe-
cate attentions he paid this unhappy party, con-
cealed his observation of the decline of La Luc, and
to support Adeline's spirits, endeavored to con-
vince her that her apprehensions on this subject
were groundless. Her spirits did indeed require sup-
port, for she was now within a few miles of the town
that contained Theodore; and while her increasing
perturbation almost overcome her, she yet tried to
appear composed. When the carriage "entered the
town, she cast a timid and anxious glance from the
window in search of the prison; but having passed
through several streets without perceiving any
building which corresponded with that she looked
for, the coach stopped at the inn. The frequent
changes in La Luc's countenance betrayed the vio-
lent agitation of his mind, and when he attempted
to alight, feeble and exhausted, he was compelled
to accept the support of Louis, to whom he faintly
said, as he passed to the parlor, "I am indeed sick
at heart, but [ trust the pain will not be long."—
Louis pressed his hand without speaking, and has-
Vol. II. 9


m
THE ROMANCE
tened back for Adeline and Clara, who were already
in the passage. La Luc wiped the tears from his
eyes (they were the first, he had shed) as they en-
tered the room. " I will go immediately to my poor
boy," said he to Louis ; ' * yours, sir, is a humble of-
fice—be so good as to conduct me to him." ile rose
to co, but, feeble and overcome with grief, again sat
down. Adeline and Clara united in entreating that
he would compose himself, and take some refresh-
ment, and Louis urging the necessity of preparing
Theodore for the interview, prevailed with him to
delay it till his son should be informed of his arri-
val, and immediately quitted the inn for the prison
of his friend. When he was gone, La Lucas a duty
he owed to those he loved, tried to take some sup-
port, but the convulsions of his throat would not
suffer him to swallow the wine that he held to his
parched lips and he was now so much disordered,
that he desired to retire to his chamber, where a-
lone, and in prayer, he passed the dreadful interval
of Louis' absence.
Clara on the bosom of Adeline, who sat in calm
but deep distress, yielded to the violence of her
grief. "I shall lose my dear father too," said she,
"I see it ; I shall lose my father and my brother to-
gether." Adeline wept with her friend for some-
time in silence; and then attempted to persuade
her that La Luc was not so ill as she apprehended.
"Do not' mislead me with hope," she replied, "he
will not survive the shock of this calamity ; I saw
it from the first," Ad -line knowing thai La Luc's
distress would be heightened by the observance of
his daughter's, and that indulgence would increase
its poignancy, endeavored to arouse her to an exer-
tion of fortitude; by urging the necessity of com-
manding her emotion in the presence of her father,
"This is possible" added she, "however painful
may be the effort. You must know, my dear, that
my grief is not ififerior to your own, yet I have hith-
erto been enabled to support my sufferings, in si-
lence, for M. Lajaic I do, indeed, love and rever-
en«e as a parent."
Louis meanwhile reached the prison of Theo-
dore, who received him with an air of mingled sur-
prise and impatience.--'' What brings you back so
soon,"said he, "haveyou heard news of my father.""


OF THE FOREST.
131
Louis now gradually unfolded the circumstances of
their meeting, and La Luc's arrival at Vaceau. A
various emotion agitated the countenance of Theo-
dore on receiving this intelligence. "My poor fa-
ther !" said he, "he has then followed his son to this
Ignominious place! Little did I think when last
we parted he would meet me in a prison, under con-
demnation !" This reflection roused an impetuosi-
ty of grief which deprived him for some time of
speech. "But where is he?" said Theodore, recov-
ering himself; "now he is come, I shrink from the
interview I have so much wished for. The sight of
his distress will be dreadful to me. Louis ! when I
am gone, comfort my poor father.'' His voice was
again interrupted by sobs; and Louis, who had
been fearful of acquainting him at the same time
of the arrival of La Luc, and the discovery of Ade-
line, now judged it proper to administer the cordial
of this latter intelligence.
The gloom of a prison, and of calamity, vanished
for a transient moment; those who had seen
Theodore would have believed this to have been
the instant which gave him life and liberty. When
his first emotions subsided, "1 will not repine," said
he, "since I know that Adeline is preserved, and
that I shall once more see my father, I will endeav-
or to die with resignation." He inquired if La Luc
was then in the prison ; and was told he was at the
Inn with Clara and Adeline. "Adeline! " Is Ade-
line there too!—this is beyond my hopes. Yet why
do I rejoice? I must never see her more ; this is no
place for Adeline." Again he relapsed into an ag-
ony of distress, and again repeated questions con-
cerning Adeline, till he was reminded by Louis that
his father was impatient to see him, when, shocked
that he had so long detained his friend, he entreated
him to conduct La Luc to the prison, and endeavor-
ed to collect fortitude for the approaching inter-
view.
When Louis returned to the inn, La Luc was still
in his chamber, and Clara quitted the'room to call
him. Adeline seized with trembling impatience, the
opportunity to inquire more particularly concerning
Theodore, than she chose to do in the presence of
his unhappy sister. Louis represented him to be
much more tranquil than he really was; Adeline


132 TH£ ROMANCE
was somewhat soothed by the account; and her
tears hitherto restrained, flowed silently and fast,
till La Luc appeared. His countenance had recov-
ered its serenity, but was impressed with a deep
and steady sorrow, which excited in the beholder
a mingled emotion of pity and reverence. "How is
my son, sir?" said he as he entered the room; "we
will go to him immediately."
Clara renewed the entreaties that had been al-
ready rejected, to accompany her father, who per-
sisted in a refusal. "To morrow you shall see him,"
added he; " but our first meeting must be alone.—
Stay with your friend, my dear; she has. need of
consolation." When La Luc was gone, Adeline,
unable longer to struggle against the force of grief,
retired to her chamber and her bed.
La Luc walked silently towards the prison, rest-
ing on the arm of Louia. It was now night; a dim
lamp that hung above showed them the gates, and
Louis rung a bell; La Luc, almost overcome with
agitation, leaned against the postern till the porter
appeared. He inquired for Theodore, and followed
the man ; but when he reached the second court
yard he seemed ready to faint, and again stopped.
Louis desired the porter would fetch some water;
but La Luc, recovering his yoice, said he should
soon be better, and would not suffer him to go. In
a few minutes he was able to follow Louis, who led
him through several dark passages, and up a flight
of steps to a door, which being unbarred disclosed
to him the prison of his son. He was seated at a
small table, on which stood a lamp that threw a
feeble light across the place sufficient only to show
its desolation and wretchedness. When be perceiv-
ed La Luc he sprung from his chair and in the next
moment was in his arms. "My father," said he in
a tremulous voice. "My son 1" exclaimed La Luc;
and they were for some time silent, and locked in
each other's embrace. At length Theodore led him
to the only chair the room afforded, and, seating
himself with J-ouis at the foot.of the bed, had leis-
ure to observe the ravages which illness and calami-
ty had made on the features of his parent. La Luc
made several efforts to speak, but unable to articu-
late, laid his hand upon his breast and sighed deep-
ly. Fearful of the consequence of so affecting a


OF THE FOREST. 133
scene on his shattered frame, Louis endeavored to
call off hts attention from the immediate object of
hia distress, and interrupted the silence, but La
Luc, shuddered, and complained he was very cold,
sunk back in hia chair. His condition roused The-
odore from the stupor of despair; and while he flew
to support his father, Louis ran off for other assist-
nnce.—" I shall soon be better, Theodore," said La
Luc unclosing his eyes, " the faintness ia already
gone off. I have not been well of late , and this
sad meeting!" Unable any longer to command him-
self, Theodore wrung his hand, and the diatress
which had long struggled for utterance burst in
convulsive sobs from his breast. La Luc gradually
revived, and exerted himself to calm the transports
of his son ; hut the fortitude of the latter had now
entirely forsaken him, and he could only utter ex-
clamation and complaint. "Ah 1 litjle did he think
we should ever meet under circumstances ao dread-
ful as the present! But I have not deserved them,
my father! the motives of my conduct have still
been just."
"That is my supreme consolation," said La Luc,
"and ought to support yon in this hour of trial..—
The almighty God, who is the judge of hearts, will
reward you hereafter. Trust in God, my son ; I look
to him with no feeble hope, hut with a firm reliance
on his justice!" La Luc's voice faltered ; he raised
his eyes to heaven with an expression of meek devo-
tion, while the tears of humanity fell slowly on his
cheek.
Still more affected by his last words, Theodore
turned from him, and paced the room with quick
steps ; the entrance of Louis was a very seasonable
relief to La Luc,who, taking a cordial he had brought
was soon sufficiently restored to discourse on the
subject most interesting to him. Theodore tried to
attain a command of his feelings and succeeded.—
He conversed with tolerable composure for above
an hour, during which La Luc endeavored to ele-
vate, by religious hope, the mind of his son, and to
enable him to meet with fortitude the awful hour
that approached. But the appearance of resigna-
tion which Theodore attained, always vanished
when he reflected that he was going to leave his
father a prey to grief, and his beloved Adeline for-


OF THE FOREST. 135
Clara* who was now come from the bed side of her
friend, urged the necessity of his taking a few hour's
repose ; he was at length compelled to acknowledge
himself unequal to the Immediate exertion which
the parental anxiety prompted, and consented to
seek rest.
When he had retired to his chamber, Clara la-
mented the condition of her father. "He will not
bear the journey," said she; "he is greatly changed
within these few days." Louis was so entirely of
her opinion that he could not disguise it, even to
flatter her with a hope. She added, what did not
contribute to raise his spirits, that Adeline was so
much indisposed by her grief for the situation of
Theodore, and the sufferings of La Luc, that she
dreaded the consequence.
It has been seen that the passion of young La
Motte had suffered no abatement from time or ab-
sence; on the contrary, the persecution and the
dangers which had pursued Adeline, awakened all
his tenderness, and drew her nearer to his heart.
When he had discovered that Theodore loved her,
and was beloved again, he experienced all the an-
guish of jealousy and disappointment; for though
she had forbade him to hope, he found it too painful
an effort to obey her, and had secretly cherished
the flame which he ought to have stifled. His heart
was, however, too noble to suffer his zeal for Theo-
dore to abate because he was his favoured rival,
and his mind too strong not to conceal the anguish
this certainty occasioned. The attachment which
Theodore had testified towards Adeline even en-
deared him to Louis, when he had recovered from
the first shock of disappointment, and that conquest
over jealousy which originated in principle, and
was pursued with difficulty, became afterwards his
pride and his glory. When, however^he again saw
Adeline—saw ber in the mild dignity of sorrow
more interesting than ever,—saw her, though sink-
ing beneath its pressure, yet tender and solicitous
to soften the afflictions of those aroundher, it wa»
with the utmost difficulty he preserved his resolu-
tion, and forbore to express the sentiments she in-
spired. When he farther considered that her acute
sufferings arose from the strength of her affection,
he more than ever wished himself the object of a


136
THE ROMANCE
heart capable of so tender a regard, and Theodore
in prison and in chains was a momentary object of
envy.
Iii the morning, when La Luc arose from short
and disturbed slumbers, he found Louis, Clara and
Adeline, whom indisposition.could not prevent from
paying him this testimony of respect and affection,
assembled in the parlor of the inn to see him de-
part. After a slight breakfast, during which his
feelings permitted him to say little, he bade his
friends a sad farewell, and stepped into the car-
riage, followed by their tears and prayers. Adeline
immediately retired to her chamber, which she was
too ill to quit that day. In the evening* Clara left
her friend, and, conducted by Louis, went to visit
her brother, whose emotions, on hearing of his fa-
ther's departure, were various and strong.
CHAPTER X.
",Tis only when with inbred kcrrcr smote
Atsomebasc aet, or dune or to be done.
That Hie recoiling soul, with canscious drcad,
Shrinks back into itself."—Mason.
We return now to Pierre delaMotte, .who, after
remaining some weeks in the prison of D y, was
removed to lake his trial at the court of Paris,
whither the Marquis de Montalt followed to prose-
cute the charge. Madame dc la Mottc accompanied
her husband to the prison of the Chatelet, His
mind sunk under the weight of his misfortunes;
nor could all the efforts of his wife rouse him from
the torpidity of despair which a consideration of
his circumstances occasioned. Should he be even
acquitted of the charge brought against him by the
marquis, (which was very unlikely,} he was now in
#the scene of his former crimes, and the moment that
should liberate him from the walls of his prison
would probably deliver him again into the hands of
offended justice.
The prosecution of the marquis was too well foun-
ded, and its object of a nature too serious, not to
justify the terror of La Motte. Soon after the latter


OF THE FOREST.
137
had settled at the abbey of St. Clair, the small stock
of money which the emergency of histcircumstancea
had left him, being nearly exhausted, his mind be-
come corroded with the most cruel anxiety concern-
ing the means of his future subsistence. As he
was one evening riding nlone in a remote part of
the forest, musing on his distressed circumstances,
and meditating plan.s to relieve the exigencies which
he saw approaching, he perceived among the trees
at some distance a chevalier on horseback, who was
.riding deliberately along, and seemed wholly unat-
tended. A thought darted across the mind of La-
Motte, that he might be spared the evils which
threatened him by robbing this stranger. His for-
mer practices had pnssed the boundary of honesty;
fraud was in some degree familiar to him, and the
thought was not dismissed. He hesitated; every
moment of hesitation increased the power of temp-
tation; the opportunity was such as might never
occur again. He looked round, and as far as the
trees opened saw no person hut the chevalier, who
seemed by his air to be- a man of distinction. Sum-
moning all his courage, La Motte rode forward and
attacked him. The Marquis de Montalt, for it was
he, was unarmed, but knowing that his attendants
were not far off, he refused to yield. While they
were struggling for victory, La Motte saw several
horsemen enter the extremity of the avenue, and
rendered desperate by opposition and delay, he
drew from his pocket a pistol (which an apprehen-
sion of banditti made him usually carry when he
rode to a distance from the abbey) and fired at the
marquis, who staggered and fell senseless to the
ground. La Motte had time to tear from his coat a
brilliant star, some diamond rings from his fingers,
and to rifle his pockets, before his attendants came
up. Instead of pursuing the robber, they all, in their
first confusion, flew to the marquis their lord, and
La Motte escaped.
He stopped before he reached the abbey at a little
ruin, the tomb formerly mentioned, to examine hia
booty. It consisted of a purse containing seventy
louis d'ors, of a diamond star, three rings of great
value, and a miniature set with brilliants, of the
marquis himself, which he had intended as a pres-
ent for his favourite mistress. To La Motte, who


138
THE ROMANCE
but a lew hours before had seen himself nearly des-
titute, the view of the treasure excited an almost
ungovernable transport; but it was soon checked
when he remembered the means he had employed
to obtain it, and that he had paid for the wealth he
contemplated the price of blood. Naturally violent
in his passions, this reflection sunk him from the
summit of exultation to the abyss of despondency.
He considered himself a murderer, and startled as
one awakened from a dream, would have given half
the world, had it been his, to have been as poor
and comparatively as guiltless as a few preceding
hours had seen him. On examining the portrait, he
discovered the resemblance, and believing that his
hand had deprived the original of life, he gazed
upon the picture with unutterable anguish. To the
horrors of remorse succeeded the perplexities of
fear. Apprehensive of he knew not what, he lin-
gered at the tomb, where he at length deposited his
treasure, believing that if his offence should awaken
justice, the abbey might be searched, and those
jewels betray him. From Madame La Motte it was
easy to conceal his increase of wealth; for as he
had never made her acquainted with the exact state
of his finances, she had not suspected the extreme
poverty which menaced him ; and as they continued
to live as usual, she believed that their expenses
were drawn from the usual supply. But it was not
so easy to disguise the workings of remorse and
horror; his manner became gloomy and reserved,
and his frequent visits to the tomb, where he went
partly to examine his treasure, but chiefly to in-
dulge in the dreadful pleasure of contemplating the
picture of the marquis, excited curiosity. In the
solitude of the forest, where no variety of objects
occurred to renovate his ideas, the horrible one of
having committed murder was ever present to him.
When the marquis arrived at the abbey the aston-
ishment and terror of La Motte, for at first he scarce
knew whether he beheld the shadow or the sub-
stance of a human form, were quickly succeeded by
apprehension of the punishment due to the crime
he had really committed. When his distress had
prevailed on the marquis to retire, he informed him
that he was by birth a chevalier ; he then touched
upon such parte of his misfortunes as he thought


140
THE ROMANCE
the improbability of one man's keeping up a friend-
ly intercourse with another from whom he had suf-
fered the double injury of assault and robbery; yet
it was certain that the marquis had observed a
frequent intercourse with La Motte for some months'
following the time specified for the commission of
the crime. If the marquis intended to prosecute,
why was it not immediately after his discovery of
la Motte ?—and if not then, what had influenced
him to prosecute at so distant a period?
To this nothing was replied on the part of the
marquis for as his conduct on this point had been
subservient to his designs on Adeline, he could not
justify it but by exposing schemes which would be-
tray the darkness of his character, and invalidate
his cause. He therefore contented himself with
producing several of his servants as witnesses of
the assault and robbery, who swore without scruple
ro the person of La Motte, though not one of them
had seen him otherwise than through the gloQm of
evening and riding off at full speed. On a cross ex-
amination, most of them contradicted each other;
their evidence was of course rejected ; but as the
marquis had yet two other witnesses to produce,
whose arrival at Paris had been hourly expected,
the event of the trial was postponed, and the court
adjourned.
La Motte was reconducted to his prison under
the same pressure of despondency with which he
had quitted it. As he walked through one of the
avenues he passed a man who stood by to let him
proceed, and who regarded him with a fixed and
earnest eye. La Motte thought he had seen him
before; but the imperfect view he caught of hia
features through the duskiness of the place made
him uncertain as to this, and his mind was in too
perturbed a state to suffer him to feefan interest
on the subject. When he was gone, the stranger
inquired of the keeper of the prison, who La Motte
was ; on being told, and receiving answers to some
farther questions he put, he desired he might be
admitted to speak with him. The request, as the
man was only a debtor, was granted, but as the
doors were now shut up for the night, the interview
was deferred till the morrow.
La Motte found madame in his room, where she


OF THE FOREST. 141

n waiting for some hours to hear the event
f thc trial. They now wished more earnestly than
, ever to see their son ; hut he was, as they had sus-
pected ignorant of their change of quarters, owing
to the letters which he had, as usual addressed to
them under an assumed name, remaining at the
post-house of Auboine. This circumstance occa-
sioned Madame La Motte to address her letters to
the place of her son's late residence, and he had
thus continued ignorant of his father's misfortunes
and removal.—Madame La Motte, surprised at re-
ceiving no answers to her letters, sent off another,
containing an account of the trial as far as it had
proceeded, and a request that her son would obtain,
leave of absence, and set out for Paris instantly.
As she was still ignorant of the failure of her letters
and had it been otherwise, would not have known
whither to have sent them, she directed this as
usual.
Meanwhile his approaching fate was never absent
for a moment from the mind of La Motte, which,
feeble by nature, and still more enervated by habits
of indulgence, refused to support him at this dread-
ful period.
While these scenes were passing at Paris, La Luc
arrived there without any accident, after perform-
ing a journey, during which he had been supported
almost entirely by the spirit of his resolution. He
hastened to throw himself at the feet of the sover-
eign,and such was the excess of his feeling on pre-
senting the petition which was to decide the fate of
his son, that he could only look silently up, and then
fainted. The king received the paper, and giving
orders for the unhappy father to be taken care of,
passed on. He was carried back to his hotel, where
he awaited the event of this his final effort.
Adeline, meanwhile, continued at Vaceau in a
state of anxiety too powerful for her long agitated
frame, and the illness, in consequence of this, confin-
ed her almost wholly to her chamber. Sometimes
she ventured to flatter herself with the hope that
the journey of La Luc would be successful; but
these short and illusive intervals of comfort served
only to heighten, by contrast, the despondency that
succeeded, and in the alternate extremes of feeling
she experienced a state more torturing than that


142
THE ROMANCE
produced either by the sharp sting of unexpected
calamity, or the sullen pain of settled despair.
When she was well enough she came down to the
parlor to converse with Louis, who brought her
frequent accounts of Theodore, and who passed ev-
ery moment he could snatch from the duty of his
profession in endeavors to support and console his
afflicted friends. Adeline and Theodore both look-
ed to him for the little comfort allotted them, for he
brought them intelligence of each other, and when-
ever he appeared, a transient melancholy kind of
pleasure played round their hearts. He could not
conceal from Theodore, Adeline's indisposition,since
it was necessary for him to account for her not in-
dulging the earnest wish he repeatedly expressed to
see her again. To Adeline he spoke chiefly of the
fortitude, and resignation of his friend, not however
forgetting to mention the tender affection he con-
stantly expressed for her. Accustomed to derive
her whole consolation from the presence of Louis,
and to observe his unwearied friendship towards
him whom she so truly loved, she found her esteem
for him ripen into gratitude, and her daily regard
increase.
The fortitude with which he had said Theodore
supported his calamities was somewhat exaggerat-
ed. He could not sufficiently forget those ties which
bound him to life, to meet his fate with firmness;
but though the paroxysms of grief were acute and
frequent, he sought, and often attained, in the pres-
ence of his friends, a manly composure. From the
event of his father's journey he hoped little, yet that
little [was sufficient to keep his mind in the torture
of suspense till the issue should appear.
On the day preceding that fixed for the execution
of the sentence, La Luc reached Vace'au. Adeline
wai at her chamber window when the carriage
drew up to the inn ; she saw him alight/and with
feeble steps, supported by Peter, enter the house.—
From the languor of his air she drew no favorable
omen, and almost sinking under the violence of her
emotion, she went to meet him. Clara was already
with her father when Adeline entered the room.—
She approached him, but, dreading to receive from
his lips a confirmation of the misfortune his coun-
tenance seemed to intimate, she looked expressively


OF THE FOREST.
143
at him and sat down, unable to speak the question
she would have asked. He held out his hand to her
in silence,sunk back in his chair, and seemed to be
fainting under oppression of heart. His manner con-
firmed all her fears; at this dreadful conviction her
senses failed her, and she sat motionless and stu-
pified.
La Luc and Clara were too much occupied by
their own distress to observe her situation. After
some time she breathed a heavy sigh and burst into
tears. Relieved by weeping, her spirits gradually
returned, and she at length said to I.a Luc, " It is
unnecessary, sir, to ask the success of your journey:
yet, when you can bear to mention the subject I
wish—"
La Luc waved his hand. "Alas," said he, "I have
noihing to tell but what you already guess too well.
My poor Theodore!" His voice was convulsed with
sorrows, and some moments of unutterable anguish
followed. r
Adeline was the first who recovered sufficient rec-
ollection to notice the extreme languor of La Luc,
and attended to his support. She ordered him re-
freshments ; and intreated he would retire to his
bed and suffer her to send for a physician ; adding,
that the fatigue he had suffered made repose abso-
lutely necessary. "Would that I could find it, my
dear child," said he ; "It is not in this world that I
must look for it, hut in a better, and that better, 1
trust I shall soon attain. But where is our good
friend, Louis La Motte?—he must lead me to my
son."
Grief again interrupted his utterance, and the en-
trance -of Louis was a very seasonable relief to them
all. Their tears explained the question he would
have asked. La Luc immediately inquired for his
son, and thanking Louis for all his kindness to him
desired to be conducted to the prison. Louis en-
deavored to persuade him to defer his visit till the
morning, and Adeline and Clara joined their entrea-
ties with his ; but La Luc determined to go that
night. "His time is short," said he ; a few hours and
I shall see him no more, at least in this world ; let
me not neglect these precious moments. Adeline!
I had promised my poor boy that he should see you
once more; you are not now equal to the meeting.


OF THE FOREST.' 145
and that Adeline was not dangerously ill; when,
however, he was assured that he should see them in
the nlorning, he became more tranquil. He desired
his friend would not leave him that night. "These
are the last hours we can pass together," added he;
"I cannot sleep! Stay with me and lighten their
heavy moments, IJiave need of comfort Louis.—
Young as I am, and held by such strong attach-
ments, I cannot leave the world with resignation.
J know not how to credit these stories we hear of
philosophic fortitude; wisdom cannot tench us
cheerfully to resign a good, and life, in my circum-
stances, is surely such."
The night was passed in embarrassed conversa-
tion ; sometimes interrupted by long fits of silence,
and sometimes by the paroxysms of despair ; and
the morning of the day which was to lead Theodore
to death, at length dawned through the grates of
his prison.
La Luc meanwhile passed a sleepless and dread-
ful night. He prayed for fortitude and resignation
both for himself and Theodore ; but the pangs of
nature were powerful in his heart, and not to be
subdued. The idea of his lamented wife, and of
what she would have suffered had she lived to wit-
ness the ignominious death which awaited her son ,
frequently occurred to him.
It seemed as if a destiny had hung over the life of
Theodore, for it is probable that the king might
have granted the petition of the unhappy father,
had it not happened that the Marquis de Montait
was present at court when the paper was presented.
The appearance and singular distress of the peti-
tioner had interested the monarch, and, instead of
putting by the paper, he opened it. As he threw
his eyes over it, observing that the criminal was of
the Marquis de Montalt'a regiment, he turned to
him and inquired the nature of the offence for which
the culprit was about to suffer. The answer was
such as might have been expected from the marquis,
and the king was convinced that Theodore wne tiot
a proper object of mercy.
But to return to La Luc, who was called accord-
ing to his order at a very early hour. Having passed
tome time in prayer, he went down to the parlor
where Louis, punctual to the moment, already
Vofc. II. 10


140 THE ROMANCE
waited to conduct him to the prison. He appeared
calm and collected, but his countenance was im-
pressed with a fixed despair that sensibly affected
his young friend. While they waited for Adeline,
he spoke little, and seemed struggling to attain the
fortitude necessary to support him through the ap-
proaching scene. Adeline not appearing, he at
length sent to hasten her, and was told she had
been ill, but was recovering. She had indeed pas-
sed a night of such agitation, that her frame had
Bunk under it, and she was now endeavoring to
recover strength and composure sufficient to sustain
her in this dreadful hour. Every moment that
brought her nearer to it had increased her emotion,
and the apprehension of being prevented seeing The-
odore, bad alone enabled her to struggle against the
united pressure of illness and grief.
She now, with Clara, joined La Luc, who advanc-
ed as they entered the room, and took a band of
each in silence. After some moments, he proposed
to go, and they stepped into a carriage which con-
veyed them to the gates of the prison. The crowd
had already begun to assemble there, and confused
murmur arose as the carriage moved forward ; it
was a grievous sight to the friends of Theodore.
Louis supported Adeline when she alighted; she
was scarcely able to W&fc, and with trembling steps
she followed La Luc, whom the keeper led towards
that part of the prison where his son was confined.
It was now eight o'clock, the sentence was not to
be executed till twelve, but a guard of soldiers was
already placed in the court ; and as this unhappy
party passed along the narrow avenues, they were
met by several officers who had been to take a last
farewell of Theodore. As they ascended the stairs
that led to his apartment, La Luc's ear caught the
clink of chains, and heard him walking above with
a quick irregular step. The unhappy father, over-
come by the moment which now pressed upon hint-,
stopped and was obliged to support himself by the
banister. Louis, fearing the consequences of his
grief might be fatal, shattered as his frame already
was, would have gone, for assistance, but he made
a sign to him to stay. "I am better," said La Luc;
"O God! support me through this hour!" and in
a few utv nts he was able to proceed-


OF THE FOREST.
147
r As the warder unlocked the door, the harsh grat-
ing of the key shocked Adeline, but in the next
moment she was in the presence of Theodore, who
sprung to meet her, and caught her inliis arms be-
fore she sunk to the ground. As her head reclined
on his shoulder, he again viewed that countenance
so dear to him, which had so often lightened rap-
ture in bis heart, and which, though pale and inan-
imate as it now was, awakened him' to momentary
delight. When at length she unclosed her eyes,
she fixed them in long and mournful gaze upon
Theodore who pressing her to his heart, could
answer her only with a smile of mingled tenderness
and despair; the tears he endeavored to restrain
trembled in his eye; and he forgot for a time every
thing but Adeline. La Luc who had seated him-
self at the foot of the bed, seemed unconscious of
what passed around him, and entirely absorbed in
his own grief; but Clara, as she clasped the hand of
'her brother, and hung weeping on his arm, expres-
sed aloud all the anguish of her heart, and at length
recalled the attention of Adeline, who. in a voice
scarcely audible, entreated she woula spare her
father. Her words roused Theodore, and, support-
ing Adeline to a chair, he turned to La Luc. "My
dear child!" said La Luc, grasping his hand and
bursting into tears—"My dear child!" They wept
together. After a long interval of silence, he said,
"1 thought [ could have supported this hour, but 1
am old and feeble. God knows my efforts for resig-
nation, my faith in his goodness!"
Theodore by a strong and sudden exertion, assu-
med a composed and firm countenance, and endeav-
ored by every gentle argument to sooth and comfort
his weeping friends. La Luc at length seemed to
conquer bis sufferings. Drying his eyes, he said,
"My son I ought to have set you a better example,
and practised the precepts of fortitude I have so
often given you. But it is over; I know and will
perform my duty."
Adeline breathed a heavy sigh, and continued lb
weep, "Be comforted, my love, we part but for a
time," said Theodore as he kissed the tears from
her cheek ; and uniting her hand with that of her
father's he earnestly recommended her to his pro-
tection. "Receive her," added he, "as the most


OF THE FOREST.
119
would be too much for tliem both, and urged every
argument which reason could suggest to prevail
with his father to relinquish his design. But he
remained firm in his determination. "f will not
suffer a selfish consideration of the pain I may en-
dure," said La Luc," to tempt me to desert my child
when he will most require my support. It is my
duty to attend you, and nothing shall withhold me."
Theodore seized on the words of La Luc; "As
you would that I should he supported in my last
hour," said he, " I entreat that you will not be wit-
ness of it. Your presence, my dear father, would
subdue all my fortitude; would destroy what little
composure I may otherwise be able to attain. Add
not to my suffering the view of your distress, but
leave me to forget, if possible, the dear parent I
must quit for ever." His tears flowed anew. La
Luc continued to gaze on him in silent agony. At
length he said, " Well be it so. If indeed my pres-
ence would distress you, I will go." His voice was
broken and interrupted. After a pause of some mo-
ments he again embraced Theodore; H We must
part," said he, "we must part, but it is only for a
time; we shall soon be re-united in a higher world!
O God ; thou seest my heart; thou seest all my feel-
ings in this bitter hour!" Grief again overcame
him. He pressed Theodore in his arms; and at
length seeming to summon all his fortitude, he
again said, " We must part; O, my son, farewell for
ever in this world ; The mercy of Almighty God
support and bless you!"
lie turned away to leave the prison, but quite
worn out with grief, sunk into a chair near the
door he would have opened. Theodore gazed with
a distracted countenance, alternately on his father,
on Clara, and on Adeline, whom he pressed to his
throbbing heart, and their tears flowed together.
"And do I then," cried he, " for the last time look
upon that countenance! Shall I never—never more
behold it? O, exquisite misery!—Yet once again,
once more," continued he, pressing her cheek, but
It was insensible and cold as marble.
Louis, who had left the room soon after La Luc
arrived, that his presence might not interrupt their
farewell grief, now returned. Adeline raised her
head, and perceiving who entered, it again sunk on
the bosom of Theodore.
i


150 THE ROMANCE
Louis appeared much agitated. La Luc arose.
"We must go," said he; "Adeline, my love, exert
yourself; Clara, my children, let us depart. Yet
one Inst—last embrace, and then Louis advanc-
ed and took his hand; "My dear sir f have some-
thing to say, yet 1 fear to tell it."—" What do you
mean?" said La Luc with quickness; "no new
misfortune can have power to afflict me at this mo-
ment. Do not fear to speak." "I rejoice that I
cannot put you to the proof," replied Louis, " I have
seen you sustain the most trying affliction with
fortitude; can you support the transports of hope?"
La Luc gazed eagerly on Louis. "Speak!"said
he in a faint voice. Adeline raised her head, and.
trembling between hope and fear, looked at Louis
as if she would have searched his soul. He smiled
cheerfully upon her. "Is it—O, is it possible !" she
exclaimed, suddenly re-animated. "He lives !—he
lives 1" She said no more, but ran to La Luc, who
sunk fainting in his chair, while Theodore and
Clara with one voice called on Louis to relieve them
from the tortures of suspense.
He proceeded to inform them that he had obtain-
ed from the commanding officer a respite for Theo-
dore till the king's further pleasure could be known,
and this in consequence of a letter received that
morning from his mother, Madame de la Motte, in
which she mentioned some very extraordinary cir-
cumstances that had appeared in the course of a
trial lately conducted at Paris, and which so ma-
terially affected the character of the Marquis de
Montalt as to render it possible a pardon might be
obtained for Theodore.
These words darted with the rapidity of lightning
upon the hearts of his hearers. La Luc revived,
and that prison so lately the scene of despair now
echoed only to the voice of gratitude and gladness.
La Luc, raised his clasped hands to Heaven, said,
"Great God, support me in this moment, as thou
hast already supported me! IT my son lives, I die
in peace."
He embraced Theodore, and remembering the an-
guish of his last embrace the tears of thankfulness
and joy flowed to the contrast. So powerful indeed
was the effect of this temporary reprieve, and of the
hope it introduced, that if an absolute pardon had


OF THE FOREST.
151
been obtained, it could scarcely for the moment have
diffused a more lively joy. But when the first emo-
tions were subsided, the uncertainty of Theodore's
fate once more appeared. Adeline forbore to ex-
press this, but Clara without scrutiny lamented the.
possibility that her brother might yet be taken from
them, and all their joy be turned to sorrow. A
look from Adeline checked her. Joy was how-
ever so much the predominant feeling of the pres-
ent moment, that the shade which reflection threw
upon their hopes passed away like the cloud that is
dispelled by the strength of the sun beam; and Louis
alone was pensive and abstracted. When they were
sufficiently composed, he informed them that the
contents of Madame la Motte's letter obliged him
to set out for Paris immediately; and that the in-
telligence he had to communicate intimately con-
cerned Adeline, who would undobtedly judge it
necessary to go, thither also as soon as her health
would permit. He then read lo his impatient au-
ditors such passages in the letter as were necessary
to explain his meaning; but as Madame de la Motte
had omitted to mention some circumstances of Im-
portance, the following is a relation of the occur-
rences that had lately happened at Paris.
It may-be remembered, that on the first day of the
trial, La Motte in passing from the courts to his
prison saw a person whose features, though imper-
fectly seen through the dusk, he thought he recol-
lected: and that this same person, after inquiring
the name of La Motte, desired to be admitted to
him. On the following day, the warder complied
with his request, and the surprise of La Motte may
he imagined when, in the stronger light of his apart-
ment he distinguished the countenance of the man
from whose hands he had formerly received Ade-
line.
On observing Madame de la Motte in the room, he
said he had something of consequence to impart, and
desired to be left alone with the prisoner. When
she was gone, he told La Motte that he understood
he was confined at the suit of the Marquis de Mon-
talt." La Motte assented. "I know him for a vil-
lain," said the stranger boldly. "Your case is des-
perate. Do you wish for life?" "Need the question
he asked?" "Yourtrial, I understand, proceeds to-


152
THE ROMANCE
morrow. I am now under confinement in this place
tor debt; but if you can obtain leave for mo to go
with you into the courts, and a condition from the
judge that what I reveal shall not criminate my-
aMf, I will make discoveries that shall confound that
same marquis; I will prove him a villain; and it
shall then be judged how far his word ought to be
taken against you."
La Motte, whose interest was now strongly excit-
ed, desired he would explain himsHf; and the man
proceeded to relate a long history ofthe misfortunes
and consequent poverty which had tempted him to
become subservient to the schemes of the marquis,
till he suddenly checked himself, and said, " When
1 obtain from the court the promise I require, I will
explain myself fully ; till then I cannot say more on
the subject."
La Motte could not forbear expressing a doubt of
his cincerity; and a curiosity concerning the motive
that had induced him to become the marquis' ac-
cuser—" As to my motive it is a very natural one,"
replied the man ; "It is no easy matter to receive ill
usage without resenting it, particularly from a vil-
lain whom you have served." La Motte, for his
own sake, endeavored to check the vehemence
with which this was uttered. "I care not who
hears me," continued the stranger, but at the same
time he lowered his voice; " I repeat it—the mar-
quis has used me ill—I have kept his secret long
enough. He does not think it worth while tosecure
my silence, or he would relieve my necessities. I
am in prison for debt, and have applied to him for
relief; since he does not choose to give it, let him
take the consequence. 1 warrant he shall soon re-
pent that he has provoked me, and 'tis fit he should."
The doubts of La Motte were now dissipated ; the
prospect of life again opened upon him, and he as-
sured Dn Bosse (which was the stranger's name)
with much warmth, that he would commission his
advocate to do all in his power to obtain leave for
his appearance on the trial, and to procure the ne-
cessary condition. After some farther conversation
they parted.


OP THE FOREST.
135
they prevailed with him to write again and plead
for her. D'Aunoy went to Paris to await the an-
swer, leaving them and the young girl at the house
on the heath where the former had consented to
remain, seemingly for the purpose of executing the
orders they might receive, but really witrr a design
to save the unhappy victim from the sacrifice.
Tt is probable that Du Bosse, in this instance, gave
a false account of his motive, since, if he was realy
guilty of an intention so atrocious as that of mur-
der, he would naturally endeavor to conceal it.—
However this might be, he affirmed that on the
night of the twenty sixth of April, he received an
order from d'Aunoy for the destruction of the girl
whom he-had afterwards delivered into the hands
of La Motte.
La Motte listened to this relation in astonishment;
when he knew that Adeline was the daughter of the
marquis, and remembered the crime to which he
had once devoted her, his frame thrilled with hor-
ror. He now took up the story, and added an acdjount
of what had passed at the abbey, between the mar-
quis and himself, concerning the design of the former
upon the life of Adeline; and urged, as a proof of
the present prosecution originating in malice, that
it had commenced immediately after he had effected
her escape from the marquis. He concluded, how-
ever, with saying, that as the marquis had immedi-
ately sent his people in pursuit of her, it was pos-
sible she inight yet have fallen a victim to his
vengeance.
Here the marquis' counsel again interfered, and
their objections were again overruled by the court.
The uncommon degree of emotion which his coun-
tenance betrayed during the narrations of Du Bosse
and De la Motte, was generally observed. The
court suspended the sentence of the latter, and or-
dered that the marquis should be put under imme-
diate arrest, and that Adeline (the name given by
her foster mother) and Jean d'Aunoy, should be
sought for. The marquis was occordingly seized
at the suit of the crown, and put under confinement
till Adeline should appear, or proof could be ob-
tained that she died by his order, and till d'Aunoy
should confirm or destroy the evidence of De la
Motte.


~ 156
THE ROMANCE
Madame, who at length obtained intelligence of
her son's residence from the town where he was
formerly stationed, had acquainted him with his
father's situation and the proceedings of the trial;
and as she believed that Adeline, if she had been so
fortunate as to escape the marquis' pursuit, was
still in Savoy, she desired Louis would obtain leave
of absence, and bring her to Paris, where her im-
mediate presence was requisite to substantiate the
evidence and probably to save the life of La Motte.
On the receipt of her letter which happened on
the morning appointed ifor the execution of Theo-
dore, Louis went immediately to the commanding
officer to petition for a respite till the king's further
pleasure should be known. He founded his plea on
the arrest of the marquis, and showed the letter he
had just received. The commanding officer readily
granted a reprieve, and Louis, who, on the arrival
of this letter, had forborne to communicate its con-
tents to Theodore, lest it should torture him with
a false hope, now hastened to him with this com-
fortable news.
—0000—
CHAPTER XII.
"Low on his fun'ral couch he lies!
JVo pitying heart, no eyes afford
A tear to grace his obsequies^'
Gray.
O* learning the purpose of Madame de la Motte'■
letter, Adeline saw the necessity of her immediate
departure for Paris. The life of La Motte, who had
more than saved her's, the life, perhaps, of her be-
loved Theodore depended on the testimony she
should give. And she who had so lately been sink-
ing under the influence of illness and despair, who
could scarcely raise her languid head, or speak in
the faintest accents, now reanimated with hope,
and invigorated by a sense of the importance of the
business before her, prepared to perform a rapid
journey of some hundred miles.
Theodore tenderly entreated that she would so
ftir consider her health as to delay this journey for


OF THE FOREST.
157
a few days; but with a smile of tenderness she as
sured him, that she was now too happy to be ill,
and that the same cause which would confirm her
happiness would confirm her health. So strong was
the effect of hope upon her mind now that it suc-
ceeded to the misery of despair, that it overcame
the shock she suffered on believing herself a daugh-
ter of the marquis, and every other painful reflec-
tion. She did not even foresee the obstacle that
circumstance might produce to her union with The-
odore, should he at last be permitted to live.
It was settled that she should set off for Paris in
a few hours with Louis, and attended by Peter.—
These hours were passed by La Luc and his family
in the prison. When the time of her departure ar-
rived, the spirits of Adeline again forsook her, and
the illusions of joy disappeared. She no longer be-
held Theodore as one respited from death, but took
leave of him with a mournful presentiment that she
should see him no more. So strongly was this pres-
age impressed on her mind, that it was long before
she could summon resolution to bid him farewell;
and when she had done so, and even left the apart-
ment, she returned to take of him a last look. As
she was once more quitting the room, her melan-
choly imagination represented Theodore at the
place of execution, pale and convulsed in death;
she again turned her lingering eyes upon him ; but
fancy affected her sense, for she thought as she now
gazed that his countenance changed and assumed a
ghastly hue. All her resolution vanished, and such
was the anguish of her heart, that she resolved to
defer: her journey till the morrow, though she must
by this means lose the protection of Louis, whose
impatience to meet his father would not suffe'r the
delay. The trinmph of passion, however, was tran-
sient: soothed by the indulgence she promised her-
self, her grief subsided, and reason resumed its
influence; she again saw the necessity of her imnie- -
diate departure, and collected sufficient resolution
to submit. La Luc would have accompanied b*r
for the purpose of again soliciting the king in ltehalf
of his son, had not the extreme weakness and lassi-
tude to which he was reduced made travelling im-
practicable. .
At length Adeline, with a heavy heart, quilted


15a
THE ROMANCE
Theodore, notwithstanding his entreaties that she
would not undertake the journey in her present
weak state, and was accompanied by Clara and La
Liic to the inn. The former parted from her friend
with many tears and much anxiety for her welfare,
but under a nope of soon meeting again. Should a
pardon he granted to Theodore,. La Luc designed
to fetch Adeline from Paris; but should this be re-
fused, she was to return with Peter. He bade her
adieu with a father's kindness, which she repaid
with a filial affection, and in her last words conj ured
him to attend to the recovery of his health. The
languid smile he assumed seemed to express that
her solicitude was vain, and that he thought his
health past recovery.
Thus Adeline quitted the friends so justly dear to
her, and so lately found, for Paris, where she was a
stranger, almost without protection, and compelled
to meet her father, who had pursued her with the
utmost cruelty, ip a public court of justice. The
carriage in leavmg Vaceau passed by the prison;
she threw an eager look towards it as she passed ;—
its heavy black walls, and narrow-grated windows,
seemed to frown upon her hopes; but Theodore was
there, and, leaning from the window, she continued
to gaze upon it till an abrupt turning in the street
concealed it from Tier view. She then sunk back in
the carriage, and yielding to the melancholy of her
heart, wept in silence. Louis was not disposed to
interrupt it; his thoughts were anxiously employed
on his father's situation, and the travellers pro-
ceeded many miles without exchanging a word.
At Paris, whither we shall now return, the search
after Jean d' Aunoy was prosecuted without success.
The house on the heath, described by Du Bosse, was
found uninhabited ; and to the places of his usual
resort in the city, where the officers of the police
awaited him, he no longer came. It even appeared
doubtful whether he was living, for he hud absent-
ed himself from the houses of his customary ren-
dezvous some time before the trial of La Motte; it
was therefore certain that his absence was not occa-
sioned by any thing which had passed in the courts.
In the solitude of his confinement the marquis had
leisure to reflect on the past, and to repent of his
crimes; but reflection and repentance formed as yei


- A. OF THE FOREST. 159
no part of his disposition. He turned with impa-
tience from recollections which produced only pain,
and looked forward to the future with an endeavor
to avert the disgrace and punishment which he saw
impending.—The elegance of his manners had so
effectually veiled the depravity of his heart, that he
was a favorite with his sovereign: and on this
circumstance he rested his hope of security. He
however severely repented that he had indulged the
hasty spirit of revenge'which had urged him to
prosecute La Motte, and had thus unexpectedly in-
volved him in a situation dangerous, if not fatal;
since, if Adeline could not be found, he would be
concluded guilty of her death. But the appearance
of d'Aunoy was the circumstance he most dreaded:
and to oppose the possibility of this, he employed
secret emissaries to discover his retreat, and to bribe
him to his interest. These were, however, as un-
successful iu their research as the officers of the
police, and the marquis at length began to hope the
man was really dead. -
La Motte meanwhile awaited with trembling
impatience the arrival of his son, when he should
be relieved,in some degree, from his uncertainty
concerning Adeline. On her appearance he rested
his only hope of life, since the evidence against him
vvould lose much of its validity from the confirma-
tion she would give of the bad character of his pro-
secuter; and if the Parliament even condemned La
Motte, the clemency of the king might yet operate
in his favor.
Adeline arrived at Paris after a journey of several
days, during which she was chiefly supported by
the delicate attentions of Louis, whom she pitied
and esteemed, though she could not love. She was
immediately visited at the hotel by Madame La
Motte ; the meeting was affecting on both sides. A>
sense of her past conduct excited in the latter an
embarrassment which the delicacy and goodness of
Adeline would willingly have spared her; but the
pardon solicited was given with so much sincerity,
that madame gradually became "composed and re-
assured. This forgiveness, however, could not have
been thus easily granted, had Adeline believed her
former conduct was voluntary; a conviction of the
restraint and terror under which madame had acted,


OF THE FOREST. 161
the pangs of conscience deeper in his heart. En-
deavoring to conceal his emotions, he entered on
the subject of his present danger, and informed Ad-
eline what testimony would be required of her on
the trial. After above an hour's conversation with
La Motte, she returned to the lodaings of madame,
where, languid and ill, she withdrew to her cham-
ber, and tried to obliviate her anxieties in sleep.
The parliament which conducted the trial reas-
sembled in a few days after the arrival of Adeline,
and the two remaining witnesses of the marquis, or
whom he now rested his cause against La Motte, ap-
peared. She was led trembling into the Court, where
almost the first object which met her eyes was the
Marquis de Montalt whom she now beheld with an
emotion entirely new to her, and which was strong-
ly tinctured with horror. WhenDu Hosse saw her
he immediately swore to her identity; his testi-
mony was confirmed by her manner ; for on perceiv-
ing him she grew pale, and a universal tremor seiz-
ed her. Jean d'Aunoy could no where be found,
and La Motte was thus deprived of an evidence
which essentially effected his interest. Adeline,
when called upon gave up her little narrative with
clearness and precision; and Peter, who had con-
veyed her from the abbey, supported the testimony
she offered. The evidence produced was sufficient
to criminate the marquis of the intention of murder,
in the minds of most people present; but it was not
sufficient to affect the testimony of his two last
witnesses, who positively swore to the commission
of the robbery, and to the person of La Motte, on
whom sentence of death was accordingly pronounc-
ed. On receiving this sentence, the unhappy crim-
inal fainted, and the compassion of the assembly,
whose feelings had been unusually interested in the
decision, was expressed in a general groan. Their
attention was quickly called to a new object—it
was Jean d'Aunoy, who now entered the court.—
But his evidence, if it could ever indeed have been
the means of saving La Motte, came too late. He
was reconducted to prison ; but Adeline, who, ex-
tremely shocked by his sentence, was much indis-
posed, received orders to remain in the court during
the examination of d'Aunoy. This man had been
at length found in the prison of a provincial town,
Vol. II. .11


K-2
THE ROMANCE
where some of his creditors had thrown him, ami
from which even the money which the marquis had
remitted to him for the purpose of satisfying the
craving importunities of Du Bosse, had been insuf-
ficient to release him. Meanwhile the revenge of
the latter had been roused against the marquis by
an imaginary neglect, and the money which.was de-
signed to relieve his necessities, was spent by d'Au-
noyin riotous luxury. He was confronted with Ad-
eline and with Du Bosse, and ordered to confess all
he knew concerning this mysterious affair, or to un-
dergo the torture. D'Aunoy, who was ignorant how
far the suspicions concerning the marquis extended,
and who was conscious that his own words might
condemn him, remained forsome time obstinately
silent; but when the question was administered his
resolution gave way, and he confessed a crime of
wftiich he had not even been suspected.
It appeared, that in the year 16*12, d'Aunoy, to-
gether with one Jacques Martingy and Francis Bal-
liere, had waylaid and seized Henry, Marquis de
Montalt, half brother to Phillippe; and after hav-
ing robbed him, and bound his servant to a tree, ac-
cording to the orders they had received, they con-
veyed him to the abbey of St. Clair4 in the distant
forest of Fontainville. Here he was confined for
some time, till farther directions were received from
Phillippe de Montalt, the present marquis, who was
then on his estates in a northern province of France.
These orders were for death, and the unfortunate
Henry was assassinated in his chamber in the third
week of his confinement at the abbey.
On hearing this, Adeline grew faint; she remem-
bered the MS. she had found, together with the ex-
traordinary circumstances which had attended the*
discovery; every nerve thrilled with horror, and
raising her eyes she saw the countenance of the
marquis overspread with the livid paleness of guilt.
She endeavored, however, to arrest her fleeting
spirits while the man proceeded in his confession.
When the murder was perpetrated, d'Aunoy had
returned to his employer, who gave him the reward
agreed upon, and in a few months after delivered
into his hands the infant daughter of the late mar-
quis, whom he conveyed to a distant part of the
kingdom, where, assuming the name of St. Pierre,


164
THE ROMANCE
line, received from his ancestors a patrimony very
inadequate to support the splendor of his rank ; but
he had married the heiress of an illustrious family,
whose fortune amply supplied the deficiency of his
own. He had the misfortune to loose her, for she
was amiable and beautiful, soon after the birth of a
daughter and it was then that the present mar-
quis formed the diabolical design of destroying his
brother. The contrast of their characters prevent-
ed that cordial regard between them which then;
near relationship seemed to demand. Henry was
benevolent, mild, and contemplative. In his heart
reigned the love of virtue; in his manners, the
strictness of justice was tempered, not weakened,
by mercy ; his mind, was enlarged by science, and
adorned by elegant literature. The character of
Phillipne has been already delineated in his ac-
tions; its nicer shades with some shining tints; but
these served only to render more striking by con-
trast, the general darkness of the portrait.
He had married a lady, who, by the death of her
brother, inherited considerable estates, of which
the abbey of St. Clair, and the villa on the borders
of the forest of Fontainville, were the chief. His
passion for magnificence and dissipation, however,
soon involved him in difficulties, and pointed out to
him the conveniency of possessing his brother's
wealth. His brother and his infant daughter only
stood between him and his wishes.. How he remo-
ved the father has been already related, why he
did not employ the same means to secure the child,
seems somewhat surprising, unless we'admit that a
destiny hung over him on this occasion, and that
she was suffered to live as an instrument to punish
the murderer of her parent. When a retrospect is
taken pf the vicissitudes and dangers to which she
had been exposed from her earliest infancy, it ap-
pears as if her preservation was the effect of some-
thing more than human policy, and affords a strik-
ing instance that justice, however long delayed, will
overtake the guilty.
While the late unhappy marquis was suffering
at the abbey, his brother, who, to avoid suspicion,
remained in the north of France, delayed the exe-
cution of his horrid purpose from a timidity natural
to a mind not yet innured to enormous guilt. Before


OF THE FOREST. 107
ly transformed to the daughter of an illustrious house
and the heiress of an immense wealth. But she
learned also that her father had been murdered—
murdered tn the prime of his days—murdered by
means of his brother, against whom she must now
. appear, and in punishing the destroyer of her parent
doom her uncle to death.
When she remembered the manuscript so singu-
larly found, and considering that, when she wept
for the sufferings it describes, her tears had flowed
for those of her father, her emotion cannot easily
be imagined. The circumstances attending the dis-
covery of these papers no longer appeared to be a
work of chance, but of a power whose designs are
great and just. "O my father!" she would exclaim,
"your last wish is fulfilled ; the pitying heatt you
wished might trace your sufferings shall avenge
them."
On the return of Madame La .Motte, Adeline en-
deavored, as usual, to suppress her own emotion,
that she might soothe the affliction of her friend.—
She related what had passed in the courts after the
departure of La Motte, and tlius excited, even in,
'the sorrowful heart of Madame, a momentary gleam
of satisfaction. Adeline determined to recover, if
possible the manuscript. On inquiry, she learned
that La Motte, in the confusion of his departure,
had left it among other things at the abbey. This
circumstance much distressed her; the more so,
because she believed its appearance might be of im-
portance on the approaching trial; she determined
however, if she should receive her rights, to have
the manuscript sought for.
In the evening Louis joined this mournful partv;
he came immediately from his father, whom he left
more tranquil than he had been since the* fatal sen-
tence was pronounced. After a silent and melan-
choly supper they separated for the night, and Ade-
line, in the solitude of her chamber, had leisure 10
meditate on the discoveries of this eventful day.—
The sufferings of her dead father, such as she had
read them recorded by his(own hand, pressed most
forcibly to her thoughts. ' The narrative had for-
merly so much affected her heart, and interested her.
imagination, that her memory now faithfully re-
dacted each particular circumstance theie disclos-


K8 THE ROMANCE
ed. But when she considered that she had been in
the very chamber where her parent had.suffered,
where even his life had been sacrificed, and that
she had probably seen the very dagger, seen it stain-
ed with rust, the rust of blood! hy which he had
fallen, the anguish and horror of her mind defied
all control.
On the following day Adeline received orders to
prepare for the prosecution of the Marquis de Mon-
lult, which was to commence as soon as the requi-
site witnesses could be collected. Among these
were the abbess of the convent, who had received
her from the hands of d'Annoy; Madame La Motte
who was present when Du ltosse compelled her
husband to receive Adeline ; and Peter, who had
not only been witness to this circumstance, but who
bad conveyed her from the abbey thai she might
escape the designs of£he marquis. La Motte, and
Theodore La Luc were incapacitated by the sen-
tence of the law from appearing on the trial.
When La Motte was informed of the discovery of
Adeline's birth, and that her father had been mur-
dered at the abbey of fit. Clair, he instantly remem-
bered, and mentioned to his wife, the skeleton he
found in the atone room leading to the subterranean
cells. Neither of them doubted, from the situation
iu w hich it lay, hid in a chent, in an obscure room
strongly guarded, that La Motte bad seen the re-
mains of the late marquis. Madame, however de-
termined not to shock Adeline with the mention of
this circumstance till it should be necessary to de-
clare it on the trial.
As the time of the trial drew near, the distress and
agitation of Adeline increased. Though justice
demanded the life of the murderer, and though the
tenderness and pity which the idea of a father cal-
led forth, urged her to avenge his death, she could
not without horror consider herself as the instru-
ment of dispensing that justice which would de-
prive a fellow hemg of existence; and there weie
times when she wished the secret had never been
revealed. If this sensibility was, in her peculiU
circumstances, a weakness, it was at lea.-t an ami-
able one, and as such deserves to be reverenced.
The accounts she received from Vaceau of the
health of Monsieur La Luc did not contribute to


OF THE FOREST.
ICO

tranquilize her mind. The symptoms described by
Clara seemed to say that he was in the last stage
of a consumption, and the grief of Theodore and
herself on this occasion was expressed in her letters
with the lively eloquence so natural to her. Ade-
line loved and revered La Luc for his own worth
nnd for the parental tenderness he had showed her;
hut he was still dearer to her as the father of The-
odore, and her concern for his declining state was
not inferior to that of his children. It was increas-
ed by the reflection that she had probably been the
means of shortening his life, for she too well knew
the distress occasioned him by the situation in
which it had he en her misfortune to involve Theo-
dore, had shattered bis frame to its present infirmi-
ty. The same cause also withheld him from seek-
ing in the climate of Montpelier the relief he had
formerly been taught to expect there. When she
looked round on the condition of her friends, her
heart was almost overwhelmed with the prospect;
it seemed as if she was destined to involve all those
most dear to her in calamity. As to La Motte,
whatever were his vices, and whatever the designs
in which he had formerly engaged against her, she
forgot them all in the service he had finally render-
ed her, and considered it as much her duty, as she
felt it her inclination to intercede in his behalf.—
This, however, in her present situation, she could
not do with any hope or success; but if the suit,
upon which depended the establishment of her rank,
her fortune, and consequently her influence, should
be decided in her favor, she determined to throw
herself at the king's feet, and when she pleaded the
cause of Theodore, ask the life of La Motte.
A few days preceding that of the trial, Adeline
was informed that a stranger desired to speak w ith
her, and on going to the room where he was, she
found M. Verneo.il. Her countenance expressed both
surprise and satisfaction at this unexpected meet-
ing, and she inquired, though with little expectation
of an affirmative, if he had heard of AL La Luc.
u I have seen him," said M. Verneuil; "I am just
come from Vaceau. But I am sorry I cannot give
you n better account of his health. He is greatly
altered since 1 saw him before." Adeline could
scarcely refrain from tears at the recollection theae


OF THE FOREST. 171
Adeline in a short time returned, and could then
bear to converse on the subject of her family. M.
Verneuil offered her his support and assistance, if
they should be found necessary. "But I trust,"
added he, " to the justness of your cause, and hope
it wilt not require any adventitious aid. To those
who remember the late marchioness, your features
bring sufficient evidence of your birth. As a proof
that my judgment in this instance is not biassed by
prejudice, the resemblance struck me when I was
In Savoy, though I knew the marchioness only by
her portrait; and I believe I mentioned to M. La
Luc that you often reminded me of a deceased rela-
tion. You may form some judgment of this your-
self," added M. Verneuil, taking a miniature from
bis pocket. "This was your amiable mother."
Adeline's countenance changed; she received the
picture eagerly, gazed on it for a long time in si-
lence, and Tier eyes filled with tears. It was not the
resemblance she studied, but the countenance—the
mild and beautiful countenance of her parent,
whose blue eyes, full of tender sweetness, seemea
bent upon her's, while a soft smite played on her
Hps; Adeline pressed the-picture to her's and
again gazed in. silent reverie. At length, with a
deep sigh, she said, "This surely was my mother.
Had she but lived, O my poor father! you had been
spared." This reflection quite overcame her, and
site burst into tears.—M. Verneuil did not interrupt
ber grief, but took her hand and sat by her without
speaking till she became more composed. Again
kissing the picture, she held it out to him with a hes-
itatinglook. "No," said he, "it is already with
its true ownoj." She thanked him with a smile of
ineffable sweetness, and after some conversation on
the subject of the approaching trial, on which occa-
sion she requested M. Verneuil would support her
by his presence, he withdrew, having begged leave
to repeat his visit on the following day.
Adeline now opened her packet, and saw once
more the welljknow characters or Theodore; for
a moment she felt as if in his presence, and a con-
scious blush overspread her cheek with a trem-
bling hand she broke the seal, and read the tenderest
assurances and solicitudes of his love; she often
paused that she might prolong the sweet emotions


172 THE ROMANCE
which these assurances awakened; but while tears
of tenderness stood trembling on her eyelids, the
bitter recollection of las situation would return,
and they fell in anguish on her bosom. He congrat-
ulated her, and with peculiar delicacy, on the pros-
pects of life which were opening to hor; said every
thing that might tend to animate and support her,
but avoided dwelling on his own circumstances,
except bjj expressing his sense of the zeal and kind-
ness of his commanding officer—and adding, that he
did not despair of finally obtaining a pardon.
This hope, though but faintly expressed, and
written evidently for the purpose of consoling Ade-
line, did not entirely fail of the desired effect. She
yielded to its enchanting influence, and forgot for a
while tlie many subjects of care and anxiety which
surrounded her. Theodore said little of his father's
health ; what he did say was by no means so dis-
couraging as the accounts of Clara, who, less anx-
ious to conceal a truth that must give pain to Ade-
line, expressed, without reserve, all her apprehen-
sion and concern.
—0000—
CHAPTER XIV.
"Heaven is just!
"Jind when the measure of his crimes is full,
'' Will bare, its red right arm and launch its light'
nings." AIason.
The day of the trial so anxiously awaited, and
on which the fate of so many persoiifcdepended, at
length arrived. Adeline, accompanied by M. Ver-
neuil and Madame La Motte, appeared as the pro-
secutor of the Marquis de Montalt ; and d'Aunoy,
Da Basse, I-ouis dela Motte, and several other per-
sons, as witnesses in her cause. The judges were
some of the most distinguished in France ; and the
advocates on both sides men of eminent abilities.
On a trial of such importance, the court, as may be
imagined, was crowded with persons of distinc-
tion, and the spectacle it presented was strikingly
solemn, yet magnificent.
When she appeared before the tribunal, Adeline's


OF THE FOREST.
175
upon his heart, which had heen betrayed through
weakness rather than natural depravity, and awak-
ened so keen a remorse for the injuries he had once
meditated against a benefactress so noble, that his
former habits became odious to him, and his char-
acter gradually recovered the hue which it would
probably always have wprn, had he never been ex-
posed to the tempting dissipations of Paris.
The passion which Louis had so long owned for
Adeline, was raised almost to adoration by her late
conduct; but he now relinquished even the faint
hope which he had hitherto almost unconsciously
cherished; and, since the life which was granted to
Theodore rendered this sacrifice necessary, he could
not repine. He resolved, however, to seek in ab-
sence the tranquillity he had lost, and to place his
future happiness on that of two persons so deserved-
ly dear to him.
On the eve of his departure, La Motte and his
family took a very affecting leave of Adeline. He
left Paris for England, where it was his design to
settle;—and Louis, who was eager to fly from her
enchantments, set out on the same day for his regi-
ment.
Adeline remained some time at Paris to settle her
affairs, where she was introduced by M. Verneuil
to the few and distant relations that remained of
her family. Among these were the count and count-
ess D , and the Mon. Amand, who had so much
engaged her pity and esteem at Nice. The lady,
whose death he lamented, was of the family of de
Montalt; and the resemblance which he had traced
between her features and those nf Adeline, her
cousin, was something more than the effect of fan-
cy. The death of his elder brother had abruptly
recalled him from Italy ; but Adeline had the satis-
faction to observe, that the heavy melancholy which
formerly oppressed him, had yielded to a sort ot
placid resignation, and that his countenance was
often enlivened by a jtransient gleam of cheerful-
ness.
The count and countess D , who were much
interested by her goodness and beauty, invited her
to make their hotel her residence while she remain-
ed at Paris.
Her first care was to have the remains of her par-


1" 5
THE ROMANCE
ent removed from the abbey of St. Clair, and depos-
ited in the vault of Ilia ancestors. DTAunoy was
tried, condemned, and hanged for the murder. At
the place of execution he had described the spot
where the remains of the marquis were concealed,
which was in the stone room, already mentioned,
belonging to the abbey. M. Verneuil accompanied
the officers appointed for the search, and attended
the ashes of the marquis to St. Manr, an estate in
one of the northern provinces. There they were
deposited with the solemn funeral pomp becoming
his rank. Adeline attended as chief mourner; and,
this last duty paid to the memory of her parent,
she became more tranquil and resigned. The man-
uscript that recorded his sufferings had been found
at the abbey, and delivered to her by M. Verneuil,
and she preserved it with the pious enthusiasm
which so sacred a rellque deserved.-'
On her return to Paris, Theodore La Luc, who
Was come from Montpelier, awaited her arrival.
The happiness of this meeting was clouded by the
account he brought of his father, whose extreme
danger had alone withheld him from hastening the
moment he obtained his liberty, to thank Adeline
for the life she had preserved. She now received
him as the friend to whom she was indebted for her
preservation, and as the lover who deserved and
possessed her tenderest affection. The remembrance
of the circumstances under which they had last
met, and of their mutual anguish, rendered more
exquisite the happiness of the present moments,
when, no longer oppressed by the horrid prospect of
ignominious death and final separation, they looked
forward only to the smiling days that awaited them,
when, hand in hand, they should tread the flowery
scenes of life.
The contrast which memory drew of the past
with the present, frequently drew tears of tender-
ness and gratitude to their eyes; and the sweet
smile, which seemed struggling to dispel from the
countenance of Adeline those gems of sorrow, pene-
trated the heart of Theodore, and brought to hia
recollection a little song which in other circum-
stances he had formerly sung to her. He took up a
lute that lay on the table, and touching the dulcet
chords, accompanied it with the following words:


OP THE FOREST.
SONG.
The rose that weeps with morning dew,
And glitters in the sunny ray,
In tears and smiles resembles you,
When love breaks sorrow's cloud away.
Thedews that bend the blushing flow'r,
Enrich the scent—renew the glow;
So love's sweet tears exalt his power,
So bliss more brightly shines by woe 1
Her affection for Theodore had induced Adeline
to reject several suitors which her goodness, beauty,
and wealth, had already attracted, and who, though
infinitely his superiors in point of fortune, were
many of them inferior to him in family, and all of
them in merit. _
The various and tumultuous emotions w-hich the
late events had called forth in the bosom of Adeline,
were now subsided ; but the memory of her father
still tinctured her mind with a melancholy that
time only could subdue ; and she refused to listen to
the supplications of Theodoie till the period she
had prescribed for her mourning should be expired.
The necessity of rejoining his regiment obliged him
to leave Paris within the fortnight after his arrival;
but he carried with him assurance of teceiving her
band soon after she should lay aside her sable habit,
and departed therefore with tolerable composure.
JVI. La Luc's very precarious state was a source of
incessant disquietude to Adeline, nnd she determin-
ed to accompany M. Verneujl, who was now the
declared lover of Clara, to Montpelier, whither I.a
Luc had immediately gone on the liberation of his
son. For this journey she was preparing, when she
recieved from her friend a flattering account of his
amendment, and, as some farther settlement of her
affairs required her presence at Paris, she deferred
her design, and M. Verneuil departed alone.
When Theodore's affairs assumed a more favor-
able aspect, M. Verneuil had written to La Luc, and
communicated to him the secret of his heart re-
specting Clara. La Luc, who admired and esteemed
M. Verneuil, and who was not ignorant of his fom.
ily connexions,' was pleased with the proposed alli-
Vol. II. 12


173
THE ROMANCE
nnce. Clara thought she had never seen any person
whom she was bo much inclined to love ; and M.
Verneuil received an answer favorable to Ms wish-
es, and which encouraged him to undertake the
present journey to Montpelier.
The restoration of his happiness and the climate
of Montpelier did all for the health of La Luc that
his most anxious friends could wish, and he was at
length so far recovered as to visit Adeline at her
estate of St. Maur. Clara and M. Verneuil accom-
panied him, nnd a cessation of hostilities between
France and Spain, soon after permitted Theodore to
join this happy party.
When La laic, thus resorted to those most dear
to him, looked back to the miseries he had escaped,
and forward to the blessings that awaited him, his
heart dilated with emotions of exqjiisite joy and
gratitude ; and his venerable countenance, softened
by an expression Of complacent delight, exhibited a.
perfect picture of happy o^e.
—oooo—
CHAPTER XV.
Last came Joy' s ecstatic trial;
Thcy would have thought, who heard the strain.
They saw in Tempers vale her native maids
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unweari'd minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers hiss'd tJie strings,
Love fram'd with mirth a gay fantastic round.''
Ode to the Passions.
Adeline. in the society of friends so beloved,
lost the impression of that melancholy which the
fate of her parent had occasioned ; she recovered
all her natural vivacity; and when she threw offthe
mourning habit, which filial piety had required her
to assume, she gave her hand to Theodore. The
nuptials, which were celebrated at St. Maur, were
graced by the presence of the count and countess
t> , and La Luc had the supreme felicity of con-
firming, on the same day, the flattering destinies of
-both his children. When the ceremony was over,
he blessed and embraced them all with tears of fa-


OF THE FOREST. 179
Uierly affection. « I thank thee, O God! that I
have been permitted to see this hour," said he;
"whenever it shall please, thee to call me hence, f
shall depart in peace."
"Long, very long, may you be spared to bless
your children!" replied Adeline. Clara kissed her
father's hand and wept—"Long, very long!" she
repeated in a voice scarcely audible. La Luc smiled
cheerfully, and turned the conversation to a subject
less affecting.
But the time now drew nigh when La Luc thought
It necessary to return to the duties of his parish,
from which he had so long been absent. Madame
La Luc too, who had attended him during the peri-
od of his danger at Montpelier, and hence returned
to Savoy, complained much of the solitude of her
life ^ and this.was with her brother an additional
motive for his speedy departure. Theodore and
Adeline, who could not support the thought of a
separation, endeavored to persuade him to give up
his chateau, and to reside with them in France : but
he was held by, many ties to Leloncourt. For many
years he had constituted the comfort and happiness
of his parishioners; they revered and loved him as
a father; he regarded them with an affection little
short of parental. The attachment they discovered
towards him on his departure was not forgotten
either;—it had made a deep impression on his mind,
and he could not bear the thought of forsaking them,
now that heaven had showered on him its abun-
dance, "tt is sweet to live for them," said he, "and
I will also die amongst them." A sentiment also of
a more tender nature, (and let not the Stoic profane
it with the name of weakness, or the man of the
world scorn,it as unnatural,)—a sentiment still
more tender attached him to Leloncourt; the re-
mains of his wife reposed there.
Since La Luc would not reside in France, Theo-
dore and Adeline, to whom the splendid gaieties
that courted them at Paris were very inferior tempt-
ations to the sweet domestic pleasures and refmed
society which Leloncourt would afford, determined
to accompany La Luc and Mona. and Madame Ver-
neuil abroad. Adeline arranged her affairs so as to
render her residence in France unnecessary ; and
having bidden an affectionate adieu, to the count


OF THE FOREST.
band, the pride of his family and herself; and while
the sensibility of her heart flowed In tears from her
eyes, a smile of ineffable tenderness told him all she
felt. He gently pressed her hand, and answered her
with, a look of love.
Peter, who now rode up to the carriage with a
face full of joy and importance, interrupted a course
of sentiment which was become almost too inter-
esting, "Ah, my dear master !" cried he, "wel-
come home again. Here is the village, God bless it!
—It is worth a million such places as Paris. Thank
St. Jacques, we are all come safe back!"
This effusion of honest Peter's joy was received
and answered with the kindness it deserved. As
they drew near the lake, music sounded over the
water, and they presently saw a large party of the
villagers assembled on the green spot that sloped to
the very margin of the waves, and dancing in all
their holiday finery. It was in the evening of a fes-
tival. The elder peasants sat under the shade of
the trees that crowned this little eminence, eating
milk fruits, and watching their sons and daughters
frisk it away to the sprightly notes of the tabor and
pipe, which was joined by the softer tones of a
mandolin.
The scene was highly interesting, and what added
to its picturesque beauty was a group of cattle that
stood, some on the brink, some half in the water,
and others reposing on the green bank, while several
peasant girls, dressed in the neat simplicity of their
country, were dispensing the milky feast.
Peter now rode on first, and a crowd soon collect-
ed around him, who, learning that their beloved
master was at hand, went forth to meet and wel-
come him. Their warm and honest expressions of
joy diffused an exquisite satisfaction over the heart
of the good La Luc, who met them with the kind-
ness of a father, and who could scarcely forbear
sheding tears to this testimony of their attach-
ment. When the younger part of the peasants heard
the news of his arrival, the general joy was such
that, led by the tabor and pipe, they danced before
his carriage to the chateau, when they again wel-
comed him and his family with the enlivening
strains of music. At the gate of the chateau, they
were received by- Madame La Luc, and a happier
party never met.


OF THE FOREST.
The rural pipe and tabor was placed, at Clara's
request, under the shade of her beloved acacias ou
the margin of the lake; the merry notes of music
sounded ; Adeline led off the dance, and the moun-
tains answered only to the strains of mirth and
melody.
The venerable La Luc, as he sat among the elder
peasants, surveyed the scene—his children and
people thus assembled round him in one grand com-
pact of harmony and joy ; the frequent tear bedewed
bis cheek, and he seemed to taste the fulness of an
external delight. So much was every heart roused
to gladness, that the morning dawn began to peep
upon the scene of their festivity, wheu every cot-
tager returned to his home, blessing the benevolence
of La Luc.
After passing some weeks with La Luc, M. Ver-
neuil bought a chateau in the village of Leloncourt,
and, as it was the only one not already occupied.
Theodore looked out for a residence in the neigh-
borhood. At the distance of a few leagues, on the
beautiful banks of the lake of Geneva, where the
waters retire into a small bay, he purchased a villa.
-The chateau was characterised by an air of simplic-
ity and taste, rather than of magnificence, which
however was the chief trait in the surrounding
scene. The chateau was almost encircled with
woods, which, forming a grand amphitheatre, swept
down to the water's edge, and abounded with wild
and romantic walks. Here nature was suffered to-
sport in all her beautiful luxuriance, except, where
here and there, the hands of art formed the foliage
to admit a view of the blue waLetsof the lake, with
the white sail that glided by, or of the distant moun-
tains, in front of the chateau the woods opened to
a lawn, and the eye was suffered to wander over-
the lake, whose bosom presented an ever moving
picture, while its varied margin, sprinkled with
villas, woods and towns, and crowned beyond with
the snowy and sublime Alps, rising point behind
point in awful confusion, exhibited a scenery of al-
most unequalled magnificence.
Flere, contemning the splendor of false happiness,
and possessing the pure and rational delights of a
love, refined into the most tender friendship, sur-
rounded by the friends so dear to them, and visited