A





"V,' 1


TH E
Romance of the Forest:
INTERSPERSED WITH. . .
SOME PIECES OF POETRY.
« 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 mall be done
"A deed of dreadful note."
MACHETK.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
THE SECOND EDITION.
. 2, BY ANN RADCLIFFE,
AUTHOR OF
« A SICILIAN ROMANCE," &c
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR T. HOOKHAM AND J. CARPENTER,
NEW AND OLD BOND STREET.
lt.OCC.XCIt.


ADVERTISEMENT.
IT is proper to mention that some of the little
Poems inserted in the following Pages have ap-
peared, by permission of the Author, in the Qa*
gETTEEX.


DEDICATION-
TO HER GRACE
T H »
0
DUCHESS of LEEDS.
Madam,
I AM too grateful for the honour of
being permitted to say that this work
has your Grace's approbation, to
Vol. I. a misuse


misuse the opportunity now offered
me of addressing you, by praise,
which it would be presumption in
me to offer, and which it is the
privilege of your Grace's merits to
disdain.
Rather let me rejoice that the at-
tention given in the following pages,
to the cause of morality, has induced
you to overlook the weakness of my
endeavours to support it; and that
the name of a Lady whose virtues.
honour her rank, as much as her
accomplishments adorn it, sanctions
this work to those who might other-
wise.


C v ]
wise doubt the tendency of a modern
Romance.
I have the honour to be,
with the most respectful deference,
your Grace's much obliged
and obedient
humble Servant,
ANN RADCLIFFE.





ROMANCE
OF THE
FOREST.
CHAPTER I.
y *' I am a man,
"So weary with disasters, tuggM with fortune,
** That I would set my life on any chance,
« To mend it, or be rid on't."
King John. M When once sordid interest seizes
** on the heart, it freezes up the source of
« every warm and liberal feeling: it is an
"enemy alike to virtue and to taste—thit
"it perverts, and that it annihilates. The
A * ** time


[ 4 3
"time may come, my friend, when death
'' shall dissolve the sinews of Avarice, and
"Justice be permitted to resume her
"rights."
Such were the words of the Advocate
Nemours to Pierre de la Motte, as the
latter stept at midnight into the carriage
which was to bear him far from Paris,
from his creditors and the persecution of
the laws. De la Motte thanked him for
this last instance of his kindness, the as-
sistance he had given him in escape,
and, when the carriage drove away, ut-
tered a sad adieu! The gloom of the
hour, and the peculiar emergency of his
circumstances, funk him in silent re-
verie.
Whoever has read Guyot de Pitaval,
the most faithful of those writers who re-
cord the proceedings in the Parliamen-
tary Courts of Paris, during the seven-
teenth century, must surely remember
the striking story of Pierre de la Motte,
and the Marquis Phillips de Montalt;
let
r


C 5 ]
let all such, therefore, be informed, that
the person here introduced to their notice
was that individual Pierre de la Motte.
As Madame de la Motte leaned from
the coach window, and gave a last look
to the walls of Paris—Paris, the scene of
her former happiness, and the residence
of many dear friends — the fortitude,
which had till now supported her, yielded
to the force of grief. "Farewell all!"
sighed she, "this last look—and we are
"separated for ever!" Tears followed
her words, and, sinking back, she re-
signed herself to the stillness of sorrow.
The recollection of former times pressed
heavily upon her heart: a few months
before, and she was surrounded by friends,
fortune, and consequence; now,' she was
deprived of all, a miserable exile from
her native place, without home, without
comfort—almost without hope. It was
not the least of her afflictions that she had
been obliged to quit Paris without bid-
ding adieu to her only son, who was now
A 3 on


[ 6 J
on duty with his regiment in Germany:
and such had been the precipitancy of
this removal, that had the even known
where he was stationed, she had no time
to inform him of it, or of the alteration it's his father's circumstances.
Pierre de laMotte was a gentleman, de-
scended from an ancient house of France.
He was a man whose passions often over-
came his reason, and, for a time, silen-
ced his conscience; but, though the
image of virtue, which Nature had im-
pressed upon his heart, was sometimes
obscured by the passing influence of vice,
it was never wholly obliterated. With
strength of mind sufficient to have with-
/ stood temptation, he would have been a
good man; as it was, he was always a
weak, and sometimes a vicious member
of society: yet his mind was active, and
his imagination vivid, which, co-opera-
ting with the force of passion, often daz-
zled his judgment and subdued prin-
ciple. Thus he was a man, infirm in
pur-


[ 7 ]
purpose and visionary in virtue: in a
word, his conduct was suggested by feel-
ing, rather than principle; and his vir-
tue, such as it was, could not stand the
pressure of occasion.
Early in life he had married Constance
Valentia, a beautiful and elegant woman,
attached to her family and beloved by
them. Her birth was equal, her fortune
superior to his; and their nuptials had
been celebrated under the auspices of an
approving and flattering world. Her
heart was devoted to La Motte, and, for
some time, she found in him an affec-
tionate husband; but, allured by the
gaieties of Paris, he was soon devoted to
its luxuries, and in a few years his for-
tune and affection were equally lost in
dissipation. A false pride had still ope-
rated against his interest, and withheld
him from honourable retreat while it was
yet it in his power: the habits which
he had acquired, enchained him to the
scene of his former pleasure; and thus
A 4 he


[ 8 j
he had continued an expensive stile of
life till the means of prolonging it were
exhausted. He at length awoke from
this lethargy of security; but it was only
to plunge into new error, and to attempt
schemes for the reparation of his fortune,
which served to sink him deeper in de-
struction. The consequence of a tran-
saction, in which he thus engaged, now
drove him, with the small wreck of his
property, into dangerous and ignomi-
nious exile.
It was his design to pass into one of
the Southern Provinces, and there seek,
near the borders of the kingdom, an
asylum in some obscure village. His
family consisted of his wife, and two
faithful domestics, a man and woman,
who followed the fortunes of their
master.
The night was dark and tempestuous,
and, at about the distance of three
leagues from Paris, Peter, who now acted
as postillion, having drove for some time
over


[ 9 ]
over a wild heath where many ways
crossed, stopped, and acquainted De la
Motte with-his perplexity. The sudden
stopping of the carriage roused the latter
from his reverie, and filled the whole
party with the terror of pursuit; he was
unable to supply the necessary direction,
and the extreme darkness made it dan-
gerous to proceed without one. During
this period of distress, a light was per-
ceived at some distance, and after much
doubt and hesitation, L.a Motte, in the
hope of obtaining assistance, alighted
and advanced towards it; he proceeded
slowly, from the fear of unknown pits.
The light issued from the window of a
small and ancient .house, which stood
alone on the heath, at the distance of half
a mile.
Having reached the door, he stopped
for some moments, listening in apprehen-
sive anxiety—no sound was heard but
that of the wind, which swept in hollow ..
gusts over the waste. At length he ven-
A 5 tured


[ IO ]
tured to knock, and, having waited
some time, during which he indistinctly
heard several voices in conversation,
some one within inquired what he
wanted? La Motte answered, that he
was a traveller who had lost his way, and
desired to be directed to the nearest town.
*' That," said the person, "is seven
"miles off, and the road bad enough,
"even if you could fee it; if you only
"want a bed, you may have it here,
** and had better stay."
The "pitiless pelting" of the storm,
which, at this time, beat with increasing
fury upon La Motte, inclined him to
give up the attempt of proceeding far-
ther till day-light; but, desirous of see-
ing the person with whom he conversed,
before he ventured to expose his family
by calling up the carriage, he asked to
be admitted. The door was now opened
by a tall figure with a light, who invited
La Motte to enter. He followed the
man through a passage into a room al-
i most


C » ]
most unfurnished, in one corner of which
a bed was spread upon the floor. The
forlorn and desolate aspect of this apart-
ment made La Motte shrink involun-
tarily, and he was turning to go out
when the man suddenly pushed him
back, and he heard the door locked
upon him: his heart failed, yet he made
a desperate, though vain, effort to force
the door, and called loudly for release.
No answer was returned; but he distin-
guished the voices of men in the room
above, and, not doubting but their inten-
tion was to rob and murder him, his agita-
tion, at first, nearly overcame his reason.
By the light of some almost-expiring em-
bers, he perceived a window, but the
hope which this discovery revived, was
quickly lost, when he found the aperture
guarded by strong iron bars. Such pre-
paration for security surprized him, and
confirmed his. worst apprehensions.—
Alone, unarmed—beyond the chance of
assistance, he saw himself in the power
A 6 of


[ 12 ]
of people, whose trade was apparently
rapine !—murder their means !—After
revolving every possibility of escape, he
endeavoured to await the event with for-
titude; but La Motte could boast of no
such virtue.
The voices had ceased, and all re-
mained still for a quarter of an hour,
when, between the pauses of the wind,
he thought he distinguished the sobs and
moaning of a female; he listened atten-
tively and became confirmed in his con-
jecture; it was too evidently the accent
of distress. At this conviction, the re-
mains of his courage forsook him, and a
terrible surmise darted, with the rapidity
of lightning, cross his brain. It was pro-
bable that his carriage had been disco-
vered by the people of the house, who,
with a design of plunder, had secured
his servant, and brought hither Madame
de la Motte. He was the more inclined
to believe this, by the stillness which had,
for some time, reigned in the house, pre-
vious


[ i3 3
vious to the sounds he now heard. Or
it was possible that the inhabitants were
not robbers, but persons to whom he had
been betrayed by his friend or servant,
and who were appointed to deliver him
into the hands of justice. Yet he hardly
dared to doubt the integrity of his friend,
who had been entrusted with the secret of
his flight and the plan of his route, and
had procured him the carriage in which
he had escaped. "Such depravity,"
exclaimed La Motte, "cannot surely.
"exist in human nature; much less in
"the heart of Nemours ["
This ejaculation was interrupted by a
noise in the passage leading to the room:
it approached—the door was unlocked—
and the man who had admitted La Motte
into the house entered, leading, or ra-
ther forcibly dragging along, a beautiful
girl, who appeared to be about eighteen.
Her features were bathed in tears, and
stie seemed to suffer the utmost distress.
The man fastened the lock and put the
key


[ H ]
*key in his pocket. He then advanced
to La Motte, who had before observed
other persons in the passage, and point-
ing a pistol to his breast, "You are
wholly in our power," said he," "no
"assistance can reach you: if you wish
"to save your life, swear that you will
"convey this girl where I may never
"see her more; or rather consent to
"take her with you, for your oath I
"would not believe, and I can take
"care you shall not find me again.—
"Answer quickly, you have no time to
"lose."
He now seized the trembling hand of
the girl, who shrunk aghast with terror,
and hurried her towards La Motte,
whom surprize still kept silent. She
sunk at his feet, and with supplicating
eyes, that streamed with tears, implored
him to have pity on her. Notwithstand-
ing his present agitation, he found it im-
possible to contemplate the beauty and
distress of the object, before him with in-
i difference.


C is ]
difference. Her youth, her apparent innocence—the artless energy of her
manner forcibly assailed his heart, and
he was going to speak, when the ruffian,
who mistook the silence of astonishment
for that of hesitation, prevented him.
"I have a horse ready to take you from
"hence," said he, "and I will direct: you
"over the heath. If you return within
"an hour you die: after then, you are
"at liberty to come here when you
"please."
La Motte, without answering, raised
the lovely girl from the floor, and was so
much relieved from his own apprehen-
sions, that he had leisure to attempt dis-
sipating her's. "Let us begone," said
the ruffian, "and have no more of this
"nonsense; you may think yourself well
"off it's no worse. I'll go and get the
"horse ready."
The last words roused La Motte,
and perplexed him with new fears;
he dreaded to mention his carriage, lest


C x6 ]
lest it might tempt the banditti to
plunder; and to depart on horseback
with this man might produce a conse-
quence yet more to be dreaded. Ma-
dame La Motte, wearied with apprehen-
sion, would, probably, send for her
husband to the house, when all the
former danger would be incurred, with
the additional evil of being separated
from his family, and the chance of being
detected by the emissaries of justice in
endeavouring to recover them. As these
reflections passed over his mind in tu-
multuous rapidity, a noise was again
heard in the passage, an uproar and scuffle
ensued, and in the same moment he
could distinguish the voice of his servant,
who had been sent by Madame La Motte.
in search of him. Being now determined
to disclose what could not long be con-
cealed, he exclaimed aloud, that a horse
was unnecessary, that he had a carriage
at some distance which would convey
them


C *7 ]
them from the heath, the man, who was
seized, being his servant.
The ruffian, speaking through the
door, bid him be patient awhile, and he
should hear more from him. La Motte
now turned his eyes upon his unfortunate
companion, who, pale and exhausted,
leaned for support against the wall. Her
features, which were delicately beautiful,
had gained from distress an expression of
captivating sweetness: she had
"An eye,
"As when the blue sky trembles thro'a cloud
« Of purest white.''
A habit of grey camlet, with short
slashed sleeves, showed, but did not
adorn, her figure: it was thrown open
at the bosom, upon which part of her
hair had fallen in disorder, while the
light veil hastily thrown on, had, in her
confusion, been suffered to fall back.
Every moment of farther observation
heightened the surprize of La Motte, and
inte-


[ i8 ]
interested him more warmly in her fa-
vour. Such elegance and apparent re-
finement, contrasted with the desolation
of the house, and the savage manners of
its inhabitants, seemed to him like a ro-
mance of imagination, rather than an oc-
currence of real life. He endeavoured to
comfort her, and his sense of compassion
was too sincere to be misunderstood.
Her terror gradually subsided into grati-
tude and grief. "Ah, Sir!" said she,
"Heaven has sent you to my relief, and
"will surely reward you for your pro-
u section: I have no friend in the
"world, if I do not find one in you."
La Motte assured her of his kindness,
when he was interrupted by the entrance
of the ruffian. He desired to be con-
ducted to his family. "All in good
f' time," replied the latter; " I have
* taken care of one of them, and will
"of you, please St. Peter; so be com-
"sorted." These comfortable words re-
newed the terror of La Motte, who
now


C *9 ]
now earnestly begged to know if his fe1
mily were safe. "O! as for that mat-
"ter they are safe enough, and you will
"be with them presently; but don't
"stand partying here all night. Do you
'* chuse to go or stay? you know the
"conditions." They now bound the
eyes of La Motte and of the young
lady, whom terror had hitherto kept
silent, and then placing them on two
horses, a man mounted behind each,
and they immediately gallopped off.
They had proceeded in this way near
half an hour, when La Motte entreated
to know whither he was going; '* You
"will know that by and bye," said the
ruffian, '* so be at peace." Finding in-
terrogatories useless, La Motte resumed
silence till the horses stopped. His con-
ductor then hallooed, and being an-
swered by voices at some distance, in a
few moments the found of carriage
wheels was heard, and, presently after,
the words of a man directing Peter which
way


C 2° 3
way to drive. As the carriage ap-
proached, La Motte called, and, to his
inexpressible joy, was answered by his
wife.
"You are now beyond the borders
"of the heath, and may go which way
"you will," said the ruffian; "if you
"return within an hour, you will be
"welcomed by a brace of bullets."
This was a very unnecessary caution to
La Motte, whom they now released.
The young stranger sighed deeply, as
flie entered the carriage; and the ruffians,
having bestowed upon Peter some direc-
tions and more threats, waited to fee him
drive off. They did not wait long.
La Motte immediately gave a short
relation of what had passed at the house,
including an account of the manner in
which the young stranger had been in-
troduced to him. During this narrative,
her deep* convulsive sighs frequently
drew the attention of Madame La Motte,
whose compassion became gradually in-
terested,


r *i ]
terested in her behalf, and who now
endeavoured to tranquillize her spirits.
The unhappy girl answered her kindness
in artless and simple expressions, and then
relapsed into tears and silence. Madame
forbore for the present to ask any ques-
tions that might lead to a discovery of
her connections, or seem to require an
explanation of the late adventure, which
now furnishing her with a new subject of
reflection, the sense of her own misfor-
tunes pressed less heavily upon her mind.
The distress even of La Motte was for a
while suspendedj he ruminated on the
late scene, and it appeared like a vision,
or one of those extravagant fictions that
sometimes are exhibited in romance:
he could reduce it to no principle of
probability, or render it comprehensible
by any endeavour to analize it. The
present charge, and the chance of future
trouble brought upon him by this adven-
ture, occasioned some dissatisfaction;
but the beauty and seeming innocence
of


i « ]
of Adeline, united with the pleadings of
humanity in her favour, and he deter-
mined to protect her.
The tumult of emotions which had
passed in the bosom of Adeline, began
now to subside; terror was softened into
anxiety, and despair into grief. The
sympathy so evident in the manners of
her companions, particularly in those of
Madame La Motte, soothed her heart,
and encouraged her to hope for better
days.
Dismally and silently the night passed
on; for the minds of the travellers were
too much occupied by their several suf-
ferings to admit of conversation. The
dawn, so anxiously watched format length
appeared, and introduced the strangers
more fully to each other. Adeline de-
rived comfort from the looks of Madame
La Motte, who gazed frequently and
attentively at her, and thought she had
seldom seen a countenance so interesting,
or a form so striking. The languor of
sorrow


L *3 I
sorrow threw a melancholy grace upon
her features, that appealed immediately
to the heart; and there was a penetrating
sweetness in her blue eyes, which indi-
cated an intelligent and amiable mind.
La Motte now looked anxiously from
the coach window, that he might judge
of his situation, and observe whether he
was followed. The obscurity of the
dawn confined his views, but no person
appeared. The sun at length tinted the
eastern clouds, and the tops of the highest
hills, and soon after burst in full splen-
dour on the scene. The terrors of La
Motte began to subside, and the griefs
of Adeline to soften. They entered upon
a lane confined by high banks, and over-
arched by trees, on whose branches ap-
peared the first green buds of spring
glittering with dews. The fresh breeze
of the morning animated the spirits of
Adeline, whose mind was delicately sen-
sible to the beauties of nature. As she
viewed the flowery luxuriance of the
turf,


C H 1
'&rf, and the tender green of the trees,
or caught, between the opening banks,
a glimpse of the varied landscape, rich
with wood, and fading into blue and
distant mountains, her heart expanded
in momentary joy. With Adeline the
charms of external nature were height-
ened by those of novelty; she had sel-
dom seen the grandeur of an extensive
prospect, or the magnificence of a wide
horizon—and not often the picturesque
beauties of more confined scenery. Hef
mind had not lost, by long oppression,
that elastic energy, which resists calami-
ty; else, however susceptible might have
been her original taste, the beauties of
nature would no longer have charmed
her thus easily even to temporary re-
pose.
The road, at length, wound down the
side of a hill, and La Motte, again look-
ing anxiously from the window, saw be-
fore him an open champaign country,
through which the road, wholly unshel-
tered


C *5 3
terejd from observation, extended almost
in a direct line. The danger of these
circumstances alarmed him, for his flight
might, without difficulty, be traced for
many leagues from the hills he was now
descending. Of the first peasant that
pasted, he inquired for a road among
the hills, but heard of none. La Motte
now funk into his former terrors. Ma-
dame, notwithstanding her own appre-
hensions, endeavoured to reassure him,
but, finding her efforts ineffectual, she
also retired to the contemplation of her
misfortunes. Often, as they went on,
did La Motte look back upon the coun-
try they had passed, and often did imagi-
nation suggest to him the sounds of dis-
tant pursuit.
The travellers stopped to breakfast in a
village, where the road was at length ob-
scured by woods, and La Motte's spirits again revived. Adeline appeared more
tranquil than she had yet been, and La
Motte now asked for an explanation of
Vol. I. B


C ** 3
the scene he had witnessed on the pre-
ceding night. The inquiry renewed all
her distress, and with tears she entreated
for the present to be spared on the subject.
La Motte pressed it no farther, but he ob-
served that for the greater part of the day
she seemed to remember it in melancholy
and dejection. They now travelled a-
mong the hills, and were, therefore, in
less danger of observation; but La
Motte avoided the great towns, and
stopped in obscure ones no longer than
to refresh the horses. About two hours
after noon, the road wound into a deep
valley, watered by a rivulet, and over-
hung with wood. La Motte called to, Peter, and ordered him to drive to a
..thickly embowered spot, that appeared
on the left. Here he alighted with his
family, and Peter having spread the
provisions on the turf, they seated them-
selves, and partook of a repast, which,
in other circumstances, would have been
thought delicious. Adeline endeavour-
ed


. [ *7 ]
ed to smile, but the languor of grief was
now heightened by indisposition. The
violent agitation of mind, and fatigue of
body, which she had suffered for the last
twenty-four hours, had overpowered her
strength, and, when La Motte led her
back to the carriage, her whole frame
trembled with illness; but (he uttered no
complaint, and, having long observed
the dejection of her .companions, she
made a feeble effort to enliven them.
They continued to travel throughout
the day without any accident or inter-
ruption, and, about three hours after sun-
set, arrived at Monville, a small town,
where La Motte determined to pass the
night. Repose was, indeed, necessary
to the whole party, whose pale and hag-
gard looks, as they alighted from the
carriage, were but too obvious to pass
unobserved by the people of the inn.
As soon as beds could be prepared, Ade-
line withdrew to her chamber, accom-
panied by Madame La Motte, whose
B 2 concern


[ *8 ]
concern for the fair stranger made her
exert every effort to soothe and console
her. Adeline wept in silence, and taking
the hand of Madame, pressed it to her
bosom. These were not merely tears of
grief—they were mingled with those
which flow from the grateful heart, when,
unexpectedly, it meets with sympathy.
Madame La Motte understood them.
After some momentary silence, she re-
newed her assurances of kindness, and
. entreated Adeline to confide in her
friendship; but she carefully avoided'
any mention of the subject, which had
before so much affected her. Adeline,
at length, found words to express her
sense of this goodness, which she did in
a manner so natural and sincere, that
Madame, finding herself much affected,
took leave of her for the night.
In the morning, La Motte rose at an
. early hour, impatient to be gone. Every
thing was prepared for his departure,
and the breakfast had been waiting some
time,'


[ *9 3
time, but Adeline did not appear. Ma-
dame La Motte went to her chamber, and
found her sunk in a disturbed slumber.
Her breathing was short and irregular—
she frequently started, or sighed, and
sometimes she muttered an incoherent
sentence. While Madame gazed with
concern upon her languid countenance,
she awoke, and, looking up, gave her
hand to Madame La Motte, who found
it burning with fever. She had passed a
restless night, and, as she now attempt-
ed to rise, her head, which beat with in-
tense pain, grew giddy, her strength fail-
ed, and she sunk back.
-Madame was much alarmed, being at
once convinced that it was impossible she
could travel, and that a delay might
prove fatal to her husband. She went to
inform him of the truth, and his distress
may be more easily imagined than de-
scribed. He saw all the inconvenience
and dangerof delay, yet he could not so far
divest himself of humanity, as to aban-
v . . i B 3 don


[ 3o 3
don Adeline to the care, or rather to the> neglect of strangers. He sent immedi-
ately for a physician, who pronounced
her to he in a high fever, and said, a re-
moval in her present state must be fatal.
La Motte now determined to wait the
event, and endeavoured to calm the transports. of terror, which, at times, as-
sailed him. In the mean while, he
took such precautions as his situation,
admitted of? passing the greater part, of
the day out of the village, in, a spot from? whence he had a. view of the road for
some distance; yet to be exposed to dea-
siruction by the illness of a girl, whom
he did not know,. and who had actually
been forced upon him, was a- misfortune,
to which La Motte had not philosophy
enough to submit with composure.
Adeline's fever continued to increase
during the whole day, and at night, when
the physician took his leave, he told La
Motte the event would very soon be de-
pided. La Motte received this hint of
her


her danger with real concern. The beauty
and innocence of Adeline had overcome
the disadvantageous circumstances un-
der which she had been introduced to
him, and he now gave less consideration
to the inconvenience she might hereafter
occasion him, than to the hope of her
recovery.
Madame La Motte watched over her
with tender anxiety, and observed, with admiration, her patient sweetness and
mild resignation. Adeline amply re«,
paid her, though she thought she could
not. u Young as I am," she would
say, "and deserted by those upon whom
** I have a claim for protection, I can
"remember no connection to make me
'** regret life so much, as that I hoped
"to form with you. If I live, my con-
** duct will best express my sense of your
"goodness;—words are but feeble testi-
** monies."
The sweetness of her manners so much
attracted Madame La Motte, that she
B 4 watched


[ 3* 3
watched the crisis of her disorder, with a
solicitude which precluded every other
interest. Adeline passed a very distur-
bed night, and, when the physician ap-
peared in the morning, he gave orders
that she should be indulged with what-
ever she liked, and answered the inquiries
of La Motte with a frankness that left
him nothing to hope.
In the mean time, his patient, after
drinking profusely of some mild liquids,
fell asleep, in which she continued for seve-
ral hours, and so profound was her repose,
that her breath alone gave sign of exist-
ence. She awoke free from fever, and
with no other disorder than weakness,
which, in a few days, she overcame so
well, as to be able to set out with La
Motte for B . a village out of the
great road, which he thought it prudent
to quit. There they passed the following
night, and early the next morning com-
menced their journey upon a wild and
'. '*' woody'


[ 33 3
woody tract of country. They stopped
about noon at a solitary village, where
they took refreshments, and obtained
directions for passing the vast forest of
Fontanville, upon the borders of which
they now were. La Motte wished at first
to take a guide, but he apprehended
more evil from the disclosure he might
make of his route, than he hoped for
benefit from assistance in the wilds of
this uncultivated tract.
La Motte now designed to pass on to
Lyons, where he could either seek con-
cealment in its neighbourhood, or em-
bark on the Rhone for Geneva, should
the emergency of his circumstances here-
after require him to leave France. It
was about twelve o'clock at noon, and he
was desirous to hasten forward, that he
might pass the forest of Fontanville, and
reach the town on its opposite borders,
before night-fall. Having deposited a
fresh stock of provisions in the carriage,
B 5 and


C 34 3
and received such directions as were ne-
cessary concerning the roads, they again
set forward, and in a short time entered
upon the forest. It was now the latter
end of April, and the weather was re-
markably temperate and fine. The bal-
my freshness of the air, which breathed
thefirst pure essence of vegetation, and
the gentle warmth of the fun,, whose
beams vivified every hue of nature, and
opened every flower of spring, revived
Adeline, and inspired her with life and.
health. As she inhaled the breeze, her
strength seemed to return, and, as her
eyes wandered through the romantic
glades that opened into the forest, her
heart was gladdened with complacent
delight: but when from these objects she
turned her regard upon Monsieur and Ma-
dame La Motte, to whose tender atten-
tions she owed her life, and in whose looks,
she now read esteem and kindness, her
bosom glowed with sweet affections, and
she


C 35 3
slie experienced a force of gratitude
which might be called sublime> ..
For the remainder of the day they con-
tinued to travel, without seeing a hut, or
meeting a human being. It was now
near sunset, and the prospect being, closed on all sides by the forest, La Motte
began to have apprehensions that his
servant had mistaken the way. The
road, if a road it could be called, which'
afforded only a slight track upon the
grass, was sometimes over-run by luxu-
riant vegetation, and sometimes obscured
by the deep shades, and Peter at length
stopped, uncertain of the way. La Motte, .
who dreaded being benighted in a scene
so wild and solitary as this forest, and
whose apprehensions of banditti were
very sanguine, ordered him to proceed
at any rate, and, if he found no track,,
to endeavour to gain a more open part
of the forest. With these orders, Peter
again set forwards, but having proceeded
some way, and his views being still con-
B6 fined»


E 36 ]
fined by woody glades and forest walls, he began to despair of extricating him-
self, and stopped for farther orders. The
fun was now set; but, as La Motte looked
anxiously from the window, he observed
upon the vivid glow of the western ho-
rizon, some dark towers rising from
among the trees at a little distance, and
ordered Peter to drive towards them.
*' If they belong to a monastery," said
he, we may probably gain admittance
"for the night." h
The carriage drove along under the
shade of " melancholy boughs," through
which the evening twilight, which yet
coloured the air, diffused a solemnity that
vibrated in thrilling sensations upon the
hearts of the travellers. Expectation
kept them silent. The present scene
recalled to Adeline a remembrance of
the late terrific circumstances, and her
mind responded but too easily to the
apprehension of new misfortunes. La
Motte


'C 37 J
Motte alighted at the foot of a green
knoll, where the trees again opening to
light, permitted a nearer, though imper-
fect, view of the edifice.
CHAP.


£ 3* 1
CHAP. IL
"What awful silence! How these antique towers,
"And vacant courts, chill the suspended soul 1
"Till expectation wears the face of fear;
"And fear, half ready to become devotion,
"Mutters a kind of mental prison, "It knows not wherefore. What a kind of being
"Is circumstance I"
Horace Walfqle.
H E approached, and perceived the
Gothic remains of an abbey: it ,stood
on a kind of rude lawn, overshadowed by
high and spreading trees, which seemed coeval with the building, and diffused a
romantic gloom around. The greater
part of the pile appeared to be sinking
into ruins, and that, which had withstood
the ravages of time, shewed the remain-
ing features of the fabric more awful in
decay. The lofty battlements, thickly
enwreathed with ivy, were half demolish-
ed,


E 39 T
ed, and become the residence of birds of
prey. Huge fragments of the eastern
tower, which was almost demolished, lay
scattered amid the high grass, that waved
slowly to the. breeze.. '* The thistle
"shook. its lonely head; the moss whis-
"tied to the wind." A Gothic gate,
richly ornamented with fret-work, which
opened into the main body of the edi-
fice, but which was now obstructed with
brush-wood,. remained entire. Above
the vast and magnificent portal of this
gate arose a window of the same order,
whose pointed arches still exhibited frag-
ments of stained glass, once the pride of
monkish devotion.. La Motte, thinking
it possible it might yet shelter some hu-
man being, advanced to the gate and
lifted a massy knocker. The hollow
sounds rung through the emptiness of the
place. After waiting a few minutes, he
forced back the gate, which was heavy
with iron work, and creaked harshly on, its hinges.
He


C 40 ]
He entered what appeared to have
been the chapel of the abbey, where the
hymn of devotion had once been raised,
and the tear of penitence had once been
shed; sounds, which could now only be
recalled by imagination—tears of peni-
tence, which had been long since fixed
in fate. La Motte paused a moment,
for he felt a sensation of sublimity rising
into terror—a suspension of mingled asto-
nishment and awe! He surveyed the
vastness of the place, and as he contem-
plated its ruins, fancy bore him back to
'past ages. "And these walls," said he,
"where once superstition lurked, and
*' austerity anticipated an earthly purga-
"tory, now tremble over the mortal rc-
"mains of the beings who reared them!"
The deepening gloom reminded La
Motte that he had no time to lose;
but curiosity prompted him to explore
farther, and he obeyed the impulse. As
he walked over the broken pavement, the
sound of his steps ran in echoes through
the


C 41 3
the place, and seemed like the mysterious
accents of the dead, reproving the sacri-
legious mortal who thus dared to disturb
their precincts.
From this chapel he pasted into the
nave of the great church, of which one
window, more perfect than the rest,
opened upon a long vista of the forest,
through which was seen the rich colour-
ing of evening, melting by imperceptible
gradations into the solemn grey of upper
air. Dark hills, whose outline appeared
distinct upon the vivid glow of the ho-
rizon, closed the perspective. Several
of the pillars, which had once supported
the roof, remained the proud effigies of
sinking greatness, and seemed to nod at
every murmur of the blast over the frag-
ments of those that had fallen a little be-
fore them. La Motte sighed. The
comparison between himself and the gra-
dation of decay, which these columns /
exhibited, was but too obvious and af-
fecting. "A few years," said he, " and


C 4* }
w I shall become like the mortals on,
"whose reliques I now gaze, and, like
"them too, I may be the subject of me-
t' ditation to a succeeding generation,
"which mail totter but a. little while.
*' over the object they contemplate, e'er
u they also fink into the dust."
Retiring from this scene, he walked
through the cloisters, till a door, which
communicated with a lofty part of the
building, attracted his curiosity. He
opened this and perceived, across the
foot of a staircase, another door;—*
but now, partly checked by fear, and
partly by the recollection of the surprize
his family might feel in his absence, he
returned with hasty steps to his carriage,
having wasted some of the precious mo-
ments of twilight,, and gained no infor-
mation.
Some slight answer to Iviadame La
Motte's inquiries, and a general direc-
tion to Peter to drive carefully on, and
look for a road, was all that his anxiety
would


C 3
would permit him to utter. The night
Shade fell thick around, which, deepened
by the gloom of the forest,. soon rendered
it dangerous to proceed. Peterstopped,.
but La Motte, persisting in his first de-
termination, ordered him to go on. Pe-
ter ventured to remonstrate, Madame La.
Mojjg entreated, but La Motte repror
ved..rr<;Qm.manded, and at length re*
jpented i for the hind wheel rising upon
glut stunip of an old tree, which the dark ness had prevented Peter from observing*
he carriage w$s in an instant overturned.
The E4ffy» may be supposed* were
much terrified, but noone was materially
hurt* and having disengaged themselves
from these perilous situation, La Motte
and Peter endeavoured to raise the car-
riage. The extent of this misfortune
was now discovered, for they per-
ceived that the wheel was broke.. Their
distress was reasonably great, for not only
was the coach disabled from proceedings but it could not even afford a shelter
from


C 44 ]
from the cold dews of the night, it being
impossible to preserve it in an upright
situation. After a few moments silence,
La Motte proposed that they should
return to the ruins they had just
quitted, which lay at a very short dis-
tance,, and pass the night in the most ha-
bitable part of them; that, when morn-
ing dawned, Peter should take one of the
coach horses, and endeavour to find a
road and a town, from whence assistance
could be procured for repairing the car-
riage. This proposal was opposed by
Madame La Motte, who shuddered at
the idea of passing so many hours in dark-
ness in a place so forlorn as the monas-
tery. Terrors, which she neither endea-
voured to examine, or combat, over-
came her, and she told La Motte she had
rather remain exposed. to the unwhole-
some dews of night, than encounter the
desolation of the ruins. La Motte had
jit first felt an equal reluctance to return
to this spot, but having subdued his own
feelings,


C 45 ]
feelings, he resolved not to yield to those of his wife.
The horses being now disengaged
from the carriage, the party moved to-
wards the edifice. As they proceeded,
Peter, who followed them, struck a light,
and they entered the ruins by the flame
of sticks, which he had collected. The
partial gleams thrown across the fabric
seemed to make its desolation more so-
lemn, while the obscurity of the greater
part of the pile heightened its sublimity,
and led fancy on to scenes of horror.
Adeline, who had hitherto remained
silent, now uttered an exclamation of
mingled admiration and fear. A kind
of pleasing dread thrilled her bosom, and
filled all her soul. Tears started to her
eyes:—she wished, yet feared, to go
on;—she hung upon the arm of La
Motte, and looked at him with a sort of
hesitating interrogation.
He opened the door of the great hall,
and they entered : its extent was lost in
l gloom.


C 46 3
gloom. "Let us stay here," said Ma-
dame de la Motte, *' I will go no far-
*' ther." La Motte pointed to the
broken roof, and was proceeding, when
he was interrupted by an uncommon
noise, which passed along the hall. They
were all silent—it was the silence of ter-
ror. Madame La Motte spoke first.
** Let us quit this spot," said she, "any
"evil is preferable to the feeling which
'* now oppresses me. Let us retire in-
"stantly." The stillness had for some
time remained undisturbed, and La
Motte, ashamed of the fear he had invo-
luntarily betrayed, now thought it ne-
cessary to affect a boldness, which he did
not feel. He, therefore, opposed ridi-
cule to the terror of Madame, and in fisted upon proceeding. Thus compelled
to acquiesce, she traversed the hall with
trembling steps. They came to a nar-
row passage,. and Peter's sticks being
nearly exhausted, they awaited here,
while he went in search of more.
2 The


I 47 1
The almost expiring light flashed
faintly upon the walls of the passage,
shewing the recess more horrible. Across
the hall, , the greater part of which
was concealed in shadow, the feeble ray
spread a tremulous gleam, exhibiting the
chasm in the, robs, while many nameless*
objects were seen imperfectly through the
dusk. Adeline with a smile, inquired of
La Motte, if he believed in spirits. The
question was ill-timed, for the present
scene impressed its terrors upon La
Motte, and, in spite of endeavour, he
felt a superstitious dread stealing upon
him. He was now, perhaps, standing
over the ashes of the dead. If spirits
were ever permitted to revisit the earth,
this seemed the hour and the place most
suitable for their appearance. La Motte
remained silent. Adeline said, " Were I
"inclined to superstition"—She was in-
terrupted by a return of the noise, which
had been lately heard: it sounded down
the passage, at whose entrance they Rood, 


i 43 3
and sunk gradually away. Every heart
palpitated, and they remained listening
ki silence. A new subject of apprehen-
sion seized La Motte :—the noise might
proceed from banditti, and he hesitated
whether it would be safe to proceed. Pe-
ter now came with the light: Madame
refused to enter the passage—La Motte
was not much inclined to it; but Peter,
in whom curiosity was more prevalent
than fear, readily offered his services.
La Motte, after some hesitation, suffered
him to go, while he awaited at the en-
trance the result of the inquiry. The
extent of the passage soon concealed
Peter from view, and the echoes of his
footsteps were lost in a found, which
rushed along the avenue, and became
fainter and fainter, till it sunk into silence.
La Motte now called aloud to Peter,
but no answer was returned; at length,
they heard the found of a distant footstep,
and Peter soon after appeared, breath-
less, and pale with fear.'
When


C 49 ]
When he came within hearing of La
Motte, he called our, " An' please your
*' honour, I've done for them, I believe,
w but I've had a hard bout. I thought
"I was fighting with the devil."—s-
'* What are you speaking of?" said La
Motte.
"They were nothing but owls and
"rooks after all," continued Peter;
'' but the light brought them all about my
a ears, and they made such a confounded
"clapping with their wings, that I
"thought at first I had been beset with
"a legion of devils. But I have drove
*' them all out, Master, and you have
"nothing to fear now."
The latter part of the sentence, intima-
ting a suspicion of his courage, La Motte
could have dispensed with, and, to re-
trieve in some degree his reputation, he
made a point of proceeding through the
passage. They now moved on with
alacrity, for, as Peter said, " they had
"nothing to fear."
Vol. 1. C The


C so ]
The passage led into a large area, on
one fide of which, over a range of clois-
ters, appeared the west; tower, and a lofty
part of the edifice; the other side was
open to the woods. La Motte led the
way to a door of the tower, which he
now perceived was the fame he had for-
merly entered; but he found some diffi-
culty in advancing, for the area was over-
grown with brambles and nettles, and the
light, which Peter carried, afforded only
an uncertain gleam. When he unclosed
the door, the dismal aspect of the place
revived the apprehensions of Madame
La Motte, and extorted from Adeline
an inquiry whither they were going.
Peter held up the light to show the nar-
row staircase that wound round the tower;
but La Motte, observing the second
door, drew back the rusty bolts, and en.t
tered a spacious apartment, which, from
its style and condition,. was evidently of
a much later date than the other part of
the structure: though desolate and for-
lorn,


C 5< ]
tom, it was Very little impaired by time;
the walls were damp, but not decayed;
and the glass was yet firm in the win-
dows.
They passed on to a suite of apart-
ments resembling the first they had seen,
and expressed their surprise at the in-
congruous appearance of this part of the
edifice with the mouldering walls they
had left behind. These apartments
conducted them to a winding passage,
that received light and air through nar-
row cavities, placed high in the wall;
and was at length closed by a door bar-
red with iron, which being with some
difficulty opened, they entered a vaulted
room. La Motte surveyed it with a scru-
tinizing eye, and endeavoured to conjec-
ture for what purpose it had been guard-
ed by a door of such strength; but he
.saw little within to assist his curiosity.
The room appeared to have been built
in modern times upon a Gothic plan.
Adeline approached a large window that
C 2 formed


t 5> 3
formed a kind of recess raised by one
step over the level of the floor; she ob-
served to La Motte that the whole floor
was inlaid with Mosaic work; which
drew from him a remark, that the style of
this apartment was not strictly Gothic.
He passed on to a door, which appeared
on the opposite side of the apartment,
and, unlocking it, found himself in the
great hall, by which he had entered the
fabric.
He now perceived, what the gloom
had before concealed, a spiral staircase
which led to a gallery above; and which,
from its present condition, seemed to
have been built with the more modern part of the fabric, though this also affec-
ted the Gothic mode of architecture : La
Motte had little doubt that these stairs led
to apartments, corresponding with those
he had pasted below, and hesitated whe-
ther to explore them; but the entreaties
of Madame, who was much fatigued,
prevailed with him to defer all farther
exami-


C 53 1
examination. After some deliberation,
in which of the rooms they should pass
the night, they determined to return to
that which opened from the tower.
A fire was kindled on a hearth, which
it is probable had not for many years be-
fore afforded the warmth of hospitality;
and Peter having spread the provision
he had brought from the coach, La
Motte and his family, encircling the
fire, partook of a repast, which hunger
and fatigue made delicious. Appre-
hension gradually gave way to confi-
dence, for they now found themselves, in something like a human habitation,
and they had leisure to laugh at their
late terrors; but, as the blast shook the
doors, Adeline often started, and threw
a fearful glance around. They conti-
nued to laugh and talk cheerfully for a
time; yet their merriment was transient,
if not affected, for a fense of their pecu-
liar and distressed circumstances pressed
C 3 upon


[ 54 1
upon their recollection, and sunk each in-
dividual into langour and pensive silence.
Adeline felt the forlornness of her condi-
tion with energy; she reflected upon the
past with astonishment, and anticipated
the future with fear. She found her-
self wholly dependent upon strangers,
with no other claim than what distress
demands from the common sympathy
of kindred beings; sighs swelled her
heart, and the frequent tear started to her
eye; but she checked it, ere it betrayed
on her cheek the sorrow, which she
thought it would be ungrateful to re-
veal.
La Motte, at length, broke this me-
ditative silence, by directing the fire to
be renewed for the night, and the door
to be secured: this seemed a necessary
precaution, even in this solitude, and
was effected by means of large stones
piled against it, for other fastening there
was none. It had frequently occurred to
La Motte, that this apparently forsaken
edifice


C 55 ]
edifice might be a place of refuge to
banditti. Here was solitude to conceal
them; and a wild and extensive forest:
to assist their schemes of rapine, and to
perplex, with its labyrinths, those who
might be bold enough to attempt pur-
suit. These apprehensions, however,
he hid within his own bosom, saving his
companions from a share of the uneasi-
ness they occasioned. Peter was ordered
to watch at the door, and, having given
the fire a rousing stir, our desolate party
drew round it, and sought in sleep a
short oblivion of care.
The night passed on without distur-
bance. Adeline slept, but uneasy dreams
fleeted before her fancy, and she awoke
at an early hour: the recollection of her
sorrows arose upon her mind, and yield-
ing to their pressure, her tears flowed
silently and fast. That she might in-
dulge them without restraint, she went to
a window that looked upon an open part
of the forest; all was gloom and silence;
C 4 she


[ 56 ]
she stood for some time viewing the sha-
dowy scene.
The first tender tints of morning now
appeared on the verge of the horizon,
stealing upon the darkness;—so pure, so
fine, so sethereal! it seemed as if Heaven
was opening to the view. The dark
mists were seen to roll off to the west, as
the tints of light grew stronger, deepen-
ing the obscurity of that part of the he-
misphere, and involving the features of
the country below; meanwhile, in the
east, the hues became more vivid, dart-
ing a trembling lustre far around, till a
ruddy glow, which fired all that part of
the Heavens, announced the rising son.
At first, a small line of'inconceivable
splendour emerged on the horizon, which
quickly expanding, the sun appeared in
all his glory, unveiling the whole face of
nature, vivifying every colour of the
landscape, and sprinkling the dewy earth
with glittering light. The low and gen-
tle responses of birds, awakened by the
morning


C 57 3
morning ray, now broke the silence of
the hour; their soft warbling rising by
degrees till they swelled the chorus of
universal gladness. Adeline's heart swellled too with gratitude and adoration.
The scene before her soothed her
mind, and exalted her thoughts to the
great Author of Nature; she uttered an
involuntary prayer r "Father of good,
"who made this glorious scene! I re-
"sign myself to thy hands: thou wilt
"support me under my present sorrows,
"and protect me from future evil."
Thus confiding in the benevolence of
God, she wiped the tears from her eyes,,
while the sweet union of conscience and
reflection rewarded her trust; and her
mind, losing the feelings which had lately
oppressed it, became tranquil and com-
posed.
La Motte awoke soon after, and
Peter prepared to set out on his ex-
pedition. As he mounted his horse,
"An' please you, Master," said he, "I
£, think we had as goodlook no farther
C 5 "so*
S


C 5* 1
'*. for an habitation till better times turn
"up; for nobody will think of looking
"for us here; and when one fees the place
'* by day-light, its none so bad, but what a
"little patching up would make it com-
"fortable enough." La Motte made
no reply, but he thought of Peter's
words. During the intervals of the
night, when anxiety had kept him wak-
ing, the fame idea had occurred to him;
concealment was his only security, and
this place afforded it. The desolation of
the spot was repulsive to his wishes;
but he had only a choice of evils—a fo-
rest with liberty was not a bad home for
one who had too much reason to expect
a prison. As he walked through the
apartments, and examined their condi-
tion more attentively, he perceived they
might easily be made habitables" and now
surveying them under the cheerfulness of
morning, his design strengthened; and
he mused upon the means of accomplish-
ing it, which nothing seemed so much
to


[ 59 J
to obstruct as the apparent difficulty of
procuring food.
He communicated his thoughts to
Madame La Motte, who felt repugnance
to the scheme. La Motte, however, sel-
dom consulted his wife till he had de-
termined how to act; and he had already
resolved to be guided in this affair by the
report of Peter. If he could discover a
town in the neighbourhood of the forest,
where provisions and other necessaries
could be procured, he would seek no far-
ther for a place of rest.
In the mean time, he spent the anxious
interval of Peter's absence in examining
the ruin, and walking over the environs;
they were sweetly romantic, and the luxu-
riant woods, with which they abounded,
seemed to sequester this spot from the
rest of the world. Frequently a natural
vista would yield a view of the country,
terminated by hills which retiring in dis-
tance, faded into the blue horizon. A
stream, various and musical in its course,
C 6 wound


f 60 ]
wound at the foot of the lawn, on which
stood the abbey; here it silently glided
beneath the shades, feeding the flowers
that bloomed on its banks, and diffusing
dewy freshness around ; there it spread in
broad expanse to-day, reflecting the syl-
van scene, and the wild deer that tasted
its waves. La Motte observed every
where a profusion of game; the phea-
sants scarcely flew from his approach,
and the deer gazed mildly at him as he
passed. They were strangers to man!
On his return to the abbey, La
Motte ascended the stairs that led to
the towers. About half way up, a door ap-
peared in the wall; it yielded, without re-
sistance, to his hand; but a sudden noise
within, accompanied by a cloud of dust,
made him step back and close the door.
After waiting a few minutes, he again
opened it, and perceived a large room
of the more modern building. The re-
mains of tapestry hung in tatters upon
the walls, which were become the resi-
dence


[ 6i ]
dence of birds of prey, whole sudden
flight on the opening of the door had
brought down a quantity of dust, and
occasioned the noise. The windows were
shattered, and almost without glass; but
he was surprised to observe some remains
of furniture; chairs, whose fashion and
condition bore the date of their antiqui-
ty; a broken table, and an iron grate al-
most consumed by rust.
On the opposite side of the room was
a door, which led to another apartment,
proportioned like the first, but hung
with arras somewhat less tattered. In
one corner stood a small bedstead, and a
few shattered chairs were placed round
the walls. La Motte gazed with a mix-
ture of wonder and . curiosity: "'Tis
"strange," said he, " that these rooms,
"and these alone, should bear the marks
"of inhabitation: perhaps, somewretch-
"ed wanderer, like myself, may have
"here sought refuge from a persecuting
"world; and here, perhaps, laid down
"the


C 6z ]
*' the load of existence: perhaps, too,
"I have followed his footsteps, but to
"mingle my dust with his!" He
turned suddenly, and was about to quit
the room, when he perceived a door
near the bed; it opened into a closet,
which was lighted by one small window,
and was in the lame condition as the apart-
ments he had passed, except that it was
destitute even of the remains of furniture.
As he walked over the floor, he thought
he felt one part of it shake beneath his
steps, and examining, found a trap
door. Curiosity prompted him to ex-
plore farther, and with some difficulty he
opened it: it disclosed a staircase which
terminated in darkness. La Motte de-
scended a few steps, but was unwilling
to trust the abyss; and, after wondering
for what purpose it was so secretly con-
structed, he closed the trap, and quitted
this suite of apartments. .
The stairs in the tower above were so
much decayed, that he did not attempt
to


C 63 3
to ascend them: he returned to the hall,
and by the spiral staircase, which he had
observed the evening before, reached
the gallery, and found another suite of
apartments entirely unfurnished, very
much like those below.
He renewed with Madame La Motte
his former conversation respecting the
abbey, and she exerted all her endea-
vours to dissuade him from his purpose,
acknowledging the solitary security of
the spot, but pleading that other places
might be found equally well adapted for
concealment, and more for comfort. This
La Motte doubted: besides, the forest
abounded with game, which would, at
once, afford him amusement and food ; a
circumstance, considering his small stock
of money, by no means to be overlooked:
and he had suffered his mind to dwell so
much upon the scheme, that it was be-
come a favourite one. Adeline listened in
silent anxiety to the discourse, and waited
with impatience the issue of Peter's report.
The


C 64 }
The morning passed, but Peter did
not return. Our solitary party took their
dinner of the provision they had fortu-
nately brought with them, and after-
wards walked forth into the woods.
Adeline, who never suffered any good
to pass unnoticed, because it came at-
tended with evil, forgot for a while the
desolation of the abbey in the beauty of
the adjacent scenery. The pleasantness
of the shades soothed her heart, and the
varied features of the landscape amused
her fancy; she almost thought she could
be contented to live here. Already she
began to feel an interest in the concerns
of her companions, and for Madame
La Motte she felt more; it was the warm
emotion of gratitude and affection...
The afternoon wore away, and they returned to the abbey. Peter was still
absent, and his absence now began to
excite surprize and apprehension. The
approach of darkness also threw a gloom
upon the hopes of the wanderers; ano-
ther


L 65 ]
ther night must be passed under the same
forlorn circumstances as the preceding
one: and, what was still worse, with a
very scanty stock of provisions.. The
fortitude of Madame La Motte now en-
tirely forsook her, and she wept bitterly.
Adeline's heart was as mournful as Ma-
dame's; but she rallied her drooping
spirits, and gave the first instance of her
kindness by endeavouring to revive those
of her friend.
La Motte was restless and uneasy, and,
. leaving the abbey, he walked alone the
way which Peter had taken. He had
not gone far, when he perceived him
between the trees, leading his horse.
"What news, Peter?" hallooed La
Motte. Peter came on, panting for
breath, and said not a word, till La
Motte repeated the question in a tone of
somewhat more authority. "Ah, bless
"you, Master!" said he, when he had
taken breath to answer, "I am glad to
*' see you; I thought I should never have
"got


[ 66 ]
"got back again; I've met with a world
"of misfortunes."
"Well, you may relate them hereaf-
** terj let me hear whether you have
"discovered—"
"Discovered!" interrupted Peter,
"Yes, I am discovered with a ven-
"geance! If your Honour will look at
** my arms, you'll fee how I am disco-
's vered."
"Discoloured! I suppose you mean,"
said La Motte; "But how came you in
"this condition?"
** Why, I'll tell you how it was, Sir;
"your Honour knows I learned a smack
'' of boxing of that Englishman that used
"to come with his master to our house."
"Well, well—tell me where you have
"been."
"I scarcely know myself, Master;
t* I've been where I got a sound drub-
"bing, but then it was in your business,
"and so I don't mind. But if ever I
;s meet with that rascal again !"—
"You


C 67 ]
"You seem to like your first drubbing
** so well, that you want another, and
'* unless you speak more to the purpose,
"you shall soon have one."
Peter was now frightened into me-
thod, and endeavoured to proceed:
"When I left the old abbey," said he,
W I followed the way you directed, and
"turning to the right of that grove of
"trees yonder, I looked this way and
"that to fee if I could see a house, or a
"cottage, or even a man, but not a
"soul of them was to be seen, and so I
"j0gSed on» near tne value of a league,
"I warrant, and then I came to a track;
"oh! oh! says I, we have you now;
"this will do—paths can't be made
"without feet. However, I was out in
"my reckoning, for the devil a bit of a
il soul could 1 fee, and, after following
"the track this way and that way, for
** the third of a league, I lost it, and had
"to find out another."
*' la


[ 68 ]
"Is it impossible for you to speak to
"the point? said La Motte: "omit
"these foolish particulars, and tell whe-
"ther you have succeeded."
"Well, then, Master, to be short,
'* for that's the nearest way after all, I
"wandered a long while at random, I
"did not know where, all through a
"forest like this, and I took special care
"to note how the trees stood, that I
"might find my way back. At last I
"came to another path, and was sure I
"should find something now, though I
*' had found nothing before, for I could
'* not be mistaken twice; so, peeping
"between the trees, I spied a cottage,
"and I gave my horse a lash, that
"sounded through the forest, and I was
"at the door in a minute. They told
*' me there was a town about half a
"league off, and bade me follow the
"track and it would bring me there; so
"it did; and my horse, I believe, smelt
'* the corn in the manger, by the rate
"he


C h J
"he went at. I inquired for a wheel-
'' wright, and was told there was but
"one in the place, and he could not be
"found. I waited and waited, for I
"knew it was in vain to think of return-
ing without doing my business. The
"man at last came home from the coun-
"try, and I told him how long I had
"waited ; for, fays I, I knew it was in
"vain to return without my business."
"Do be less tedious," said La Motte,
** if it is in thy nature."
'* It is in my nature," answered Peter,
"and if it was more in my nature, your
"Honour should have .it all. Would
"you think it, Sir, the fellow had the
"impudence to walk a louis-d'or for
"mending the coach wheel? I believe
"in my conscience he saw I was in a
"hurry, and could not do without him.
"A louis-d'or! fays I, my Master shall
*' give no such price; he sha'n't beim-
*' posed upon by no such rascal as you.
Whereupon, the fellow looked glum,
"and


C 70 ]
« and gave me a douse o'the chops: with "this, I up with my fist and gave him
another, and should have beat him
'' presently, if another man had not
i* come in, and then I was obliged t»
"give up."
"And so you are returned as wife as
"you went?"
"Why, Master, I hope I have too "much spirit to submit to a rascal, or
"let you submit to one either: besides,
"I have bought some nails, to try if I
"can't mend the wheel myself—I had
,* always a hand at carpentry."
"Well, I commend your zeal in my
"cause, but on this occasion it was ra-
"ther ill-timed. And what have yo»
'* got in that basket?"
"Why, Master, I bethought me that
*' we could not get away from this place
*' till the carriage was ready to draw us,
"and in the mean time, fays I, nobody
*' can live without victuals, so I'll e'en
1 "lay


[ 7* ]
'* lay out the little money I have, and
"take a basket with me."
"That's the only wife thing you have
"done yet, and this, indeed, redeems
"your blunders."
"Why now, Master, it does my heard
"good to hear you speak; I knew I was
"doing for the best all the while: but
"I've had a hard job to find my way
*' back; and here's another piece of ill
"luck, for the horse has got a thorn in
« his foot."
La Motte made inquiries concerning
the town, and found it was capable of
supplying him with provision, and what
little furniture was necessary to render the
abbey habitable. This intelligence al-
most settled his plans, and he ordered
Peter to return on the following morning
and make inquiries concerning the
abbey. If the answers were favourable
to his wishes, he commissioned him to
buy a cart, and load it with some furni-
ture, and some materials necessary for
repair-


C 7* 1
repairing the modern apartments. Peter
stared: "What, does your Honour
"mean to live here?"
"Why, suppose I do?"
"Why then your Honour has made a
"wise determination, according to my
* hint; for your Honour knows I
"said"—
"Well, Peter, it is not necessary to
"repeat what you said; perhaps, I had
"determined on the subject before."
'' Egad, Master, you're in the right,
"and I'm glad of it, for, I believe, we
"shall not quickly be disturbed here,
"except by the rooks and owls. Yes,
** yes—I warrant I'll make it a place fit
"for a king; and as for the town, one
"may get any thing, I'm sure of that;
"though they think rto more about this
"place than they do about India or
"England, or any of those places."
They now reached the abbey, where
Peter was received with great joy; but
the hopes of his mistress and Adeline
were


[ n 3
were repressed, when they learned that
he returned, without having executed
his commission, and heard his account
of the town. La Motte's orders to Peter
were heard with almost equal concern by
Madame and Adeline; but the latter
concealed her uneasiness, and used all
her efforts to overcome that of her friend.
The sweetness of her behaviour, and the
air of satisfaction she assumed, sensibly
affected Madame, and discovered to her
a source of comfort, which she had hi-
therto overlooked. The affectionate at-
tentions of her young friend promised to
console her for the want of other society,
and her conversation to enliven the hours,
which might otherwise be passed in pain-
ful regret.
The observations and general beha-
viour of Adeline already bespoke a good
understanding and an amiable heart, but
she had yet more—she had genius. She
was now in her nineteenth year; her
figure of the middling size, and turned
Vol.. I. D to


L 74 }
to the most exquisite proportion; her
hair was dark auburn, her eyes blue, and
whether they sparkled with intelligence,
or melted with tenderness, they were
equally attractive: her form had the airy
lightness of a nymph, and, when she
smiled, her countenance might have been
drawn for the younger sister of Hebe:
the captivations of her beauty were heigh-
tened by the grace and simplicity of her
manners, and confirmed by the intrinsic
value of a heart
"That might be (hrin'd in crystal,
'' And have all its movements scann'd."
Annette now kindled the fire for the
night: Peter's basket was opened, and
supper prepared. Madame La Motte
was still pensive and silent. "There is
"scarcely any condition so bad," said
Adeline, "but we may, one time or
"other, wish we had not quitted it. Ho-
"nest Peter, when he was bewildered
"in the forest, or had two enemies to
u encounter instead of one, confesses he
"wished


C 75 ]
"wished himself at the abbey. And I
"am certain, there is no situation so
"destitute, but comfort may be ex-
"tracted from it. The blaze of this fire
"lines yet more cheerfully from the
"contrasted dreariness of the place; and
"this plentiful repast is made yet more
u delicious, from the temporary want we
"have suffered. Let us enjoy the good
"and forget the evil."
"You speak, my dear," replied Ma-
dame La Motte, "like one, whose spi-
"rits have not been often depressed by
"misfortune, (Adeline sighed) and
"whose hopes are, therefore, vigorous."
"—Long suffering," said La Motte,
"has subdued in our minds that elastic
"energy, which repels the pressure of
*' evil, and dances to the bound of joy.
"But I speak in rhapsody, though only
"from the remembrance of such a time.
"I once, like you, Adeline, could ex-
"tract comfort from most situations."
D 2
"Aad


C 76 ]
"And may now, my dear Sir," said .
Adeline: "Still believe it possible, and
"you will find it is so."
"The illusion is gone—I can no lon-
"ger deceive myself."
"Pardon me, Sir, if I say, it is now
'' only you deceive yourself, by suffering
"the cloud of sorrow to tinge every ob-
"ject you look upon."
"It may be so," said La Motte, " but
"let us leave the subject."
After supper, the doors were secured,
as before, for the night, and the wan-
derers resigned themselves to repose.
On the following morning, Peter again
set out for the little town of Auboine,
and the hours of his absence were again
spent by Madame La Motte and Ade-
line in much anxiety and some hope; for
the intelligence he might bring concern-
ing the abbey, might yet release them
from the plans of La Motte. Towards
the close of day he was descried coming
slowly on; and the cart, which accom-
panied


[ 77 ]
panied him, too certainly confirmed their
fears. He brought materials for repair-
ing the place, and some furniture.
Of the abbey he gave an account, of
which the following is the substance :—
It belonged, together with a large part
of the adjacent forest, to a nobleman,
who now resided with his family on a re-
mote estate. He inherited it, in right of
his wife,' from his father-in-law, who
had caused the more modern apartments
to be erected, and had resided in them
some part of every year, for the purpose
of shooting and hunting. It was re-
ported, that some person was, soon after
it came to the present possessor, brought
secretly to the abbey, and confined in
these apartments; who, or what he was,
had never been conjectured, and what
became of him nobody knew. The re-
port died gradually away, and many
persons entirely disbelieved the whole of
it. But however this affair might be,
certain it was, the present owner had
D 3 visited


I 78 3
visited the abbey only two summers, since
his succeeding to it; and the furniture,
after some time, was removed.
This circumstance had at first excited
surprize, and various reports arose in
consequence, but it was difficult to know
what ought to be believed. Among the
rest, it was said, that strange appearances
had been observed at the abbey, and
uncommon noises heard; and though
this report had been ridiculed by sensible
persons as the idle superstition of igno-
rance, it had fastened so strongly upon
th^ minds of the common people, that
for the last seventeen years none of the
peasantry had ventured to approach the
spot. The abbey was now, therefore,
abandoned to decay.
La Motte ruminated upon this ac-
count. At first, it called up unpleasant
ideas, but they were soon dismissed, and
considerations more interesting to his wel-
fare took place: he congratulated him-
self that he had now found a spot, where
he


[ 79 ]
he was not likely to be either discovered
or disturbed; yet it could not escape him
that there was a strange coincidence be-
tween one part of Peter's narrative, and
the condition of the chambers that
opened from the tower above stairs.
The remains of furniture, of which the
other apartments were void—the solitary
bed—the number and connection of the
rooms, were circumstances that united
to confirm his opinion. This, however,
he concealed in his own breast, for he
already perceived that Peter's account
had not assisted in reconciling his family
to the necessity of dwelling at the abbey.
But they had only to submit in silence,
and whatever disagreeable apprehension
might intrude upon them, they now
appeared willing to suppress the expres-
sion of it. Peter, indeed, was exempt
from any evil of this kind; he knew no
fear, and his mind was now wholly oc-
cupied with his approaching business.
Madame La Motte, with a placid kind
D 4 of


[ 8o ]
of despair, endeavoured to reconcile her-
self to that, which no effort of under-
standing could teach her to avoid, and,
which, an indulgence in lamentation
could only make more intolerable. In-
deed, though a sense of the immediate
inconveniences to be endured at the
, abbey, had made her oppose the scheme
of living there, she did not really know
how their situation could be improved by
removal: yet her thoughts often wan-
dered towards Paris, and reflected the
retrospect of past times, with the images
of weeping friends left, perhaps, for ever.
The affectionate endearments of her only
son, whom, from the danger of his situa-
tion, and the obscurity of her's, she
might reasonably fear never to see again,
arose upon her memory, and overcame
her fortitude. "Why, why was I re- "served for this hour?" would she fay,
"and what will be my years to come?"
Adeline had no retrospect of past de-
light to give emphasis to present cala-
mity


[ 8i ]
mity—no weeping friends—no dear re-
gretted objects to point the edge of forrow, and throw a sickly hue upon her
future prospects; she knew not yet the
pangs of disappointed hope, or the acuter
sting of self-accusation; she had no mi-
sery, but what patience could assuage,
or fortitude overcome.
At the dawn of the following day
Peter arose to his labour: he proceeded
with alacrity, and, in a few days, two of
the lower apartments were so much al-
tered for the better, that La Motte began
to exult, and his family to perceive that
their situation would not be so miserable as
they had imagined. The furniture Peter
had already brought was disposed in these
rooms, one of which was the vaulted
apartment. Madame La Motte furnished
this as a sitting room, preferring it for
its large Gothic window, that descended
almost to the floor, admitting a prospect
of the lawn, and the picturesque scenery
of the surrounding woods.
D 5 Peter


[ 82 ]
Peter having returned to Auboine for
a farther supply, all the lower apartments
were in a few weeks not only habitable,
but comfortable. These, however, being
insufficient for the accommodation of the
family, a room above stairs was pre-
pared for Adeline: it was the chamber
that opened immediately from the tower,
and she preferred it to those beyond, be-
cause it was less distant from the family,
and the windows fronting an avenue of
the forest, afforded a more extensive
prospect. The tapestry, that was de-
cayed, and hung loosely from the walls,
was now nailed up, and made to look
less desolate; and, though the room had
still a solemn aspect, from its spacious-
ness, and the narrowness of the windows,
it was not uncomfortable.
The first night that Adeline retired
hither, she slept little: the solitary air of
the place affected her spirits; the more
so, perhaps, because she had, with
friendly consideration, endeavoured to
sup-


C 83 ]
support them in the presence of Madame
La Motte. She remembered the narra-
tive of Peter, several circumstances of
which had impressed her imagination in
spite of her reason, and she found it dif-
ficult wholly to subdue apprehension. At
one time, terror so strongly seized her
mind, that she had even opened the
door with an intention of calling Madame
La Motte; but, listening for a moment
on the stairs of the tower, every thing
seemed still; at length, she heard the
voice of La Motte speaking cheerfully,
and the absurdity of her fears struck her
forcibly; she blushed that she had for a
moment submitted to them, and returned
to her chamber wondering at herself.
D 6
CHAP.


C 84 ]
CHAP. III.
"Are not these woods
"More free from peril than the envious court?
*' Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
"The season's difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind."
Shakespeare.
La Motte arranged his little plan of
living. His mornings were usually spent
in mooting, or fishing, and the dinner,
thus provided by his industry, he relished
with a keener appetite than had ever at-
tended him at the luxurious tables of
Paris. The afternoons he paired with
his family: sometimes he would select;
a book from the few he had brought
with him, and endeavour to fix his atten-
tion to the words his lips repeated :—
but his mind suffered little abstraction
from


C *5 ]
from its own cares, and the sentiment he
pronounced left no trace behind it.
Sometimes he conversed, but oftener fat
in gloomy silence, musing upon the past,
or anticipating the future.
At these moments, Adeline, with a
sweetness almost irresistible, endeavoured
to enliven his spirits, and to withdraw
him from himself. Seldom she succeed-
ed, but when she did, the grateful looks
of Madame La Mottc, and the benevo-
lent feelings of her own bosom, re-
alized the cheerfulness she had at
first only assumed. Adeline's mind had
the happy art, or, perhaps, it were
more just to fay, the happy nature, of
accommodating itself to her situation.
Her present condition, though forlorn,
was not devoid of comfort, and this com-
fort was confirmed by her virtues. So
much she won upon the affections of
her protectors, that Madame La Motte
loved her as her child, and La Motte him-
self,


C 86 ]
self, though a man little susceptible of
tenderness, could not be insensible to her
solicitudes. Whenever he relaxed from
the sullenness of misery, it was at the in-
fluence of Adeline.
Peter regularly brought a weekly
supply of provisions from Auboine, and,
on those occasions, always quitted the
town by a route contrary to that leading
to the abbey. Several weeks having
passed without molestation, La Motte dis-
missed all apprehension of pursuit, and
at length became tolerably reconciled
to the complection of his circumstances.
As habit and effort strengthened the for-
titude of Madame La Motte, the features
of misfortune appeared to soften. The
forest, which at first seemed to her a
frightful solitude, had lost its terrific as-
pect; and that edifice, whose half de-
molished walls and gloomy desolation
had struck her mind with the force of
melancholy and dismay, was now beheld
as


'. f 87 ]
as a domestic asylum, and a safe refuge
from the storms of power.
She was a sensible and highly accom-
plished woman, and it became her chief
delight to form the rising graces of Ade-
line, who had, as has been already
shown, a sweetness of disposition, which
made her quick to repay instruction with
improvement, and indulgence with love.
Never was Adeline so pleased as when
she anticipated her wishes, and never so
diligent as when she was employed in
her business. The little affairs of the
household she overlooked and managed
with such admirable exactness, that Ma-
dame La Motle had neither anxiety, nor
care, concerning them. And Adeline
formed for herself in this barren situation,
many amusements, that occasionally ba-
nished the remembrance of her misfor-
tunes. La Motte's books were her chief
consolation. With one of these, she
would frequently ramble into the forest,
to


[ 38 ]
to where the river, winding through a
glade, diffused coolness, and with its
murmuring accents, invited repose ; there
she would seat herself, and resigned to the
illusions of the page, pass many hours in
oblivion of sorrow.
Here too, when her mind was tran-
quillized by the surrounding scenery, she
wooed the gentle muse, and indulged in
ideal happiness. The delight of these
moments she commemorated in the fol-
lowing address
To the Visions of Fancy.
Dear, wild illusions of creative mind!
Whose varying hues arise to Fancy's art,
And by her magic force are swift combin'd
In forms that please, and scenes that touch the heart:
Oh.! whether at her voice ye soft assume
The pensive grace of Sorrow drooping low;
Or rise sublime on Terror's lofty plume,
And make the foul with wildly thrilling woe;
. Or, sweetly bright, your gayer tints ye spread,
Bid scenes of pleasure steal upon my view,
Love wave his purple pinions o'er my head,
And wake the tender thought to passion true;
01 still-*


[ h ]
01 still—ye shadowy forms! attend my lonely hours, Still chafe my real cares with your illusive powers 1
Madame La Motte had frequently ex-
pressed curiosity concerning the events
of Adeline's life, and by what circum-
stances she had been thrown into a situa-
tion so perilous and mysterious as that in
which La Motte had found her. Adeline
had given a brief account of the manner
in which she had been brought thither,
but had always with tears entreated to be
spared for that time from a particular
relation of her history. Her spirits were
not then equal to retrospection, but now
that they were soothed by quiet, and
strengthened by confidence, she one day
gave Madame La Motte the following
narration.
"I am the only child," said Adeline,
"of Louis de St. Pierre, a chevalier of
"reputable family, but of small fortune,
"who


[ 90 }
'* who for many years resided at Pan's.
"Of my mother I have a faint remem-
"brance; Holt her when I was only seven
"years old, and this was my first misfor-
"tune. At her death, my father gave up
"house-keeping, boarded me in a con-
"vent, and quitted Paris. Thus was I,
"at this early period of my life, abando-
"ned to strangers. My father came
"sometimes to Paris; he then visited
"me, and I well remember the grief I
** used to feel when he bade me farewel.
"On these occasions, which wrung my
"heart with grief, he appeared unmoved;
"so that I often thought he had little
"tenderness for me. But he was my fa-
"ther, and the only person to whom I
"could look up for protection and love.
"In this convent I continued till I was
"twelve years old. A thousand times I
"had entreated my father to take me
"home, but at first motives of prudence,
"and afterwards of avarice, prevented
*' him. I was now removed from this
"con vent,


C 9' 3
"convent, and placed in another, where I
"learned my father intended I should
"take the veil. I will not attempt to ex-
"press my surprize and grief on this oc*
"casion. Too long I had been immu-
"red in the walls of a cloister, and too
much had I seen of the sullen misery of
"its votaries, not to feel horror and dis-
*' gust at the prospect of being added to
"their number.
"The Lady Abbess was a woman of
"rigid decorum and severe devotion j ex-
Is* act in the observance of every detail of
"form, and never forgave an offence
"against ceremony. It was her method,
"when she wanted to make converts to
'< her order, to denounce and terrify rather
*' than to persuade and allure. Her's were
"the arts of cunning practised upon fear,
"not those of sophistication upon reason.
"She employed numberless stratagems
"to gain me to her purpose, and they
"all wore the complection of her charac-
"ter. But in the life to which she would
"have


[ 9* ]
"have devoted me, I saw too many forms
"of real terror, to be overcome by the in-
u fluence of her ideal host, and was reso-
"lute in rejecting the veil. Here I pas-
"fed several years of miserable resistance
"against cruelty and superstition. My
f* father I seldom saw; when I did, I en-
"treated him to alter my destination, but
"he objected that his fortune was insuffi-
"cient to support me in the world, and
"at length denounced vengeance on my
"head if I persisted in disobedience.
"You, my dear Madam, can form lit—
*' tie idea of the wretchedness of my situa-
"tion, condemned to perpetual impri-
'' sonment, and imprisonment of the most
u dreadful kind, or to the vengeance of a
"father, from whom I had no appeal.
*' My resolution relaxed—for some time
f* I paused upon the choice of evils—but
f' at length the horrors of a monastic life
I' rose so fully to my view, that fortitude
"gave way before them. Excluded
*' from the cheerful intercourse of society
« —from


t 93 3
"-—from the pleasant view of nature—-
"almost from the light of day—con-
"demned to silence—rigid formality—ab-
"stinence and penance—condemned to
*' forego the delights ofa world, which ima-
*' gination painted in the gayest and most
*' alluring colours, and whose hues were,
"perhaps, not the less captivating because
"they were only ideal:—such was the
*( state, to which I was destined. Again
"my resolution was invigorated : my fa-
"ther's cruelty subdued tenderness, and
*' roused indignation. Since he can for-
*' get, said I, the affection of a parent,
"and condemn his child without remorse
*' to wretchedness and despair—the bond
"of filial and parental duty no longer
"subsists between us—he has himself dis-
"solved it, and I will yet struggle for
*' liberty and life."
"Finding me unmoved by menace, the
't Lady Abbess had now recourse to more
"subtle measures: flie condescended to *' smile, and even to flatter; but her's was
i "the


C 94 J
** the distorted smile of cunning, not the
"gracious emblem of kindness; it pro-
'' voked disgust, instead of inspiring affec-
"tion. She painted the character of a
"vestal in the most beautiful tints of art
« —its holy innocence—its mild dignity
'* —its sublime devotion. I sighed asslie
"spoke. This she regarded as a favour-
'* able symptom, and proceeded on her
"picture with more animation. She de-
*' scribed the serenity of a monastic life—
*' its security from the seductive charms,
"restless passions, and sorrowful vicissi-
"tudes of the world—the rapturous de-
"lights of religion, and the sweet re-
"ciprocal affection of the sisterhood.
"So highly she finished the piece, that
"the lurking lines of cunning would, to
"an inexperienced eye, have escaped de-
"tection. Mine was too sorrowfully in-
*' formed. Too often had I witnessed the
"secret tear and bursting sigh of vain re-
"gret, the sullen pinings of discontent,
** and the mute anguish of despair. My
** silence


C 95 ]
u silence and my manner assured her of
"my incredulity, and it was withdifficulty
"that she preserved a decent composure.
"My father, as may be imagined, was
*' highly incensed at my perseverance,
*' which hecalled obstinacy, but, what will
"not be so easily believed, he soon after
"relented, and appointed a day to take
"me from the convent. Ol judge of my
*' feelings when I received this inteili-
"gence. The joy it occasioned awaken-
*' ed all my gratitude; I forgot the former
"cruelty of my father, and that the pre-
"sent indulgence was less the effect of his
kindness than of my resolution. I wept
"that I could not indulge his every wish.
"What days of blissful expectation
** were those that preceded my departure!
"The world, from which I had been hi-
.** therto secluded—the world, in which
"my fancy had been so often delighted to
*' roam—whose paths were strewn with
*' fadeless roses—whose every scene smiled'
"in beauty and invited to delight—where
» all


C 96 3
<' all the people were good, and all the
"good happy—Ah! then that world was
'* bursting upon my view. Let me catch
"the rapturous remembrance before it
"vanish! It is like the passing lights of
V autumn, that gleam for a moment on a
"hill, and then leave it to darkness. I
<' counted the days and hours that with-
"held me from this fairy land. It was in
*' the convent only that people were de-
"ceitful and cruel: it was there only that
'' misery dwelt. I was quitting it all!
"How I pitied the poor nuns that were
"to be left behind. I would have given
"half that world I prized so much, had it
"been mine, to have taken them out
t* with me.
"The long wished-for day at last ar-
"rived. My father came, and for a mo-
M ment my joy was lost in the sorrow of "bidding farewell to my poor compa-
"nions, for whom I had never felt such
* " warmth of kindness" as at this instant, ** I was soon beyond the gates of the con-
1 "vent.


t 97 ]
x' vent. I looked around me, and view-
*' ed the vast vault of heaven no longer
"bounded by monastic walls, and the
"green earth extended in hill and dale to
"the round verge of the horizon 1 My
** heart danced with delight, tears swel-
*' led in my eyes, and for some moments
'' I was unable to speak. My thoughts
*' rose to Heaven in sentiments of grati-
*' tude to the Giver of all good!
'* At length, I turned to my father's *' dear Sir, said I, how I thank you for
<' my deliverance, and how I wish I could
"do every thing to oblige you.
"Return, then, to your convent, said
<* he, in a harsh accent. I shuddered;
*' his look and manner jarred the tone of
it my feelings; they struck discord upon
"my heart, which had before responded
*' only to harmony. The ardour of joy
*' was in a moment repressed, and every
"object around me was saddened with
"the gloom of disappointment. It was
"not that I suspected my father would
Vol. I. E « take


C 98 3
t' take me back to the convent; but that
"his feelings seemed so very dissonant to
"the joy and gratitude, which I had but
"a moment before felt and expressed to
*' him.—Pardon, Madam, a relation of
*' these trivial circumstar'^s; the strong
"vicissitudes of feeling which they im-
"pressed upon my heart, make me think
"them important, when they are, per-
"haps, only disgusting."
"No, my dear," said Madame La
Motte, '* they are interesting to me;
** they illustrate little traits of character
*' which I love to observe. You are
*' worthy of all my regards, and from
"this moment I give my tenderest pity
*' to your misfortunes, and my affection
/" to your goodness."
These words melted the heart of Ade-
line; she kissed the hand which Ma-
dame held out, and remained a few mi-
nutes silent. At length she said, " May
"I deserve this goodness! and may I
"ever be thankful to God, who, in giv-
"ing


r 99 ]
<' ing me such a friend, has raised me to
"comfort and hope!
"My father's house was situated a few
* leagues on the other side of Paris, and
"in our way to it, we passed through that
u city. What a novel scene! Where
"were now the solemn faces, the demure
"manners I had been accustomed to fee
"in the convent? Every countenance
"was here animated, either by busi-
"ness or pleasure; every step was airy,
** and every smile was gay. All the
"people appeared like friends; they
"looked and smiled at me; I smiled
"again, and wished to have told them
"how pleased I was. How delight-
"for, said I, to live surrounded by
"friends!
"What crowded streets! What mag-
", nisicent hotels! What splendid equi-
"pages J I scarcely observed that the
"streets were narrow, or the way dan-
"gerous. What bustle, what tumult,
"what delight! I could never be suffi-
E 2 "ciendy


[ Too ]
"cicntly thankful that I was removed
"from the convent. Again, I was go-
"ing to express my gratitude to my fa-
"ther, but his looks forbad me, and I
was silent. I am too diffuse; even
"the faint forms which memory reflects
"of pasted delight are grateful to the
"heart. The shadow of pleasure is still
'* gazed upon with a melancholy enjoy-
u ment, though the substance is filed be-
w yond our reach.
** Having quitted Paris, which I left *' with many sighs, and gazed upon till
"the towers of every church dissolved
*' in distance from my view ; we entered
"upon a gloomy and unfrequented road.
"It was evening when we reached a
*' wild heath; I looked round in search
"of a human dwelling, but could find
"none; and not a human being was to
** be seen. I experienced something of
"what I used to feel in the convent;
(* my heart had not been so sad since I
"lest


C «oi ]
"left it. Of my father, who still sat in
"silence, I inquired if we were near
"home i he answered in the affirmative.
"Night came on, however, before we
"reached the place of our destination j
"it was a lone house on the waste; but
"I need not describe it to you, Madam.
** When the carriage stopped, two men
"appeared at the door, and assisted us
"to alight; so gloomy were their coun-
"tenances, and so few their words, I aK
"most fancied myself again in the con-
"vent. Certain it is, I had not seen such
"melancholy faces since I quitted it.
** Is this a part of the world I have so
"fondly contemplated? said I.
"The interior appearance of the house
"was desolate and mean; I was sur-
"prised that my father had chosen such
"a place for his habitation, and also that
"no woman was to be seen ; but I knew
"that inquiry would only produce re-
"proof, and was, therefore, silent. At
E 3 "supper,


"supper, the two men I had before seen
** sat down with us; they said little, but
"seemed to observe me much. I was
"confused and displeased, which, my
"father noticing, frowned at them with
"a look, which convinced me he meant
"more than I comprehended. When
"the cloth was drawn, my father took
"my hand and conducted me to the
"door of my chamber; having fat
"down the candle, and wished me good
M night, he left me to my own solitary
"thoughts.
** How different were they from those •
"I had indulged a few hours before!
"then expectation, hope, delight, dan-
"ced before me; now melancholy and
"disappointment chilled the ardour of
*' my mind, and discoloured my future
"prospect. The appearance of every
** thing around conduced to depress me.
M On the floor lay a small bed without
"curtains, or hangings; two old chairs
"and


C lo3 3
"and a table were all the remaining fur-
"niture in the room. I went to the
"window, with an intention of looking
"out upon the surrounding scene, and "found it was grated. I was ihocked
"at this circumstance, and, comparing
** it with the. lonely situation, and the
"strange appearance of the house, toge-
"ther with the countenances and beha-
"viour of the men who had supped
** with us, I was lost in a labyrinth of
"conjecture.
"At length I laid down to sleep; but
"the anxiety of my mind prevented re- ,
"pose; gloomy, unpleasing images flit-
** ted before my fancy, and I fell into a
fort of waking dream: I thought that
** I was in a lonely forest with my father;
*' his looks were severe, and his gestures
"menacing: he upbraided me for leaving
"the convent, and while he spoke, drew
"from his pocket a mirror, which he held
'* before my face; I looked in it and
E 4 "saw,


E 104 I
"saw, (my blood now thrills as I re-
"peat it) I saw myself wounded, and
"bleeding profusely. Then I thought
"myself in the house again; and sud-
"denly heard these words, in accents so
"distinct, that for some time after I
"awoke, I could scarcely believe them
"ideal, 'Depart this house, destruction
"hovers here.'
"I was awakened by a footstep on
"the stairs; it was my father retiring
"to his chamber; the lateness of the hour
"surprised me, for it was past mid-
"night.
"On the following morning, the par-.
"tyof the preceding evening assembled
"at breakfast, and were as gloomy and
"silent as before. The table was spread
"by a boy of my father's; but the cook
"and the house-maid, whatever they
"might be, were invisible."
"The next morning, I was surprized*
t* on attempting to leave my chamber,
lt to


C 105 ]
"to find the door locked; I waited a
"considerable time before I ventured to
"call; when I did, no answer was re-
"turned; I then went to the window,
"and called more loudly, but my own
"voice was still the only sound I heard.
"Near an hour I passed in a state of sur-
"prise and terror not to be described:
"at length, I heard a person coming up
"stairs, and I renewed the call; I was
"answered, that my father had that
"morning set off for Paris, whence he
"would return in a few days j in the
•* meanwhile he had ordered me to be
"confined in my chamber. On my ex-
** pressing surprise and apprehension at
"this circumstance, I was assured I had
"nothing, to fear, and that I should live
"as well as if I was at liberty."
"The latter part of this speech seem-
** ed to contain an odd kind of comfort;
"I made little reply, but submitted to
** necessity. Once more I was aban-
E 5 "doned


[ to6 ]
"doned to sorrowful reflection; what «.
"day was the one I now passed! alone,
"and agitated with grief and apprehen-
"from I endeavoured to conjecture the
"cause of this harsh treatment; and, at
** length concluded it was designed by my
"father, as a punishment for my former
"disobedience. But why abandon me
"to the power of strangers, to men,
"whose countenances bore the stamp of
, "villany so strongly as to impress even
'* my inexperienced mind with terror!
"surmise involved me only deeper in
"perplexity, yet I found it impossible to
"forbear pursuing the subject; and the
"day was divided between lamentation
"and conjecture. Night at length came,
"and such a night! Darkness brought
"new terrors: I looked round the cham-
"ber for some means of fastening my
*' door on the inside, but could perceive
"none; at last I contrived to place the
"back


[ *07 ]
"back of a chair in an oblique direction,
"so as to render it secure.
"I had scarcely done this, and laid
"down upon my bed in my cloaths,
"not to sleep, but to watsth, when I
"heard a rap at the door of the house,
which was opened and shut so quickly,
"that the person who had knocked,
"seemed only to deliver a letter, or mes-
"sage. Soon after, I heard voices at
"intervals in a room below stairs, some-
"times speaking very low, and some-
"times rising all together, as if in dis-
"pure. Something more excusable than
u curiosity made me endeavour to dis-
"tinguisti what was said, but in vain;
"now and then a word or two reached
"me, and once I heard my name re-
*J peated, but no more.
'* Thus passed the hours till midnight,
"when all became still. I had lain for
"some time in a state between fear and
"hope, when I heard the lock of my
E 6 "door


"door gently moved backward and for-
"ward; I started up, and listened; for
"a moment it was still, then the noise
"returned, and I heard a whispering
"without; my spirits died away, but I
"was yet sensible. Presently an effort
"was made at the door, as if to force it;
"I shrieked aloud, and immediately
"heard the voices of the men I had seen
"at my father's table: they called loud-
"ly for the door to be opened, and on
"my returning no answer, uttered dread-
"ful execrations. I had just strength
'* sufficient to move to the window, in
"the desperate hope of escaping thence;
"but my feeble efforts could not even
"shake the bars. O! how can I recol-
"lect these moments of horror, and be
"sufficiently thankful that I am now in
"safety and comfort!
"They remained some time at the
"door, then they quitted it, and went
"down stairs. How my heart revived
"at


C i°9 1
** at every step of their departure \ I fell
"upon my knees, thanked God that he
"had preserved me this time, and im-
"plored his farther protection. I was
"rising from this short prayer, when
"suddenly I heard a noise in a different
"part of the room, and, on looking
"round, I perceived the door of a small
"closet open, and two men enter the
,' chamber.
"They seized me, and I sunk sense-
"less in their arms; how long I remain-
"ed in this condition I know not, but,
** on reviving, I perceived myself again
"alone, and heard several voices from
"below stairs. I had presence of mind
** to run to the door of the closet, my
w only chance of escape; but it was
"locked! I then recollected it was pos-
** sible, that the ruffians might have for-
got to turn the key of the chamber
u door, which was held by the chair;
y but here, also, I was disappointed. I
[' clasped


s «o ]
"clasped my hands in an agony of de-
"spair, and stood for some time im- .
"moveable.
"A violent noise from below rouzed
"me, and soon after I heard people
"ascending the stairs: I now gave my-
"self up for lost. The steps approach-
"ed, the door of the closet was again
"unlocked. I stood calmly, and again
"saw the men enter the chamber; I nei-
"ther spoke, or resisted: the faculties
"of my foul were wrought up beyond
"the power of feeling; as a violent blow
"on the body stuns for awhile the sense "of pain. They led me down stairs;
"the door of a room below was thrown
"open, and I beheld a stranger; it was
"then that my fenses returned; I shriek-
'* ed, and resisted, but was forced along.
"It is unnecessary to fay that this stranger
"was Monsieur La Motte, or to add,
"that I shall for ever bless him as my
*' deliverer."
Adeline


C in 3
Adeline ceased to speak; Madame
La Motte remained silent. There were
some circumstances in Adeline's narrative
which raised all her curiosity. She alked
if Adeline believed her father to be a
party in this mysterious affair. Adeline,
though it was impossible to doubt that he
had been principally and materially con-
cerned in some part of it, thought, or
said she thought, he was innocent of any
intention against her life. "Yet, what
"motive," said Madame La Motte,
*' could there be for a degree of cruelty
"so apparently unprofitable?" Here the
inquiry ended; and Adeline confessed
she had pursued it, till her mind shrunk
from all farther research.
The sympathy which such uncommon*
misfortune excited, Madame La Motte
now expressed without reserve, and this
expression of it, strengthened the bond of
mutual friendship. Adeline felt her spirits
relieved by the disclosure she had made
. to


C «» ]
to Madame La Motte; and the latter
acknowledged the value of the confi-
dence, by an increase of affectionate at-
tentions. -'
CHAP.


L "3 3
CHAP. IV.
"■ ., My May of life
"Is fall'n into the fear, the yellow leaf."
Macbeth.
** Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
« He wore his endless noons alone,
"Amid th* autumnal wood:
"Oft was he wont, in hasty fit,
"Abrupt the social board to quit."
Whartow.
La Motte had now pasted above a
month in this seclusion; and his wife
had the pleasure to see him recover tran-
quillity and even cheerfulness. In this
pleasure Adeline warmly participated
and she might justly have congratulated
herself, as one cause of his restoration;
her cheerfulness and delicate attention
had effected what Madame La Motte's
greater anxiety had failed to accomplish.
La Motte did not seem regardless of her
amiable 


C "4 1
amiable disposition, and sometimes
thanked her in a manner more earnest
than was usual with him. She, in her
turn, considered him as her only protec-
tor, and now felt towards him the affec-
tion of a daughter.
The time she had spent in this peace-
ful retirement had softened the remem-
brance of past events, and restored her
mind to its natural tone: and when
memory brought back to her view her
former short and romantic expectations
of happiness, though she gave a sigh to
the rapturous illusion, she less lamented
the disappointment, than rejoiced in her
present security and comfort.
But the satisfaction which La Motte's
cheerfulness diffused around him was of
(host continuance; he became suddenly
gloomy and reserved; the society of his
family was no longer grateful to him;
and he would spend whole hours in the
most secluded parts of the forest, devoted
to melancholy and secret grief. He did
not,


C "5 3
not, as formerly, indulge the humour of
his sadness, without restraint, in the pre-
sence of others; he now evidently endea-
voured to conceal it, and affected a cheer-
fulness that was too artificial to escape
detection.
His servant Peter, either impelled by
curiosity or kindness, sometimes followed
him, unseen, into the forest. He ob-
served him frequently retire to one parti-
cular spot, in a remote part, which having
gained, he always disappeared, before Pe-
ter, who was obliged to follow at a dis-
tance, could exactly notice where. All his endeavours, now prompted by won-
der, and invigorated by disappointment,
were unsuccessful, and he was still com-
pelled to endure the tortures of unsatis-
fied curiosity.
This change in the manners and habits
of her husband was too conspicuous to
pass unobserved by Madame La Motte,
who endeavoured, by all the stratagems
which affection could suggest, or female
inven-


C "6 ]
invention supply, to win him to her con-
fidence. He seemed insensible to the in-
fluence of the first, and withstood the
wiles of the latter. Finding all her ef-
forts insufficient to dissipate the glooms
which overhung his mind, or to pene-
trate their secret cause, she desisted from
farther attempt, and endeavoured to sub-
mit to this mysterious distress.
Week after week elapsed, and the
same unknown cause sealed the lips and
corroded the heart of La Motte. The
place of his visitation in the sorest had
not been traced. Peter had frequently examined round the spot where his mas-
ter disappeared, but had never discovered
any recess, which could be supposed to
conceal him. The astonishment of the
servant was at length raised to an insup-
portable degree, and he communicated
to his mistress the subject of it.
The emotion, which this information
excited, she disguised from Peter, and
reproved him for the means he had taken
to


[ »7 1
to gratify his curiosity. But she revolved this circumstance in her thoughts, and
comparing it with the late alteration in
his temper, her uneasiness was renewed,
and her perplexity considerably increased.
After much consideration, being unable
to assign any other motive for his conduct:,
she began to attribute it to the influence
of illicit passion; and her heart, which
now out-ran her judgement, confirmed
the supposition, and roused all the tortu-
ring pangs of jealousy.
Comparatively speaking, she had ne-
ver known affliction till now: she had
abandoned her dearest friends and con-
nections—had relinquished the gaieties,
the luxuries, and almost the necessaries
of life ;—fled with her family into exile,
an exile the most dreary and comfortless;
experiencing the evils of reality, and
those of apprehension, united: all these
she had patiently endured, supported by
the affection of him, for whose sake she
suffered. Though that affection, indeed,
I had


C "8 ]
had for some time appeared to be aba-
ted, she had borne its decrease with fordtude; but the last stroke of calamity,
hitherto withheld, now came with irre-
sistible force—the love, of which she
lamented the loss, she now believed was
transferred to another.
The operation of strong passion con-
fuses the powers of reason, and warps
them to its own particular direction.
Her usual degree of judgement, unop-
posed by the influence of her heart,
would probably have pointed out to
Madame La Motte some circumstances
upon the subject of her distress, equivo-
cal, if not contradictory to her suspicions.
No such circumstances appeared to her,
and she did not long hesitate to decide,
that Adeline was the object of her hus-
band's attachment. Her beauty out of
the question, who else, indeed, could
it be in a spot thus secluded from the
world?
The


c m 3
The same cause destroyed, almost at
the same moment, her only remaining
comfort; and, when she wept that she
could no longer look for happiness in the
affection of La Motte, she wept also,
that stie could no longer seek solace in
the friendship of Adeline. She had too
great an esteem for her to doubt, at first,
the integrity of her conduct, but, in
spite of reason, her heart no longer ex-
panded to her with its usual warmth of
kindness. She shrunk from her confi-
dence, and, as the secret broodings of
jealousy cherished her suspicions, she be-
came less kind to her, even in manner.
Adeline, observing the change, at
first attributed it to accident, and after-
wards to a temporary displeasure, arising
from some little inadvertency in her con-
duct. She, therefore, increased her as-
siduities; but, perceiving, contrary to
all expectation, that her efforts to please
failed of their usual consequence, and
that the reserve of Madame's manner ra-
ther


C I20 ]
ther increased than abated, she became
seriously uneasy, and resolved to seek an
explanation. This Madame La Motte as
sedulously avoided, and was for some time
able to prevent. Adeline, however, too
much interested in the event to yield to
delicate scruples, pressed the subject so
closely, that Madame was at first agitated
and confused, butat length invented some
idle excuse, and laughed off the affair.
'She now saw the necessity of subduing
all appearance of reserve towards Ade-
line; and though her art could hot con-
quer the prejudices of passion, it taught
her to assume, with tolerable success, the
aspect of kindness. Adeline was de-
ceived, and was again at peace. Indeed,
confidence in the sincerity and_goodaes»
of others was__hex..weakness. _But the
pangs of stifled jealousy struck deeper to
the heart of Madame La Motte, and she
resolved, at all events, to obtain some
certainty upon the subject of her suspi-
cions.
She


C in ]
She now condescended to an act of mean-
ness, which she had before despised, and
ordered Peter to watch the steps of his
Master, in order to discover, if possible,
the place of his visitation! So much did
passion win upon her judgement, by time
and indulgence, that she sometimes ven-
tured even to doubt the integrity of Ade-
line, and afterwards proceeded to believe
it possible that the object of La Motte's
rambles might be an assignation with
her. What suggested this conjecture
was, that Adeline frequently took long
walks alone in the forest, and sometimes
was absent from the abbey for many
hours. This circumstance, which Ma-
dame La Motte had at first attributed to
Adeline's fondness for the picturesque
beauties of nature, now operated forcibly
upon her imagination, and ssie could view
it in no other light, than as affording an opportunity for secret conversation with
her husband.
- Vol. I,
F


C «» 3
Peter obeyed the orders of his mistress
with alacrity, for they were warmly se-
conded by his own curiosity. All his
endeavours were, however, fruitless; he
never dared to follow La Motte near
enough to observe the place of his last
retreat. Her impatience thus heightened
by delay, and her passion stimulated by
difficulty, Madame La Motte now re-
solved to apply to her husband for an ex-
planation of his conduct.
After some consideration, concerning
the manner most likely to succeed with
him, she went to La Motte, but when she
entered the room where he sat, forgetting
all her concerted address, she fell at his
feet, and was, for some moments, lost in
tears. Surprized at her attitude and dis-
tress, he inquired the occasion of it, and
was answered, that it was caused by his
own conduct. "My conduct! What
"part of it, pray V inquired he,
"Your reserve, your secret sorrow, and
"frequent absence from the abbey."
«Is


C I23 1
u Is it then so wonderful, that a man,
** who has lost almost every thing, should
** sometimes lament his misfortunes? or
u so criminal to attempt concealing his
u grief, that he must be blamed for it by
"those whom he would save from the
"pain of sharing it?"
Having uttered these words, he quitted
the room, leaving Madame La Motte
lost in surprise, but somewhat relieved
from the pressure of her former suspi-
cions. Still, however, she pursued Ade-
line with an eye of scrutiny j and the mask
of kindness would sometimes fall off, and
discover the features of distrust. Ade-
line, without exactly knowing why, felt
Jess at ease and less happy in her pre-
sence than formerly j her spirits drooped^
and she would often, when alone, weep at
the forlornness of her condition. For-
merly, her remembrance of past suffer-
ings was lost in the friendship of Madame
La Motte j now, though her behaviour
F 2 was


C **4 ]
was too guarded to betray any striking
instance of unkindness, there was some-
thing in her manner which chilled the
hopes of Adeline, unable as she was to
analyse it. But a circumstance which
soon occurred, suspended, for a while,
the jealousy of Madame La Motte, and
roused' her husband from his state of
gloomy stupefaction.
Peter, having been one day to Au-
boine, for the weekly supply of provi-
sions, returned with intelligence that
awakened in La Motte new apprehension
and anxiety.
"Oh, Sir! I've heard something that
*' has astonished me, as well it may,"
cried Peter, "and so it will you, when
"you come to know it. As I was stand-
*' ing in the blacksmith's shop, while
"the smith was driving a nail into the
<' horse's shoe (by the bye, the horse lost
''' it in an odd way, I'll tell you, Sir, how
** it was)"— .'
« Nay,


C Ms 1
"Nay, prithee leave it till another
"time, and go. on with your story."
J " Why then, Sir, as I was standing
?l in the blacksmith's shop, comes in a
"man with a pipe in his mouth, and a
"large pouch of tobacco in his hand"—>
"Well—what has the pipe to do with
1l the story?"
b. "Nay, Sir, you put me out; I can't
t' go on, unless you let me tell it my own
{sway. As I was faying—with a pipe
I' in his mouth—I think I was there,
, your Honour I". >
: "Yes, yes." .
.—He sets himself down on the bench,
*( and, taking the. pipe from his mouth,
'' fays to the blacksmith, Neighbour,
f' do you know any body of the name of
# La Motte, hereabouts ?—Bless your
,*,( Honour, I turned all of a cold sweat in
(« aminute, i,- Is not your Honour well,
's shall I fetch you any thing?" . , „
., "No—but Ibe, brief in, your narra-
*'*Yfr"L: «t..ci .
Mi F 3 "La


I "6 J
"La Motte! La Matte! said the
"blacksmith, I think I've heard the
"name." — « Have you?" said I,
"you're cunning then, for there's no
"such person hereabouts, to my know-
- ledge."
"Fool!—why did you fay that?"
"Because I did not want them to know
"your Honour was here j and if I had
"not managed very cleverly, they
"would have found me out. There is
"no such person, hereabouts, to my
"knowledge, fays I,"—" Indeed! fays
y the blacksmith, you know more of the
"neighbourhood than I do then."
"Aye, fays the man with the pipe,
t* that's very true. How came you to
"know so much of the neighbourhood?
"I came here twenty-fix years ago, come
"next St. Michael, and you know more
"than I do. How came you to know so
« much?"
"With that he put his pipe in his
w mouth, and gave a whiff full in my
"face.


C 127 3
** face. Lord! your Honour, I trerrs-
"bled from head to foot. Nay, as for
"that matter, fays I, I don't know more
u than other people, but I'm sure I
M never heard of such a man as that."—
** Pray, fays the blacksmith, staring me
** full in the face, an't you the man that
w was inquiring some time since about
« Saint Clair's Abbey ?" — « Well,
** what of that? fays Ij what does that
"prove it"—" Why, they far, some-
"body lives in the abbey now, said the
"man, turning to the other j and, for
*'taught I know, it may be this fame La
"Motte." —« Aye, or for aught I
"know either, fays the man with the
** pipe, getting up from the bench, and
"you know more of this than you'll own.
"I'll lay my life on't, this Monsieur La
"Motte lives at the abbey."—" Aye,
"fays I, you are out- there,. for he does
'* not live at the abbey now."
"Confound your folly!" cried La
Motte j " but be quick—how did the
"matter end?"
F 4 "My


[ ia8 ]
My Master does not live there now,
f* said 1."—Oh! oh! said the man with
"the pipe, he is your Master, then?
"And pray how long has he left the
"abbey—and where does he live now ?w
"Hold, said I, not so fast—I know when
"to speak and when to hold my tongue
"—but who has been inquiring for
« him?"
"What! he expected somebody to
"inquire for him? says the man."
"No, fays I, he did not, but if he did,
"what does that prove ?"—that argues
** nothing." With that, he looked at the
"blacksmith, and they went out of the
"shop together, leaving my horse's shoe
"undone. But I never minded that, for
"the moment they were gone, I mount-.
"ed and rode away as fast as I could' <' But in my fright, your Honour, I for-
"got to take the round-about way, and so
"came straight home."
La Motte, extremely shocked at
Peter's intelligence, made no other re-
ply


t 129 ]
ply than by cursing his folly, and im-
mediately went in search of Madame,
who was walking with Adeline on the
banks of the river. La Motte was too
much agitated to soften his information
by preface: "We .are discovered
said he, "the King's officers have been
"inquiring for me at Auboine, and
,' Peter has blundered upon my. ruin V'
He then informed her of what Peter had
related, and bade her prepare to quit the
abbey. ... . ,
"But whither can we fly?" said Ma-
dame La Motte, scarcely able to support
herself.—" Any where!" said he, /i to
"stay here is certain destruction. We
"must take refuge in Switzerland, I
"think. If any part of, France would
'* have concealed me, surely it had been
f this!"
"Alas, how are we persecuted!" rc±
joined Madame. 5' This spot is; scarcely
"made comfortable, before we are ob. F 5 « liged


[ "30 1
"liged to leave it, and go we know not
"whither."
"I wilh we may not know whither,"
replied La Motte, " that is the least.
"evil that threatens us. Let us escape
*' a prison, and I care not whither we
"go. But return to the abbey imme-
"diately, and pack up what moveables
"you can." A flood of tears came to
the relief of Madame La Motte, and she
hung upon Adeline's arm, silent and
trembling. Adeline, though she had no
comfort to bestow, endeavoured to com-
mand her feelings and appear composed.
"Come," said La Motte, "we waste
"time j let us lament hereafter, but at
"present prepare for flight. Exert a lit-
*' tie of that fortitude, which is so ne-
"necessary for our preservation. Adeline
"does not weep, yet her state is as
wretched as your own, for I know not
"how long I shall be able to protect
"her."
Notwith-


C 131 ]
Notwithstanding her terror, this re.i
proof touched the pride of Madame La
Motte, who dried her tears, but dis-
dained to reply, and looked at Adeline
with a strong expression of displeasure.
As they moved silently toward the ab-
bey, Adeline asked La Motte if he was
sure they were the King's officers, who
inquired for him.—" I cannot doubt
"it," he replied j "who else could pof-
"possibly inquire for me? Besides, the be-
"haviour of the man, who mentioned
"my name, puts the matter beyond a
"question."
"Perhaps not," said Madame. La
Motte: " let us wait till morning ere
"we set off. We may then find it will
"be unnecessary to go."
"We may, indeed . the King's of-
"fleers would probably by that time
u have told us as much." La Motte
went to give orders to Peter.—'* Set off
**. in an hour," said Peter, "Lord bless ** you, Master! only consider the coach
F 6 "wheel::


C 132 ]
"wheel: it would take me a day at
"least to mend it, for your Honour
"knows I never mended one in my
« life."
This was a circumstance which La
Motte had entirely overlooked. When
they settled at the abbey, Peter had at
first been too busy in repairing the apart-
ments, to remember the carriage, and af-
terwards, believing it would not quickly
be wanted, he had neglected to do it. La
Motte's temper now entirely forsook him,
and with many execrations he ordered
Peter to go to work immediately: but
on searching for the materials formerly
bought, they were no where to be found,
and Peter at length remembered, though
he was prudent enough to conceal this
circumstance, that he had used the nails
in repairing the abbey.
It was now, therefore, impossible to
quit the forest that night, and La Motte
had only to consider the most probable
plan of concealment, should the officers
of


T r3J 1
of justice visit the ruin before the morn ing j a circumstance, which the thought-
lessness of Peter in returning from Au-
boine by the straight way, made not un-
likely.
At first, indeed, it occurred to him,
that, though his family could not be re-
moved, he might himself take one of the
horses, and escape from the forest before
night. But he thought there would still
be some danger of detection in the towns
through which he must pass, and he
could not well bear the idea of leaving
his family unprotected, without knowing
when he could return to them, or whi-
ther he could direct them to follow him.
La Motte was not a man of very vigorous
resolution, and he was, perhaps, rather
more willing to suffer in company than
alone.
After much consideration, he recol-
lected the trap-door of the closet belong-
ing to the chambers above: it was in-
visible to the eye> and, whatever might
. ..' i i be


r *J4 r
be its direction, it would securely shelter
him, at least, from discovery. Having
deliberated farther upon the subject, he
determined to explore the recess to
which the stairs led, and thought it pos-
sible, that for a short time his whole fa-
mily might be concealed within its There was little time between the sug-
gestion of the plan and the execution of
his purpose, for darkness was spreading
around, and, in every murmur of the
wind, he thought he heard the voices of his
enemies..
He called for a light and ascended
alone to the chamber. When he came
to the closet, it was some time before he
could find the trap-door, so exactly did
it correspond with the boards of the floor.
At length,, he found and raised it. The
chill damps of long confined air rushed
from the aperture, and he stood for a mo-
ment to let them pass, ere he descended;
As he stood looking down the abyss, he
> recollected the report, which Peter had
brought


I *3$ 3
brought concerning the abbey, and'it gave him an uneasy sensation j but this soon yielded to more pressing interests.
The stairs were steep, and in many
places trembled beneath his weight*
Having continued to descend for some
time, his feet touched the ground, and
he found himself in a narrow passage;
but as he turned to pursue it, the damp
vapours curled round him and extinguish*
ed the light. He called aloud for Peter,
but could make nobody hear, and, after
some time, he endeavoured to find his
way up the stairs. In this, with diffi*
culty, he succeeded, and, passing the
chambers with cautious steps, descended
the tower.
The security, which the place he had
just quitted seemed to promise, was of
too much importance to be slightly re-
jected, and he determined immediately
to make another experiment with the
light:—having now fixed it in a lanthorn,
he descended a second time to the passage.
The"
i


The current of vapours occasioned by
the opening of the trap-door was abated, ,
and the fresh air thence admitted had be-
gan to circulate: La Motte passed on
unmolested.
The passage was of considerable length,,
and led him to a door, which was fas-
tened. He placed the lanthorn at some
distance,, to avoid the current of air, and
applied his strength to the door: it shook
under his hands, but did not yield. Upon
examining it more closely, he perceived
the wood round the lock was decayed,
probably by the damps, and this encoura-
ged him to proceed. After some time it
gave way to his effort, and he found him-
self in a square stone room.
He stood for some time to survey it.
The walls, which were dripping with un-
wholesome dews, were entirely bare and
afforded not even a window. A small
iron grate alone admitted the air. At
the farther end, near a low recess, was
another door. La Motte went towards
it,


E *37 ]
it, and, as he passed, looked into the re cess. Upon the ground within it, stood
a large chest, which he went forward to
examine, and, lifting the lid, he saw the
remains of a human skeleton. Horror
struck upon his heart, and he involun-
tarily stepped back. During a pause of
some moments, his first emotions subsi-
ded. That thrilling curiosity, which ob-
jects of terror often excite in the human
mind, impelled him to take a second view
of this dismal spectacle.
La Motte stood motionless as he gazed j
the object before him seemed to confirm
the report that some person had for-
merly been murdered in the abbey. At
length he closed the chest, and advan-
ced to the second door, which also was
fastened, but the key was in the lock. He
turned it with difficulty, and then found
the door was held by two strong bolts.
Having undrawn these, it disclosed a
flight of steps, which he descended:
they terminated in a chain of low vaults, on


[ *38 ]
or rather cells, that, from the manner of
their construction and present condition,
seemed to have been coeval with the
most ancient parts of the abbey. La
Motte, in his then depressed state of mind^
thought them the burial places of the
monks, who formerly inhabited the pile
above j but they were more calculated for
places of penance for the livings than of
rest for the dead.
Having reached the extremity of these
cells, the way was again closed by a door.
La Motte now hesitated whether he
should attempt to proceed any farther.
The present spot seemed to afford the
security he sought. Here he might pass
the night unmolested by apprehension
of discovery, and it was most probable,
that if the officers arrived in the night,
and found the abbey vacated, they would
quit it before morning, or, at least, be-
fore he could have any occasion to
emerge from concealment. These con-
siderations restored his mind to. a state of
greater


greater composure. His only immediate
care was to bring his family, as soon as
possible, to this place of security, lest the
officers should come unawares upon them,- and, while he stood thus musing, he
blamed himself for delay.
But an irresistible desire of knowing to
what this door led, arrested his steps,
and he turned to open it: the door,
however, was fastened, and, as he at-
tempted to force it, he suddenly thought
he heard a noise above. It now occur-
red to him, that the officers might already
have arrived, and he quitted the cells with
precipitation, intending to listen at the
trap-door.
"There, said he, I may wait in secu-
** rity, and perhaps hear something of what
"passes. My family will not be known,
"or, at least, not hurt, and their uneasi-
"ness on my account, they must learn to
"endure."
These were the arguments of La.
Motte, in which, it must be owned, self- fislk


C ?4° )
fish prudence was more conspicuous than
tender anxiety for his wife. He had by
this time reached the bottom of the stairs,
when, on looking up, he perceived the
trap-door was left open, and ascending in
haste to close it, he heard footsteps ad-
vancing through the chambers above.
Before he could descend entirely out of
sight, he again looked up and perceived
through the aperture the face of a man
looking down upon . him.. "Matter,," cried Peter;—La Motte was somewhat re-
lieved at the sound of his voice, though
angry that he had occasioned him so much
terror. t
"What brings you here, and what is
** the matter below?";
"Nothing, Sir,, nothing's the matter,.
"only my mistress sent me to see after
u your Honour.'" . e .
"There's nobody there then," said La
Motte, « setting his foot upon the step."


[ M* ]
'*' Yes, Sir, there is my mistress and
"Mademoiselle Adeline and"— .
"Well—well," said La Motte, brisk-
ly—" go your ways, I am coming."
He' informed Madame La Motte
where he had been, and of his intention
of secreting himself, and deliberated upon
the means of convincing the officers,
should they arrive, that he had quitted
the abbey. For this purpose, he or-
dered.all the moveable furniture to be con-
veyed to the cells below. La Motte him-
self assisted in the business, and every hand
was employed for dispatch. In a very
short time, the habitable part of the fa-
bric was left almost as desolate as he
had found it. He then bade Peter take
the horses to a distance from the abbey,
and turn them loose. After farther con-
sideration, he thought it might contribute
to mislead the officers, if he placed in
some conspicuous part of the fabric. an
inscription, signifying his condition, and
mentioning the date of his departure
from


C 142 ]
from the abbey. Over the door of the
tower, which led to the habitable part of
the structure, he, therefore, cut the follow-
ing lines:
* * O ye 1 whom misfortune may lead to this spot,
5* Learn that there are others as miserable as your- « selves.'1
P— L— M— a wretched exile, sought
within these walls a refuge from persecution, on
the 27th of April 1658, and quitted them on the
nth of July in the same year, in search of a more
convenient asylum.
After engraving these words with a knife,
the small stock of provisions remaining
from the week's supply (for Peter, in
his fright, had returned unloaded from
his last journey) was put into a basket,
and, La Motte having assembled his
family, they all ascended the stairs of the
tower, and passed through the chambers
to the closet. Peter went first with a
light, and with some difficulty found the
trap-door. Madame La Motte shud-
dered


i 143 i
dered as she surveyed the gloomy abyss j
but they were all silent.
La Motte now took the light and led
the way; Madame followed, and then
Adeline. "These old Monks loved good
ct wine, as well as other people," said Peter,
who brought up the rear, " I warrant your
** Honour, now, this was their cellar; I
smell the calks already."
** Peace," said La Motte, tc reserve
* your jokes for a proper occasion."
"There is no harm in loving good wine,
as your Honour knows."
*' Have done with this buffoonery," said
La Motte, in a tone more authoritative,
"and go first." Peter obeyed.
They came to the vaulted room. The
dismal spectacle he had seen here, deter-
red La Motte from passing the night in
this chamber j and the furniture had, by
his own order, been conveyed to the cells
below. He was anxious that his family
should not perceive the skeleton; an ob-
ject, which would, probably, excite a
degree


I 144' ]
degree of horror not to be overcome da.
ring their stay. La Motte now passed the
chest in haste; and Madame La Motte and
Adeline were too much engrossed by their
own thoughts, to give minute attention to
external circumstances.
When they reached the cells, Madame
La TVTotte wept at the necessity which
condemned her to a spot so dismal.
* Alas," said she, "are we, indeed, thus
<' reduced! The apartments above, for-
*' merely appeared to me a deplorable ha-
w bitation j but they are a palace, compa-
red to these."
. "True, my dear," said La Motte,
ct and let the remembrance of what you
** once thought them, soothe your dis-
** content now j these cells are' also a
"palace, compared to the Bicetre, or the
*' Bastille, and to the terrors of farther
*' punishment, which would accompany
"them: let the apprehension of the
** greater evil teach you to endure the
'v - — « less


C i« ]
*r less; I am contented if we find here
at the refuge I seek.*'
Madame La Motte was silent, and Ade-
line, forgetting her late unkindness, en-
deavoured as much as she could to console* her; while her heart was sinking with
the misfortunes, which she could not
but anticipate, (he appeared composed,
and even cheerful. She attended Ma-
dame La Motte with the most watchful
solicitude, and felt so thankful that La.
Motte was now secreted within this re-
cess, that'she almost lost her perception of its glooms and inconveniences.
This she artleflly expressed to him,
who could not be insensible to the ten-
derness it discovered. Madame La Motte
was also sensible of jit, and it renewed a
painful sensation. The effusions of grati-
tude she mistook for those of tenderness.
La Motte returned frequently to the
trap-door, to listen if any body was in the abbey; but no found disturbed the
stillness of night; at length they sot down
Tol. I. G to


C 146 ]
to supper; the repast was a melancholy
one. "If the officers do not come
"hither to night," said Madame La
Motte, sighing, "suppose, my dear, Pe-
"ter returns to Auboine to-morrow; he
M may there learn something more of
"this affairs or, at least, he might pro-
'" cure a carriage to convey us hence."
"To be sure he might," said La
Note, peevishly, t* and people to attend
"it also. Peter would be an excellent
"person to shew the officers the way
"to the abbey, and to inform them of
*' what they might else be in doubt
"about, my concealment here."
"How cruel is this irony !" replied
Madame La Motte, "I proposed only "what I thought would be for our mu-
"tual goods my judgement was, per-
"haps, wrong, but my intention wa$
"certainly right." Tears swelled into
her eyes as she spojse these words. Ade-
line wished to relieve her; but delicacy
kept her silent. La Motte ohseraed the
t effect


t H7 ]
effect of his speech, and something like
remorse touched his heart. He ap-
proached, and taking her hand, " You
*' must allow for the perturbation of my
'** mind," said he, " I did not mean to
"afflict you thus. The idea of fending
*' Peter to Auboine, where he has already
"done so much harm by his blunders,
teased me, and I could not let it pass
"unnoticed. No, my dear, our only
*' chance of safety is to remain where we
'* are while our provisions last. If the
"officers do not come here to-night,
si they probably will to-morrow, or,
** perhaps, the next day. When they
'' have searched the abbey, without find-
*' ing me, they will depart; we may
then emerge from this recess, and take
*' measures for removing to a distant
"country."
Madame La Motte acknowledged the
justice of his words, and her mind being
relieved by the little apology he had
made, she became tolerably cheerful.
G z Supper


Supper being ended, La Motte stationed
the faithful, though simple, Peter, at the
foot of the steps that ascended to the
closet, there to keep watch during the
night. Having done this, he returned
to the lower cells, where he had left his
little family. The beds were spread,
and having mournfully bade each other
good night, they laid down, and im-
plored rest.
Adeline's thoughts were too busy to
suffer her to repose, and when she be-
lieved her companions were funk in slum-
ber, she indulged the sorrow which
reflection brought. She also looked for-
ward to the future with the most mourn-
ful apprehension. "Should La Motte
"be seized, what was to become of
"her? She would then be a wanderer in
"the wide world; without friends to
u protect, or money to support her; the
'* prospect was gloomy—was terrible!"
She surveyed it and fliuddered! The dis-
tresses too of Monsieur and Madame La
Motte,


[ 149 ]
Mofte, whom she loved with the most
lively affection, formed no inconsiderable.
part of her's.
Sometimes she looked back to her sa<-
ther; but in' him she only saw an enemy from whom she must fly: this remem-
brance heightened her sorrow; yet. it was
not the recollection of the suffering he
had occasioned her, by which she was so
much afflicted, as by the fense of his un-
kindnefs: she wept bitterly. At length,
with that artless piety, which innocence
only knows, she addressed the Supreme
Being, and resigned herself to his care.
Her mind then gradually became peace-
ful and re-assured, and soon after she
funk to repose.
G3 CHAP.


CHAP. V.
A Surprise—An Adventure—A Mystery*
The night passed without any alarm t
Peter had remained upon his post, and heard nothing that prevented his sleeping*
La Motte heard him, long before he saw
him, most musically snoring; though it
must be owned there was more of the
bass, than of any other part of the gamut
in his performance. He was soon roused
by the bravura of La Motte, whose notes
sounded discord to his ears, and destroyed
the torpor of his tranquillity.
God bless you, Master, what's the
matter?" cried Peter, waking; "are
** they come V*
** Yes, for aught you care, they might
"be


** Be come. Did I place you here to-
"sleep, sirrah?"
"Bless you, Master,"1 returned Peter,..
"sleep is the only comfort to be had
*C here; I'm sure I would not deny it to.
'* a dog in such a place as this."
La Motte sternly questioned him con-
cerning any noise he might have heard
in the night, and Peter full as solemnly
protested he had heard none; an asser-
tion which was strictly true, for he had
enjoyed the comfort of being asleep the-
whole time.
La Motte ascended to the trap-door
and listened attentively. No sounds
were heard, and, as he ventured to lift it,
the full light of the fun burst upon his
light, the morning being now far ad-
vanced; he walked softly along the
chambers, and looked through a win-
dow; no person was to be seen. En-
couraged by this apparent security, he
ventured down the stairs of the tower,
and entered the first apartment. He was
G 4 proceeding


C 3
proceeding towards the second, whenr
suddenly recollecting himself, he first peeped through the crevice of the door,
which stood half open. He looked, and
distinctly saw a person sitting near the
window, upon which his arm rested.
The discovery so much shocked him, that for a moment he lost all presence of
mind, and was utterly unable to move
from the spot. The person, whose back
was towards him, arose, and turned his
head. La Motte now recovered him-
self, and quitting the apartment as quick-
ly, and, at the fame time, as silently as, possible, ascended to the closet. He
raised the trap-door, but before he closed.
it, heard the footsteps of a person enter-
ing the outer chamber. Bolts, or other
fastening to the trap there was none;
and his security depended solely upon: the exact correspondence of the boards..
The outer door of the stone room had
no means of defence; and the fastenings
of the inner one were on the wrong side
to*


C 153 ]
to afford him security, even till some
'means of escape could be found.
When he reached this room, he pau-
sed, and heard distinctly, persons walk-
ing in the closet above. While he was
listening, he heard a voice call him by
name, and he instantly fled to the cells
below, expecting every moment to hear
the trap listed, and the footsteps of pur-
suit; but he was fled beyond the reach ,
of hearing either. Having thrown him-
self on the ground, at the farthest ex-
tremity of the vaults, he lay for some
time breathless with agitation. Madame
La Motte and Adeline, in the utmost
terror, inquired what had happened.'
It was some time before he could speak;,
when he did, it was almost unnecessary,,
for the distant noises, which sounded
from above, informed the family of a part
of the truth.
The sounds did not seem to approach, ,
but Madame La Motte, unable to com-
mand her terror, shrieked aloud : rhis re-
G $ doubled


C '54 1
doubled the distress of La Motte. "You "have already destroyed me," cried he;
*' that shriek has informed them where
'* I am." He traversed the cells with
clasped hands and quick steps. Adeline
stood pale and still as death, supporting
Madame La Motte, whom, with diffi-
culty, she prevented from fainting. "O!
"Dupras! Dupras J you are already
"avenged P'said he, in a voice that
seemed to burst from his heart: there
was a pause of silence. "But why
"should I deceive myself with a hope
*• of escaping ?" he resumed, "why do I
*' wait here for their coming? Let me
"rather end these torturing pangs by
"throwing myself into their hands at
** once."
As he spoke, he moved towards the
door, but the distress of Madame La
Motte arrested his steps. "Stay," said
she, "for my sake, stay; do not leave
** me thus, nor throw yourself voluntarily
** upon destruction l" a *' Surely,


C 155 3
** Surely, Sir," said Adeline, "you
"are too precipitate; this despair is use-
*' less, as it is ill-founded. We hear no
*' person approaching; if the officers
"had discovered the trap-door, they
"would certainly have been here before
** now." The words of Adeline stilled
the tumult of his mind: the agitation of
terror subsided; and reason beamed a
feeble ray upon his hopes. He listened
attentively, and perceiving that all was
silent, advanced with caution to the stone
room, and thence to the foot of the
stairs that led to the trap-door. It was
closed; no sound was heard above.
He watched a long time, and the si-
lence continuing, his hopes strengthened,
and, at length, he began to believe that
the officers had quitted the abbey; the
day, however, was spent in anxious
watchfulness. He did not dare to un-
close the trap-door; and he frequently
thought he heard distant noises. It was
evident, however, that the secret of the
G 6 closet


I 156 3
closet had escaped. discovery; and on
this circumstance be justly founded his
security. The following night was pas-
fed, like the: day, in trembling hope, and
incessant watching, f .. .. . '»
But the necessities of hunger. now
threatened them. The provisions, which had been distributed with the nicest eco-
nomy, were nearly exhausted, and the
most deplorable consequences- might.be
expected from their remaining longer in.
concealment. Thus circumstanced, La, Motte deliberated upon the most pru-
dent method of proceeding. These
appeared no other alternative, than to
fend Peter to. Auboine, the only town
from which he could return within the
time prescribed by their necessities. There
was game, indeed, in the forest; but
Peter could either handle a gun, or use
a fishing-rod to any advantage.'
It was, therefore, agreed he should go
to Auboine for a supply of provisions,
"d at the fame time bring materials for
mending


C *S7 I
mending the coach wheel, that they might have some ready conveyance from
the forest. La Motte forbade Peter to ask any questions concerning the people
who had inquired for him,, or take any
methods for discovering whether they
had quitted the country, lest his blunders
should again, betray him. He ordered
him to be entirely silent as to these sub-
jects, and to finish his business, and leave
the,place,with all possible dispatch.
A difficulty yet remained to be over-
come—Who should first venture abroad
into the abbey, to learn whether it was
vacated by the officers of justice ?, La
Motte considered, that if he was again
seen, he should be effectually betrayed;
which I could not be so certain, if one of
hisfamily wa&observed,for they were each
unknown to the officers. It was neces-
sary,, however, that the person he seat
should have courage enough to go
through with, the inquiry, and wit enough
to conduct it with caution. Peter, per-
haps,


[ t58 ]
haps, had the first; but was certainly
destitute of the last. Annette had nei-
ther. La Motte looked at his wife, and
asked her, if, for his fake, (he dared to
venture. Her heart shrank from the
proposal, yet she was unwilling to re fuse, or appear indifferent upon a point
so essential to the safety of her husband. Adeline observed in her countenance the
agitation of her mind, and, surmounting
the fears, which had hitherto kept her
silent, she offered herself to go.
"They will be less likely to offend
"me," said she, "than a man." Shame
would not suffer La Motte to accept her
offer; and Madame, touched by the
magnanimity of her conduct, felt a mo-
mentary renewal of all her former kind-
ness. Adeline pressed her proposal so
warmly, and seemed so much in earnest,
that La Motte began to hesitate. "You,
"Sir," said she, "once preserved me
"from the most imminent danger, and
*' your kindness has since protected me.


C 159 3
** Do not refuse me the satisfaction of "deserving your goodness by a grate-
"ful return of it. Let me go into the
'* abbey, and if, by so doing, I should
"preserve you from evil, I shall be suf-
"ficiently rewarded for what little dan-
ger I may incur, for my pleasure will
*' be at least equal to yours."
Madame La Motte could scarcely re-
frain from tears as Adeline spoke; and
La Motte, sighing deeply, said, " Well,
"be it so; go, Adeline, and from this
'* moment consider me as your debtor," Adeline stayed not to reply, but taking
it light, quitted the cells, La Motte
following to raise the trap-door, and
cautioning her to look, if possible, into
every apartment, before she entered it.
*' If you shouldbe seen," said he, "you
"must account for your appearance so
"as not to discover me. Your own pre-
"sence of mind may assist you, I cannot.
"—God bless you»"
When


C *o ]
When she was gone, Madame La
Mbtte's admiration of her conduct began
to yield to other emotions. Distrust gra-
dually undermined' kindness, and jea-
lousy raised suspicions. "It must be a
"sentiment more powerful than grati-
"tude," thought she, "that could i
"teach Adeline to subdue her fears.-
** What, but love, could influence her
*' to a conduct so generous!" Madame
La Motte, when she found it impossible
to account for Adeline's conduct, without
alledging some interested motives for it, .
however her suspicions might agree with
the practice of the world, had surely for-
gotten how much she once admired the.
purity and disinterestedness of her young
friend.
Adeline, mean while, ascended to'
the chambers: the cheerful beams of the
fun played once more upon her sight, .
and re-animated her spirits; she walked
lightly through the apartments, nor stopped till me came to the stairs of the

tower.. 


tower ^ Here she stood for some time,
but no sounds met her ear, save the sigh-
ing of the wind among the trees, and,,
at length, she descended. She passed
the apartments below, without seeing
any person; and the little furniture that
remained, seemed to stand exactly as she
had left it. She now ventured to look
out from the tower: the only animate
objects that appeared were the deer, quietly grazing under the shade of the
woods. Her favourite little fawn distin-
guished Adeline, and came boundingto-
wards her with strong marks of joy. She:
was somewhat alarmed lest the animal,
being observed, should betray her, and
walked swiftly away through the cloisters.
She opened the door that led to the
great hall of the abbey, but the passage
was so gloomy and dark, that she feared
to enter it, and started back. It was ne-
cessary, however,. that she should exa-
mine.farther, particularly on the opposite
side of the ruin, of which she had hitherto
had.


had no view: but her fears returned when she recollected how far it would
lead her from her only place of refuge,
and how difficult it would be to retreat.
She hesitated what to do; but when she
recollected her obligations to La Motte,.
and considered this as, perhaps, her
only opportunity of doing him a service,
ihe determined to.proceed.
As these thoughts passed rapidly over
her mind, she raised her innocent looks to-
heaven, and breathed a silent prayer:
With trembling steps she proceeded over
fragments of the ruin, looking anxiously around, and often starting as the breeze
rustled among the trees, mistaking it for
the whisperings of men. She came to
the lawn which fronted the fabric, but
no person was to be seen, and her spirits
revived. The great door of the hall she
now endeavoured to open, but suddenly
remembering that it was fastened by L.a
Motte's orders, she proceeded to the
north end of the abbey, and, having sur-
veyed


t 1% 1
veyed the prospect around, as far as trie
thick foliage of the trees would permit, without perceiving any person, she tunn-
ed her steps to the tower from which she
had issued.
Adeline was now light of heart, and
returned with impatience to inform La Motte of his security- In the cloisters
she was again met by her little favourite^,
and stopped for a moment to caress it.
The fawn seemed sensible to the sound1
of her voice, and discovered new joy;
but while she spoke, it suddenly started
from her hand, and looking up, she
perceived the door of the passage, leading
to the great hall, open,. and a man in the habit of a soldier issue forth-
with the swiftness of an arrow she
fled along the cloisters, nor once ven-
tured to, look back; but a voice called to-
her to stop, and she heard steps ad-
vancing quick in pursuit. Before she-
could reach the tower,. her breath failed
her, and £he leaned against a pillar of.
the


£ rfr4 J
the ruin, pale and exhausted. The man-
came up, and gazing at her with a strong
expression of surprize and curiosity, he
assumed a gentle manner, assured her she
had nothing to fear, and inquired if she
belonged to La Motte: observing that
she still looked terrified and remained
silent, he repeated his assurances and his
question.
"I know that he is concealed within
"the ruin," said the stranger; '' the oc-
'' casion of his concealment I also know;
"but it is of the utmost importance I
"should see him, and he will then be
"convinced he has nothing to fear from
"me." Adeline trembled.so excessively,
that it was with difficulty she could supr
port herself—she hesitated,. and knew not
what to reply- Her manner seemed to
confirm the suspicions of the stranger,
and her. consciousness of this increased
her embarrassment: he took advantage
of it to press her farther. Adeline, at
length, replied, that "La Motte had
** some


f 1*J 1
"sometime since resided at the abbey,"
"—And does still, Madam," said the
stranger; "lead me to where he may
"be found—I must see him, and--."
"Never, Sir," replied Adeline, "and
"I solemnly assure you, it will be in vain
"to search for him."' > ..- .
"That I must try,"resumed he, "since
*' you, Madam, will not assist me. I
*' have already followed him to some
"chambers above, where I suddenly
"lost him: thereabouts he must be con .
"cealed, and it's plain, therefore, they
"afford some secret passage."
Without waiting Adeline's reply, he
sprang to the door of the tower. She
now thought it would betray a conscious- .
ness of the truth of his conjecture to fol-
low him, and resolved to remain below.
But, upon further consideration, it oc-
curred to her, that he might steal silently
into the closet, and possibly surprize La
Motte at the door of the trap. She,
therefore, hastened after him, that her
voice


"Voice might prevent the danger she ap-
prehended. He was already in the se-
cond chamber, when she overtook him j
tfhe immediately began to speak aloud.
This room he searched with the most
scrupulous care, but finding no private
door, or other outlet, he proceeded to
the closet: then it was, that it required
all her fortitude to conceal her agitation.
He continued the search. "Within
*' these chambers I know he is con-
cealed," said he, "though hitherto "I have not been able to discover how.
*( It was hither I followed a man, whom
"I believe to be him, and he could not
*s escape without a passage; I shall not
quit the place till I have found it."
He examined the walls and the boards,
but without discovering the division of
the floor, which, indeed, so exactly cor-
responded, that La Motte himself had
not perceived it by the eye, but by the
trembling of the floor beneath his feet.
"Here is some mystery," said the stran-
ger,


t tti ]
cger, which I cannot comprehend, and
'** perhaps never shall." He was turning
to quit the closet, when, who can paint
the distress of Adeline, upon seeing the
trapdoor gently raised, and La Matte
himself appear. "Hah!" cried the
stranger, advancing eagerly to him. La
Motte sprang forward, and they were
locked in each.other's arms.
The astonishment of Adeline, for a
moment, surpassed even her former dis-
tress; but a remembrance darted across
her mind, which explained the present
. scene, and before La Motte could ex-
.claim, "My son !" she knew the stran-
.ger as such. Peter, who stood at the
foot of the stairs and heard what passed
above, flew to acquaint his mistress with
the joyful discovery, and, in a few mo-
ments, she was folded in the embrace of, her son. This spot, so lately the mansion
of despair, seemed metamorphosed into
sthe palace ofpleasure, andthe walls echoed
only


[ 168 ]
only to the accents of joy and congratula-
tion.
The joy of Peter on this occasion was
beyond expression: he acted a perfect
pantomime—he capered about, clapped
his hands—ran to his young master—.
shook him by the hand, in spite of the
frowns of La Mocte; ran every where,
without knowing for what, and gave no
rational answer to any thing that was said
to him.
After their first emotions were sub-
sided, La Motte, as if suddenly recol-
lecting himself, resumed his wonted so-
lemnity: M I am to blame," said he,
** thus to give way to joy, when I am
"still, perhaps, surrounded by danger.
"Let us secure a retreat while it is yet in
"our power," continued he, "in a few
"hours the King's officers may search e
*' for me again."
Louis comprehendedhisfather's words,
and immediately relieved his apprehen-
sions by the following relation:
"A


[ 169 ]
tc A letter from Monsieur Nemours,
"containing an account of your flight *' from Paris, reached me at Peronne,
"where I was then upon duty with my
"regiment. He mentioned, that you
*' was gone towards the south of France,
"but as he had not since heard from
"you, he was ignorant of the place of
"your refuge. It was about this time .
'* that I was dispatched into Flanders j
"and, being unable to obtain farther in-
"telligence of you, I passed some weeks
"of very painful solicitude. At the
"conclusion of the campaign, I obtained
"leave of absence, and immediately set
"out for Paris, hoping to learn from
"Nemours, where you had soundman
u asylum.
"Of this, however, he was equally
w ignorant with myself. He informed
'* me that you had once before written
"to him from D , upon your second
"day's journey from Paris, under an as-
"fumed name, as had been agreed
Vol. I. H "upon ;.


[ *1* ]
"upon j and that you then said the fear "of discovery would prevent your
"hazarding another letter; he, there-
"fore, remained ignorant of your
"abode, but said, he had no doubt you
n had continued your journey to the
"southward. Upon this flender infor-
'* mation I quitted Paris in search of
"you, and proceeded immediately to "v , where my inquiries, concern-
"ing your farther progress, were suc-
"cessful as far as M . There they
"told me you had staid some time, on
"account of the illness of a young lady j
"a circumstance which perplexed me
"much, as I could not imagine what
"young lady would accompany you. I
"proceeded, however, to L j but
"there all traces of you seemed to be
"lost. As I fat muling at the window
"of the inn, I observed some scribbling
'' on the glass, and the curiosity of idle-
"ness prompted me to read it. I thought
** I knew the characters, and the lines I
"read


C 171 ]
c< read confirmed my conjecture, for t
"remembered to have heard you often
*' repeat them.
"Here I renewed my inquiries con-
** cerning your route, and at length I
"made the people of the inn recollect
"you, and traced you as far as Auboine.
"There I again lost you, till upon my
** return from a fruitless inquiry in the
"neighbourhood, the landlord of the little
*' inn where I lodged, told me he believed
"he had heard news of you, and immedi-
e' ately recounted what had happened at a
'' blacksmith's shop a few hours before.
"His description of Peter was so
*' exact, that I had not a doubt it was
"you who inhabited the abbey; and,
*' as I knew your necessity for conceal-
*' ment, Peter's denial did not shake my
*' confidence. The next morning, with
"the assistance of my landlord, I found
"my way hither, and, having searched
"every visible part of the fabric, I
Ha' «be-


[ ]
"began to credit Peter's assertion: your
"appearance, however, destroyed this
"fear, by proving that the place was still
"inhabited, for you disappeared Ib instan-
"taneoufly, that I was not certain it was
"you whom I had seen. I continued
"seeking you till near the close of day,
"and till then scarcely quitted the cham-
"bers whence you had disappeared. I
"called on you repeatedly, believing that
"my voice might convince you of your
"mistake. At length, I retired to pass
"the night at a cottage near the border of
"the forest.
"I came early this morning to renew
"my inquiries, and hoped that, bcliev-
"ing yourself safe, you would emerge
"from concealment. But how was I
"disappointed to find the abbey as silent
"and solitary as I had left it the pre-
"ceding evening! I was returning once
"more from" the great hall, when the
"voice of this young lady caught my ear,
"and


[ m 3
"and effected the discovery I had so an-
"xioufly sought."
This little narrative entirely dissipated
the late apprehensions of La Motte; but
he now dreaded that the inquiries of his
son, and his own obvious desire of con-
cealment, might excite a curiosity amongst
the people of Auboine, and lead to a dis-
covery of his true circumstances. How-
ever, for the present he determined to dis-
miss all painful thoughts, and endeavour
to enjoy the comfort which the presence
of his son had brought him. The furni-
ture was removed to a more habitable
part of the abbey, and the cells were again
abandoned to their own glooms.
The arrival of her son seemed to have
animated Madame La Motte with new
life, and all her afflictions were, for the
present, absorbed in joy. She often
gazed silently on him with a mother's
fondness, and her partiality heightened
every improvement which time had
H 3 wrought


C 174 ]
wrought in his person and manner. He
was now in his twenty-third year; his
person was manly and his air military;
his manners were unaffected and graceful,
rather than dignified ; and though his fea-
tures were irregular, they composed a
countenance, which, having seen it once,
you would seek again.
She made eager inquiries after the
friends she had left at Paris, and
learned, that within the few months of
her absence, some had died and others
quitted the place. La Motte also learn-
ed, that a very strenuous search for him
had been prosecuted at Paris; and,
though this intelligence was only what he
had before expected, it shocked him so
much, that he now declared it would be
expedient to remove to a distant country.
Louis did not scruple to say, that he
thought he would be as safe at the abbey
as at any other place; and repeated what
Nemours had said, that the King's of-
ficers


t 175 ]
fleers had been unable to trace any part of
his route from Paris.
"Besides/' resumed Louis, " this abbey
'* is protected by a supernatural power,
"and none of the country people dare
"approach it."
"Please you, my young master," said
Peter, who was waiting in the room, "we
"were frightened enough the first night
"we came here, and I, myself, God for-
"give me! thought the place was inha-
"bited by devils, but they were only owls,
't and such like, after all."
"Your opinion was not asked," said La
Motte, "learn to be silent."
Peter was abashed. When he had
quitted the room, La Motte asked his
son with seeming carelessness, what were
the reports circulated by the country
people ?" O! Sir," replied Louis, "I
"cannot recollect half of them. I remem-
"ber, however, they said, that, many
"years ago, a person (but nobody had
ever seen him, so we may judge how
H 4 "far


[ i76 ]
"far the report ought to be credited)
"was privately brought to this abbey,
"and confined in some part of it, and
"that there were strong reasons to believe
P he came unfairly to his end."
La Motte sighed, "They farther
"said," continued Louis, t' that the
"spectre of the deceased had ever since
"watched nightly among the ruins:
"and to make the story more wonderful
"for the marvellous is the delight of the
"vulgar, they added, that there was a
"certain part of the ruin, from whence no
"person that had dared to explore it, had
"ever returned. Thus people, who have
"few objects of real interest to engage
"their thoughts, conjure up for themselves
"imaginary ones."
La Motte fat musing. "And what
"were the reasons," said he, at length
awaking from his reverie, " they pretend-
"ed to assign, for believing the person con-
'* fined here was murdered?"
« They


[ i77 1
u They did not use a term so positive
"as that," replied Louis.
"True," said La Motte, recollecting
himself, " they only said he came unfairly
"to his end."
"That is a nice distinction," said
Adeline.
"Why I could not well compre-
"hend what these reasons were," re-
sumed Louis j "the people, indeed,
"fay, that the person, who was brought
"here, was never known to depart, but
"I do not find it certain that he ever ar-
"rived j that there was strange privacy
"and mystery observed, while he was
u here, and that the abbey has never since
"been inhabited by its owner. There
"seems, however, to be nothing in all this
"that deserves to be remembered." La
Motte raised his head, as if to reply, when
the entrance of Madame turned the dis-
course upon a new subject, and it was not
resumed that day.
H 5 Peter


[ 178 ]
Peter was now dispatched for provi-
sions, while La Motte and Louis retired
to consider how far it was safe for them
to continue at the abbey. La Motte,
notwithstanding the assurances lately given
him, could not but think that Peter's
blunders and his son's inquiries, might
lead to a discovery of his residence.
He revolved this in his mind for some
time, but at length a thought struck him,
that the latter of these circumstances
might considerably contribute to his secu-
rity. "If you," said he to Louis, "return
"to the inn at Auboine, from whence
"you were directed here, and with-
** out seeming to intend giving intelli-
"gence, do give the landlord an account
"of your having found the abbey un-
"inhabited, and then add, that you had
"discovered the residence of the person
"you sought in some distant town, it
*' would suppress any reports that may
"at present exist, and prevent the belief
"of any in future. And if, after all
« this,


£ m 3
"this, you can trust yourself for pre-
"fence of mind and command of counte-
"nance, so far as to describe some dread-
u ful apparition, I think these circum-
?' stances, together with the distance of the
"abbey, and the intricacies of the forest,
u could entitle me to consider this place
,' as my castle."
Louis agreed to all that his father had
proposed, and, on the following day ex-
ecuted his commission with such success,
that the tranquillity of the abbey may
be then said to have been entirely re-
stored.
Thus ended this adventure, the only
one that had occurred to disturb the fa-
mily, during their residence in the forest.
Adeline, removed from the apprehen-
sion of those evils, with which the late
situation of La Motte had threatened her,
and from the depression which her interest
in his occasioned her, now experienced a
more than usual complacency of mind.
She thought too, that Ihe observed in
H 6 Madame


Madame La Motte a renewal of her for-
mer kindness, and this circumstance awa-
kened all her gratitude, and imparted to
her a pleasure as lively as it was innocent.
The satisfaction with which the presence
of her son inspired Madame La Motte,
Adeline mistook for kindness to herself,
and me exerted her whole attention in an
endeavour to become worthy of it.
But the joy which his unexpected arrival
had given to La Motte quickly began to
evaporate, and the gloom of despondency
'again settled on his countenance. He re-
turned frequently to his haunt in the fo-
rest—the fame mysterious sadness tinc-
tured his manner and revived the anxiety
of Madame La Motte, who was resolved
to acquaint her son with this subject of
distress, and solicit his assistance to pene-
trate its source.
Her jealousy of Adeline, however,
she could not communicate, though it again tormented her, and taught her to
misconstrue with wonderful ingenuity
every look and word of La Motte, and
often


[ x8x ]
often to mistake the artless expressions
of Adeline's gratitude and regard for
those of warmer tenderness. Adeline
had formerly accustomed herself to long
walks in the forest, and the design Ma-
dame had formed of watching her steps,
had been frustrated by the late circum-
stances, and was now entirely overcome
by her fense of its difficulty and danger.
To employ Peter in the affair, would be
. to acquaint him with her fears, and to
follow her herself, would most probably
betray her scheme, by making Adeline
aware of her jealousy. Being thus re-
strained by pride and delicacy, she was
obliged to endure the pangs of uncer-
tainty concerning the greatest part of her
suspicions.
To Louis, however, she related the
mysterious change in his father's temper.
He listened to her account with very
earnest attention, and the surprize and
concern impressed. upon his counte-
nance spoke how much his heart was
. interested. He was, however, involved
in


C 182 ]
in equal perplexity with herself upon
this subject, and readily undertook to
observe the motions of La Motte, be-
lieving his interference likely to be of
equal service both to his father and his mother. He saw, in some degree, the
suspicions of his mother, but as he
thought she wished to disguise her feel-
ings, he suffered her to believe that she
succeeded.
He now inquired concerning Adeline,
and listened to her little history, of which
his mother gave a brief relation, with
great apparent interest. So much pity
did he express for her condition, and so
much indignation at the unnatural con-
duct of her father, that the apprehensions
which Madame La Motte began to form,
of his having discovered her jealousy,
yielded to those of a different kind.
She perceived that the beauty of Adeline
had already fascinated his imagination,
and she feared that her amiable manners
would soon impress his heart. Had her
first


[ x«3 3
first fondness for Adeline continued, they would still have looked with displeasure
upon their attachment, as an obstacle to
the promotion and the fortune she hoped
to see one day enjoyed by her son. On
these she rested all her future hopes of
prosperity, and regarded the matrimo-
nial alliance which he might form as the
only means of extricating his family from
their present difficulties. She, therefore,
touched lightly upon Adeline's merit,
coolly joined with Louis in compassiona-
ting her misfortunes, and with her cen-
sure of the father's conduct, mixed an
implied suspicion of that of Adeline's.
The means she employed to repress the
passions of her son, had a contrary effect.
The indifference, which she expressed
towards Adeline, increased his pity for her
destitute condition, and the tenderness with which she affected to judge the fa-
ther, heightened his honest indignation at
his character.
As he quitted Madame La Motte, he
saw his father cross the lawn and enter
a the


[ i84 ]
the deep shade of the forest on the left.
He judged this to be a good opportunity
of commencing his plan, and, quitting
the abbey, slowly followed at a distance.
La Motte continued to walk straight
forward, and seemed so deeply wrapt in
. thought, that he looked neither to the right
or left, and scarcely lifted his head from
the ground. Louis had followed him
near half a mile, when he saw him sud-
denly strike into an avenue of the forest,
which took a different direction from
the way he had hitherto gone. He
quickened his steps that he might not
lose fight of him, but, having reached the
avenue, found the trees so thickly inter-
woven, that La Motte was already hid
from his view.
He continued, however, to pursue
the way before him: it conducted him
through the most gloomy part of the
forest he had yet seen, till at length it
terminated in an obscure recess, over-
arched with high trees, whose interwo-
ven branches excluded the direct rays
Of


[ 1*5 ]
of the sun, and admitted only a sort of
solemn twilight. Louis looked around
in search of La Motte, but he was no
where to be seen. "While he stood sur-
veying the place, and considering what
farther should be done, he observed,
through the gloom, an object at some
distance, but the deep shadow that fell
around prevented his distinguistiing what
it was.
On advancing, he perceived the ruins
of a small building, which, from the
traces that remained, appeared to have
been a tomb. As he gazed upon it,
"Here," said he, "are probably depo-
"sited the ashes of some ancient monk,
"once an inhabitant of the abbey j per-
"haps, of the founder, who, after ha-
"ving spent a life of abstinence and
"prayer, fought in heaven the reward of
"his forbearance upon earth. Peace
"be to his foul! But did he think a life
w of mere negative virtue deserved an
** eternal reward? Mistaken man! reason,
"had you trusted to its dictates, would
11 have


[ 186 I
*' have informed you, that the active
"virtues, the adherence to the golden
"rule, ' Do as you would be done unto," "could alone deserve the savour of a
'* Deity, whose glory is benevolence."
He remained with his eyes fixed upon
the spot, and presently saw a figure arise
under the arch of the sepulchre. It
started, as if on perceiving him,' and im-
mediately disappeared. Louis, though
unused to fear, felt at that moment am uneasy sensation, but it almost immedi-
ately struck him that this was La Motte
himself. He advanced to the ruin and
called him. No answer was returned,
and he repeated the call, but all was yet
still as the grave. He then went up to
the arch-way and endeavoured to exa-
mine the place where he had disappeared,
but the shadowy obscurity rendered the
attempt fruitless. He observed, how-
ever, a little to the right, an entrance
to the ruin, and advanced some steps
down a dark kind of passage, when, recol-
lecting that this place might be the haunt


[ i*7 }
of banditti, his danger alarmed him, and
he retreated with precipitation.
He walked towards the abbey by the
way he came, and finding no person
followed him, and believing himself
again in safety, his firmer surmise re-
turned, and he thought it was La Motte
he had seen. He mused upon this
strange possibility, and endeavoured to
assign a reason for so mysterious a con-
duct, but in vain. Notwithstanding
this, his belief of it strengthened, and he
entered the abbey under as full a con-
viction as the circumstances would admit
of, that it was his father who had appeared
in the sepulchre. On entering what was
now used as a parlour, he was much sur-
prised to find him quietly seated there with
Madame La Motte and Adeline, and con- ,
versing as if he had been returned some
time.
He took the first opportunity of ac-
quainting his mother with the late ad-
venture, and of inquiring how long La
Motte had been returned before him,
when,


C 188 ]
when, learning that it was near half an
hour, his surprise increased, and he knew
not what to conclude.
Meanwhile, a perception of the grow-
ing partiality of Louis co-operated with
the canker of suspicion, to destroy in
Madame La Motte that affection which
pity and esteem had formerly excited
for Adeline. Her unkindness was now
too obvious to escape the notice of her to
whom it was directed, and, being noti-
ced, it occasioned an anguish which Ade-
line found it very difficult to endure.
With the warmth and candour of youth,
she sought an explanation of this change
of behaviour, and an opportunity of ex-
culpating herself from any intention of
provoking it. But this Madame La Motte
artfully evaded, while at the fame time she
threw out hints, that involved Adeline in
deeper perplexity, and served to make her
present affliction more intolerable.
"I have lost that affection," she would
say, "which was my all. It was my
"only


C *«9 ]
** only comfort—yet I have lost it—and
*c this without even knowing my offence.
MC But I am thankful I have not merited
"unkindness, and, though Jhe has aban-
'** doned me, I shall always love her."
Thus distressed, she would frequently
leave the parlour, and, retiring to, her
chamber, would yield to a despondency,
which she had never known till now.
One morning, being unable to sleep,
she arose at a very early hour. The faint
light of day now trembled through the
clouds, and, gradually spreading from the horizon, announced the rising sun.
Every feature of the landscape was slowly
unveiled, moist with the dews of night,
and brightening with the dawn, till at
length the fun appeared, and shed the full
flood of day. The beauty of the hour in-
vited her to walk, and she went forth into
the sorest to taste the sweets of morning.
The carols of new-waked birds saluted her
as she passed, and the fresh gale came
scented with the breath of flowers, whose
tints


[ t9o ]
tints glowed more vivid through the dew
drops that hung on their leaves.
She wandered on without noticing the
distance, and, following the windings of
the river, came to a dewy glade, whose
woods, sweeping down to the very edge of
the water, formed a scene so sweetly ro-
mantic, that she seated herself at the foot
of a tree, to contemplate its beauty.
These images insensibly soothed her forrow, and inspired her with that soft and
pleasing melancholy, so dear to the feeling
mind. For some time she sat lost in a re-
verie, while the flowers that grew on the
banks beside her, seemed to smile in new
life, and drew from her a comparison
with her own condition. She mused
and sighed, and then, in a voice whose
charming melody was modulated by the
tenderness of her heart, Ihe fung the fol-
lowing words:
SON-


I *9* 3
SONNET,
TO THE Taut Soft silken flow'r! that in the dewy vale
Unfolds thy modest beauties to the morn,
And breath'st thy fragrance on her wand'iing gale,
O'er earth's green hills and shadowy vallies born }
When day has closed his dazzling eye,
And dying gales sink soft awayj
When Eve steals down the western sky,
And mountains, woods, and vales decay j
Thy tender cups, that graceful swell,
Droop fad beneath her chilly dews;
Thy odours seek their silken cell,
And twilight veils thy languid hues.
But soon, fair flow'r I the morn mall rise,
And rear again thy pensive head;
Again unveil thy snowy dyes,
Again thy velvet soilage spread.
Sweet child of Spring I like thee in sorrow's shade,
Full oft I mourn in tears, and droop forlorn:
And O! like thine, may light my gloom pervade,
And Sorrow ily before Joy's living morn!
A dis-


t 19a ]
A distant echo lengthened out her tones,
and she sat listening to the soft response,
till repeating the last stanza of the Sonnet,
she was answered by a voice almost as tender, and less distant. She looked
round in surprise, and saw a young man
in a hunter's dress, leaning against a tree,
and gazing on her with that deep atten-
tion, which marks an enraptur'a mind.
A thousand apprehensions shot athwart
her busy thoughtj and she now first re-
membered her distance from the abbey.
She rose in haste to be gone, when the
stranger respectfully advanced j but ob-
serving her timid looks and retiring steps,
he paused. She pursued her way towards
the abbey j and, though many reasons
made her anxious to know whether she
was followed, delicacy forbade her ta
look back. When she reached the ab-
bey, finding the family was not yet as-
sembled to breakfast, she retired to her
chamber, where'her whole thoughts were
employed


t *93 ]
employed in conjectures concerning the
stranger; believing that she was interest-
ed on this point, no farther than as it
concerned the safety of La Motte, she
indulged, without scruple, the remem-
brance of that dignified air and manner
which so much distinguished the youth
she had seen. After revolving the cir-
cumstance more deeply, she believed it
impossible that a person of his appearance
should be engaged in a stratagem to be-
tray a fellow creature; and though she
was destitute of a single circumstance
that might assist her surmises of who he
was, or what was his business in an un-
frequented forest, the rejected, uncon-
sciously, every suspicion injurious to his
character. Upon farther deliberation,
therefore, she resolved not to mention
this little circumstance to La Motte;
well knowing, that though his danger
might be imaginary, his apprehensions
would be real, and would renew all the
sufferings and perplexity, from which
Vox. I. I he


[ *95 3
** This charming morning drew you
*' early from your chamber," said Louis,
addressing Adeline.—" You had, no
"doubt, a pleasant companion too," said
Madame La Motte, "a solitary walk is
"seldom agreeable."
"I was alone, Madam," replied Ade-
line.
"Indeed! your own thoughts must
*' be highly pleasing then."
"Alas!" returned Adeline, a tear,
spite of her efforts, starting to her eye,
*' there are now few subjects of pleasure
(* left for them."
'* That is very surprising," pursued
Madame La Motte.
"Is it, indeed, surprising, Madam,
*' for those who have lost their last friend
"to be unhappy?"
Madame La Motte's conscience ac-
knowledged the rebuke, and she blushed.
"Well," resumed she, after a short pause,
"that is not your situation, Adeline;"
looking earnestly at La Motte. Ade-
I 2 line,


C 196 ]
line, whose innocence protected her from
suspicion, did not regard this circum-
stance; but, smiling through her tears,
said, "She rejoiced to hear her say so."
During this conversation, LaMottehad
remained absorbed in his own thoughts;
and Louis, unable to guess at what it
pointed, looked alternately at his mo-
ther and Adeline for an explanation.
The latter he regarded with an expression
so full of tender compassion, that it re-
vealed at once to Madame La Motte the
sentiments of his foul; and stie immedi-
ately replied to the last words of Ade-
line with a very serious air: "A friend
** is only estimable. when our conduct
*l deserves one; the friendship that sur-
"vives the merit of its object, is a dif-
"grace instead of an honour, to both
parties."
The manner and emphasis with which
she delivered these words, again alarm-
ed Adeline, who mildly said, "She
*' hoped she should never deserve such
ff .censure"


r 197 3
"censure." Madame was silent; but
Adeline was so much shocked by what
had already passed, that tears sprung
from her eyes, and she hid her face with
her handkerchief.
Louis now rose with some emotion;
and La Motte, roused from his reverie,
inquired what was the matter; but, be-
fore he could receive an answer, he
seemed to have forgot that he had asked
a question. "Adeline may give you
'* her own account," said Madame La
Motte.—" I have not deserved this,"
said Adeline, rising, •* but since my pre-
** fence is displeasing, I will retire."
She moved toward the door, when
Louis, who was pacing the room in
apparent agitation, gently took her hand,
saying, "Here is some unhappy mis-
"take," and would have led her to her
seat; but her spirits were too much de-
pressed to endure longer restraint; and,
withdrawing her hand, "Suffer me to
"go;" said she, " if there is any mistake,
I 3. "I am


C '9* 3
"I am unable to explain it." Saying
this, she quitted the room. Louis fol lowed her with his eyes to the door;
when, turning to his mother, *' Surely,
"Madam," said he, " you are to blame:
"my life on it, she deserves your warmest
"tenderness."
"You are very eloquent in her cause,
"Sir," said Madame, " may I presume
tc to ask what has interested you thus in
"her favour?"
"Her own amiable manners," rejoin-
ed Louis, "which no one can observe
"without esteeming them."
"But you may presume too much on
"your own observations; it is possible
"these amiable manners may deceive
"you."
"Your pardon, Madam $ I may,with-
"out presumption, affirm they cannot
"deceive me."
"You have, no doubt, good reasons
"for this assertion, and I perceive, by
"your admiration of this artless innocents
"she


[ 200 ]
Adeline's walk ; and La Motte having
gone forth into the forest at an early hour,
her imagination, heated by the broodings
of jealousy, suggested that they had ap-
pointed a meeting. This was confirmed
to her by the entrance of Adeline, quickly
followed by La Motte; and her percep-
tions thus jaundiced by passion, neither
the presence of her son, or her usual at-
tention to good manners, had been able
to restrain her emotions. The behavi-
our of Adeline, in the late scene, she
considered as a refined piece of art; and
the indifference of La Motte as affected.
So true is it, that
"Trifles, light as air,'
Are to the jealous confirmations strong,
As proof of Holy Writ." And so ingenious was she "to twist the
"true cause the wrong way."
Adeline had retired to her chamber to
weep. When her first agitations were
subsided, she took an ample review of her
conduct; and perceiving nothing of
which she could accuse herself, she be-
came


[ 401 ]
came more satisfied, deriving her best*
comfort from the integrity of her inten-
tions. In the moment of accusation,
innocence may sometimes be oppressed
with the punishment due only to guilt;
but reflection dissolves the illusions of
terror, and brings to the aching bosom
the consolations of virtue.
When La Motte quitted the room, he
had gone into the forest, which Louis
observing, he followed and joined him,
with an intention of touching upon the
subject of his melancholy. "It is a fine
"morning, Sir," said Louis, "if you
"will give me leave, I will walk with
"you." La Motte, though dissatisfied,
did not object; and after,they had pro-
ceeded some way, he changed the course
of his walk, striking into a path, con-
trary to that which Louis had observed
him take on the foregoing day.
Louis remarked, that the avenue they
had quitted was " more shady, and,there-
"fore, more pleasant." La Motte not
15 seeming


t 3502 J
seeming to notice this remark, "It leads "to a singular spot," continued he,
"which I discovered yesterday." La
Motte raised his head; Louis proceeded
to describe the tomb, and the adventure
he had met with; during this relation,
La Motte regarded him with earnest at-
tention, while his own countenance suf--
fered various changes. When he had
concluded, " You were very daring,"
said La Motte, " to examine that place,
*' particularly when you ventured down
*' the passage: I would advise you to be
"more cautious how you penetrate the
*' depths of this forest. I, myself, have
"not ventured beyond a certain boun-
ty dary; and am, therefore, uninformed
** what inhabitants it may harbour. Your
u account has alarmed me," continued
he, "for if banditti are in the neigh-
"bourhood, I am not safe from their
'' depredations: 'tis true, I have but little
"to lose, except my life."
}* And the lives of your family,"
rejoined


C 203 3
rejoined Louis.—" Of course," said La
Motte.
"It would be well to have more cer-
"tainty upon that head," rejoined Louis,'
"I am considering how we may obtain
"it."
"'Tis useless to consider that," said
La Motte," the inquiry itself brings
"danger with it; your life would, per-
"haps, be paid for the indulgence of
"your curiosity; our only chance of
"safety is by endeavouring to remain "undiscovered.' Let us move towards
"the abbey."
Louis knew not what to think, but
said no more upon... the subject. La Motte soon: after relapsed into a fit of
musing; andhis son now took occasion
to lament that depression of spirits, which
he had lately observed in him. "Rather
"lament the cause of it," said La Motte
with a sigh;—" That I do most sincerely
"whatever it may be* May I venture
"to inquire, Sir, what is the cause?"
I 6 « Are,


[ *°4 ]
"Are, then, my misfortunes so little
"known to you," rejoined La Motte,
"as to make that question necessary?
"Am I not driven from my home, from
"my friends, and almost from my coun-
"try, and shall it be asked why I am
"afflicted ?"—Louis felt the justice of
this reproof, and was a moment silent:
"That you are afflicted, Sir, does not
"excite my surpriseresumed he, "it
"would, indeed, be strange, were you
"not."
"What then does excite your sur-
"prise?"
"The air of cheerfulness you wore
*' when I first came hither."
"You lately lamented that I was
"afflicted," said La Motte, "and now
*' seem not very well pleased that I once
"was cheerful. What is the meaning
*' of this?"
"You much mistake me," said his son,
"nothing could give me so much satis-
** faction as to fee that cheerfulness re-
"newed;


[ 206 ]
** netration, however, you may rely upon
"it, has, in the present instance, deceived
"you. I have no subject of distress, but
"what you are already acquainted with,
"and I desire this conversation may ne-
"ver be renewed."
"If it is your desire, of course, I
"obey," said Louis; "but ipardon
** me, Sir, if"
"I will not pardon you, Sir," inter-
rupted La Motte, " let the discourse end
*' here." Saying this, he quickened his
steps, and Louis, not daring to pursue;
walked quietly on till he reached the
abbey..
Adeline passed the greatest part of the
day alone in her chamber, where, having
examined her conduct, she endeavoured
to fortify her heart against the unmerited
displeasure of Madame La Motte. This
was a task more difficult than that of
self acquittance. She loved her, and had
relied on her friendship, which, notwith-
standing the conduct of Madame, still ape pcared


[ *°7 3
peared valuable. It was true, she had
not deserved to lose it, but Madame
was so averse to explanation, that there
was little probability of recovering it,
however ill-founded might be the cause
of her dislike. At length, she reasoned,
or rather, perhaps, persuaded herself into
tolerable composure; for to resign a real
good with contentment, is less an effort
of reason than of temper.
For many hours she busied herself
upon a piece of work, which she had
undertaken for Madame La Motte; and
this she did, without the least intention
of conciliating her favour, but because
she felt there was something in thus re-
paying unkindness, which was suitable to
her own temper, her sentiments, and her
pride. Self-love may be the center, round
which the human affections move, for
whatever motive conduces to self-gratifi-
cation may be resolved into self-love; yet
some of these affections are in their nature
so refined—that though we cannot deny
their


I 208 ]
their origin, they almost deserve the name
of virtue. Of this species was that of
Adeline.
In this employment, and in reading,
Adeline passed as much of the day as
possible. From books, indeed, she had
constantly derived her chief informa-
tion and amusement: those belonging to
La Motte were few, but well chosen;
and Adeline could find pleasure in read-
ing them more than once. When her
mind was discomposed by the behaviour
of Madame La Motte, or by a retro-
spection of her early misfortunes, a book
was the opiate that lulled it to repose.
La Motte had several of the best English
poets, a language which Adeline had
learned in the convent; their beauties,
therefore, she was capable of tasting, and
they often inspired her with enthusiastic
delight.
At the decline of day, she quitted her
chamber to enjoy the sweet evening hour,
but strayed no farther than an avenue
near


near the abbey, which fronted the west.
She read a little, but, finding it impos-
sible any longer to abstract her attention
from the scene around, she closed the
book, and yielded to the sweet compla-
cent melancholy which the hour in-
spired. The air was still, the fun, sink-
ing below the distant hills, spread a pur-
ple glow over the landscape, and touched
the forest glades with softer light. A
dewy freshness was diffused upon. the
air. As the sun descended, the dusk
came silently on, and the scene assumed
a solemn grandeur. As she mused, she
recollected and repeated the following
stanzas:
NIGHT.
Now Ev'ning fades! her pensive step retires And Night leads on the dews, and shadowy hourst Her awful pomp of planetary fires,
And all her train of visionary powers.
These paint with fleeting shapes the dream of sleep,
These swell the waking soul with pleasing dread j
These through the glooms in forms terrific sweep, And rouse the thrilling horrors of the dead!
Queen


Queen of the solemn thought—mysterious Night T
Whose step is darkness, and whose voice is fear t
Thy shades I welcome with severe delight,
And hail thy hollow gales, that sigh so drear I
When, wrapt in clouds, and riding in the blast,
Thou roll'st the storm along the founding shojs^
I love to watch the whelming billows cast
On rocks below, and listen to the roar.
Thy milder terrors, Night, I frequent woo,
Thy silent lightnings, and thy meteor's glare,
Thy northern fires, bright with ensanguine hue,
That light in heaven's high vault the fervid air.
But chief I love thee, when thy lucid car
Sheds through the fleecy clouds a trembling gleam, And shews the misty mountain from afar,
The nearer forest, and the valley's stream:
And nameless objects in the vale below,
That floating dimly to the musing eye,
Assume, at Fancy's touch, fantastic show, And raise her sweet romantic visions high.
Then let me stand amidst thy glooms profound
On some wild woody steep, and hear the breeze
That swells in mournful melody around,
And faintly dies upon the distant trees.
What melancholy charm steals o'er the mind!
What hallow'd tears the rising rapture greet!
While many a viewless spirit in the wind
Sighs to the lonely hour in accents sweet 1


[ 211 ]
Ah f who the dear illusions pleas'd would yield,
Which Fancy wakes from silence and from shades,
For all the sober forms of Truth reveal'd,
For all the scenes that Day's bright eye pervades I
On her return to the abbey she'was
joined by Louis, who, after some con-
versation, said, "I am much grieved
"by the scene to which I was witness
'* this morning, and have longed for an
"opportunity of telling you so. My
"mother's behaviour is too mysterious for
"me to account for, but it is not diffi-
"cult to perceive she labours under some
"mistake. What I have to request is,
"that whenever I can be of service to
"you, you will command me."
Adeline thanked him for his friendly
offer, which she felt more sensibly than
she chose to express. "I am uncon-
"scious," said she, "of any offence
"that may have deserved Madame La
"Motte's displeasure, and am, there-
"fore, totally unable to account for it.
"I have repeatedly sought an explana-
"tion,.


I 213 ]
vceived the sentiments of his heart. A
mind more fraught with vanity than her's,
would have taught her long ago to regard
the attentions of Louis, as the result of
something more than well-bred gallan-
try. She did not appear to notice his
last words, but remained silent, and in-
voluntarily quickened her pace. Louis
said no more, but seemed sunk in
thought; and this silence remained un-
interrupted, till they entered the abbey.
CHAP.


C «s J
firmed the alarm. La Motte had little
doubt that the officers of justice had at
length discovered his retreat, and the
perturbation of fear almost confounded
his senses ; he, however, ordered the
lights to be extinguished, and a profound
silence to be observed, unwilling to ne-
glect; even the slightest possibility of secu-
rity. There was a chance, he thought,
that the persons might suppose the place
uninhabited, and believe they had mis-
taken the object of their search. His
orders were scarcely obeyed, when the
knocking was renewed, and with in-
creased violence. La Motte now re-
paired to a small grated window in the
portal of the gate, that he might observe
the number and appearance of the
strangers.
The darkness of the night baffled his
purpose; he could only perceive a
group of men on horseback; but lis-
tening attentively, he distinguished a
part of their discourse. Several of the
men


C 216 ]
men ,contended, that they had mistaken
the place; till a person, who, from
his authoritative voice, appeared to be
their leader, affirmed, that the lights
had issued from this spot, and he was po-
fitive there were persons within, Having
said this, he again knocked loudly at the
gate, and was answered only by hollow
echoes. La Motte's heart trembled at
the found, and he was unable to move.
After waiting some time, the strangers
seemed as if in consultation, but their
discourse was conducted in such a low
tone of voice, that La Motte was unable
to distinguish its purport. They with-
drew from the gate, as if to depart, but
he presently thought he heard them
"amongst the trees on the other side of the
fabric, and soon became convinced
they had not left the abbey. A few mi-
nutes held La Motte in a state of torturing
suspense; he quitted the grate, where
Louis now stationed himself, for that part
of


I ai7 J
of the edifice which overlooked the spot
where he supposed them to be waiting.
The storm was now loud, and the hol-
low blasts, which rustied among the
trees, prevented his distinguishing any
other sound. Once, in the pauses of the
wind, he thought he heard distinct:
voicess" but he was not long left to con-
jecture, for the renewed knocking at the
gate again appalled him; and regardless
of the terrors of Madame La Motte and
Adeline, he ran to try his last chance of
concealment, by means of the trap-door.
Soon after, the violence of the assai-
lants seeming to increase with every gust
of the tempest, the gate, which was old
and decayed, burst from its hinges, and
admitted them to the hall. At the mo-
ment of their entrance, a scream from
Madame La Motte, who stood at the
door of an adjoining apartment, con-
firmed the suspicion of the principal
stranger, who continued to advance, as
fast as the darkness would permit him.
Vol. I. K Adeline


T *is 3
Adeline had fainted, and Madame La Motte was calling loudly for assistance,
when Peter entered with lights, and dis-
covered the hall filled with men, and his
young mistress senseless upon the floor.
A Chevalier now advanced, and solicit-
ing pardon of Madame for the rudeness
of his conduct, was attempting an apo-
logy, when perceiving Adeline, he has-
tened to raise her from the ground, but
Louis, who now returned, caught her in
his arms, and desired the stranger not to
interfere.
The person, to whom he spoke this,
wore the star of one of the first orders in
France, and had an air of dignity, which
declared him to be of superior rank. He
appeared to be about forty, but, per-
haps, the spirit and fire of his counte-
nance made the impression of time upon
his features less perceptible. His softened
aspect and insinuating manners, while,
regardless of himself, he seemed atten-
tive only to the condition of Adeline,
a gradually


C 219 1
gradually dissipated the apprehensions of
Madame La Motte, and subdued the
sudden resentment of Louis. Upoa
Adeline, who was yet insensible, he gazed
with an eager admiration, which seemed
to absorb all the faculties of his mind.
She was, indeed, an object not to be con-
templated with indifference.
Her beauty, touched with the languid
delicacy of illness, gained from sentiment
what it lost in bloom. The negligence
of her dress, loosened for the purpose of
freer respiration, discovered those glow-
ing charms, which her auburn tresses,
that fell in profusion over her bosom,
shaded, but could not conceal.
There now entered another stranger, a
young Chevalier, who, having spoken
hastily to the elder, joined the general
group that surrounded Adeline. He
was of a person, in which elegance was
happily blended with strength, and had
a countenance animated, but not haugh-
ty; noble, yet expressive of peculiar
K 2 sweet-


[ 220 ]
sweetness. What rendered it at present
more interesting, was the compassion he
seemed to feel for Adeline, who now
revived and saw him, the first object that
met her eyes, bending over her in silent
anxiety.
On perceiving him, a blush of quick
surprize passed over her cheek, for she
knew him to bethe stranger she had seen
in the forest. Her countenance instantly
changed to the paleness of terror, when
she observed the room crowded with
people. Louis now supported her into
another apartment, where the two Che-
valiers, who followed her, again apolo-
gized for the alarm they had occasioned.
The elder, turning to Madame La Motte,
said, You are, no doubt, Madam,
"ignorant that I am the proprietor
"of this abbey." She started: "Be
'' not alarmed, Madam, you are safe
** and welcome. This ruinous spot has
"been long abandoned by me, and if it
"has afforded you a shelter, I am happy."
Madame


C 221 ]
Madame La Motte expressed her grati-
tude for this condescension, and Louis
declared his fense of the politeness of the
Marquis de Montalt, for that was the
title of the noble stranger. . . .
"My chief residence," said the Mar-
s' quis, "is in: a distant province, but I.
',* have a chateau near the borders of the
"forest, and in returning from an ex-
"cursion, I have been benighted and
** lost my way. A light, which gleamed
*' through the trees, attracted me hither,
** and, such was the darkness without,
** that I did not know it proceeded from
"the abbey till I came to the door."
The noble deportment of the strangers,
the splendour of their apparel, and, above
all, this speech, dissipated every remain-
ing doubt of Madame's, and the was
giving orders for refreshments to be fee
before them, when La Motte, who had
listened, and was now convinced he had
nothing to fear, entered the apartment.
K 3. .


He advanced towards the Marquis with a complacent air, but, as he would
have spoke, the words of welcome fauls-
tered on his lips, his limbs trembled, and
a ghastly paleness overspread his counte-
nance. The Marquis was little less agi-
tated, and, in the first moment of sur-
prize, put his hand upon his sword,
but, recollecting himself, he withdrew
it, and endeavoured to obtain a com-
mand of features. A pause of agonizing
silence ensued. La Motte made some
motion towards the door, but his agi-
tated frame refused to support him, and
he sunk into a chair, silent and ex-
hausted. The horror of his countenance,
together with his whole behaviour, ex-
cited the utmost surprize in Madame,
whose eyes inquired of the Marquis more
than he thought proper to answer: his
looks increased, instead of explaining the
mystery, and expressed a mixture of emo-
tions, which she could not analyse.
Meanwhile, she endeavoured to soothe
and


C 224 ]
"Impossible t my Lord," said he; " my
*' lips shall close for ever, ere they pro-
u nounce before another human being
"the words reserved for you alone. I
** entreat—I supplicate of you a few mo- "ments private discourse." As he pro-
nounced these words, tears swelled into
his eyes, and the Marquis, softened by
his distress, consented, though with evi-
dent emotion and reluctance, to his re-
quest.
La Motte took a light and led the
Marquis to a small room in a remote part
of the edifice, where they remained near
an hour. Madame, alarmed by the
length of their absence, went in quest of
them: as she drew near, a curiosity, in
such circumstances, perhaps, not unjusti-
fiable, prompted her to listen. La Motte
just then exclaimed—" The phrenzy of
"despair !"—Some words followed, de-
livered in a low tone, which she could
not understand.—" I have suffered more
"than I can express," continued he;
"the


C «5 3
"the same image has pursued me in my
'' midnight dream, and in my daily wan-
"derings. There is no punishment;
ix short of death, which I would not have
"endured, to regain the state of mind
"with which I entered this forest. I
"again address myself to your com-
"passion."
A loud gust of wind, that burst along
the passage where Madame La Motte
stood, overpowered his voice and that of
the Marquis, who spoke in reply : but she
soon after distinguished these words,—
"To-morrow, my Lord, if you return
"to these ruins, I will lead you to the
"spot/? *
"That is scarcely necessary, and may be
"dangerous," said the Marquis. " From you, my Lord,. I can excuse these
"doubts," resumed La Motte; "but I
't will swear whatever you shall propose;
Yes," continuedhe, "whatevermay be
"the consequence, I will swear to submit
to your decree!" The rising tempest
K 5 again


t 226 ]
again drowned the sound of their voice*,
and Madame La Motte vainly endea-
voured to hear those words, upon which,
probably, hung the explanation of this
mysterious conduct. They now moved
towards the door, and she retreated with
precipitation to the apartment where she
had left Adeline, with Louis and the
young Chevalier.'
Hither the Marquis and La Motte
soon followed, the first haughty and
cool, the latter somewhat more com-
posed than before, though the impression
of horror Was not yet faded from his
countenance. The Marquis passed on
to the hall where his retinue awaited; i
the storm was not yet subsided, but he
seemed impatient to be gone, and or-
dered his people to be in readiness. Ld
Motte observed a sullen silence, fre-
quently pacing the room with hasty
steps, and sometimes lost in reverie.
Meanwhile, the Marquis, seating himself
by Adeline, directed to her his whole
attest-


[ 227 ]
attention, except when sudden fits of ab-
sence came over his mind and suspended
him in silence: at these times the young
Chevalier addressed Adeline, who, with
diffidence and some agitation, shrunk
from the observance of both.
"The Marquis had been near two hours
at the abbey, and the tempest still con-
tinuing, Madame La Motte offered him
a bed. A look from her husband made
her tremble for the consequence. Her
offer was, however, politely declined,
the Marquis being evidently as impa-
tient to be gone, as his tenant appeared
distressed by his presence. He often re-
turned to the hall, and from the gates
raised a look of impatience to the clouds.
Nothing was to be seen through the
darkness of night—nothing heard but the
howlings of the storm.
The morning dawned before he de-
parted. As he was preparing to leave
the abbey, La Motte again drew him
aside, and held him for a few moments
K 6 in


C ]
in close conversation. His impassioned
gestures, which Madame La Motte ob-
served from a remote part of the room,
added to her curiosity a degree of wild
apprehension, derived from the obscu-
rity of the subject. Her endeavour to
distinguish the corresponding words was
baffled by the low voice in which they
were uttered.; .' i r'
The Marquis and his retinue at length
departed, and La Motte, having him-
self fastened the gates, silently and de-
jectedly withdrew to his chamber. The
moment they were alone, Madame seized
the opportunity of entreating her husband
to explain the scene she had witnessed.
"Ah me no questions," said La Motte,
sternly, " for I will answer none. I have
"already forbade your speaking to me on
"this subject."
"What subject?" said his wife. La
Motte seemed to recollect himself, —" No
"matter—I was mistaken—I thought
"you


C m J
"you had repeated these questions be-
*f foal, ,' 1 '' ".
Ah}" said Madame La Motte, f* it
<* is then as I suspected: your former
"melancholy, and the distress of this
"night, have the fame cause." '. .'
"And why should you either suspect:
"or inquire? Am I always to be perse-
"cuted with conjectures?"
"Pardon me, I meant not to persecute
"you; but my anxiety for your welfare
'' will not suffer me to rest, under this
*.* dreadful uncertainty. Let me claim
"the privilege of a wife, and share the
"affliction which oppresses you. Deny
"me not."—La Motte interrupted her,
"Whatever may be the cause of the
"emotions which you have witnessed, I
"swear that I will not now reveal it. A
"time may come, when I shall no lon-
"gerjudge concealment necessary; till
"then be silent, and desist from impor-
"tunity; above all, forbear to remark
"to _any one what you may have seen
i "uncom-


I *3° 3
"uncommon in me. Bury your surmise
"in your own bosom, as you would
"avoid my curse and my destruction."
The determined air with which he spoke
this, while his countenance was over-
spread with a livid hue, made his wife
fliudder; and (he forbore all reply. Madame la Motte retired to bed, but
not to rest. She ruminated on the past
occurrence; and her surprize and curi-
osity, concerning the words and beha-
viour of her husband, were but more
strongly stimulated by reflection. One
truth, however, appeared; she could not
doubt, but the mysterious conduct of La
Motte, which had for so many months
oppressed her with anxiety, and the
late scene with the Marquis, originated
from the fame cause. This belief, which
seemed to prove how unjustly she had
suspected Adeline, brought with it a
pang of self-accusation. , She looked for-
ward to the morrow, which would lead
the Marquis again to the abbey, with


impatience. Wearied nature at length resumed her rights, and yielded a shore
oblivion of care.
',"'At a late hour, the next day, the fa-
mily assembled to breakfast. Each in-
dividual of the party appeared silent and
abstracted, but very different was the as-
pect of their features, and still more the
complexion of their thoughts. La Motte
seemed agitated by impatient fear, yet
the sullenness of despair overspread bis
countenance. A certain wildnefs in his
eye at times expressed the sudden start of
horror, and again his features would sink
into the gloom of despondence.
Madame La Motte seemed harrassed
with anxiety; she watched every turn of
her husband's countenance, and impa-
tiently waited the arrival of the Mar-
quis. Louis was composed and thought-
ful. Adeline seemed to feel her full
share of uneasiness. She had observed
the behaviour of La Motte the pre-
ceding night with much surprize, and the
happy


f 7
Happy confidence she had hitherto re-
posed in him, was shaken. She feared
also, lest the exigency of his circumstan-
ces should precipitate him again into the
world, and that he would be either una-
ble or unwilling to afford her a shelter
beneath his roof.
During breakfast, La Motte frequently
rose to the window, from whence he cast many an anxious look. His wife under-
stood too well the cause of his impa*
tienee, and endeavoured to repress her
own. In these intervals, Louis attemp-
ted by whispers to obtain some informa-
tion from his father, but La Motte al-
ways returned to the table, where the
presence of Adeline prevented farther
discourse.
After breakfast, as he walked upon the
lawn, Louis would have joined him, but:
La Motte peremptorily. declared he in-
tended to be alone, and soon after, the
Marquis having not yet arrived, proceed-
ed to a greater distance from the abbey.
Adeline


C 2H 1
inadequate to the degree of emotions,
the Marquis and La Motte had mutually betrayed. Her surprize was excited, and
her curiosity awakened by the words,
which were meant to delude them both,
but (he forbore to express her thoughts.
Madame proceeding with her plan,,
said, " The Marquis was now expected, ** and she hoped whatever differences re-
** mained, would be perfectly adjusted."
Adeline blushed, and endeavouring to re-
ply, her lips faltered. Conscious of this
agitation, and of the observance of Ma-
dame La Motte, her confusion increased,
and her endeavours to suppress served
only to heighten it. Still she tried to
renew the discourse, and still she found
it impossible to collect her thoughts.
Shocked lest Madame should apprehend
the sentiment, which bad till this mo-
ment been concealed almost from her-
self, her colour fled, she fixed her eyes
on the ground, and, for some time, found
it difficult to respire. Madame La
Motte


C 225 3
Motte inquired if she was ill, when Ade-
line, glad of the excuse, withdrew to the
indulgence of her own thoughts, which
'were now wholly engrossed by the ex-
pectation of seeing again the young Che-
valier, who had accompanied the Mar*
quis.
As she looked from her room, she saw
the Marquis on horseback, with several
attendants, advancing at a distance, and
slie hastened to apprize Madame La
Motte of his approach. In a short time,
he arrived at the gates, and Madame and
Louis went out to receive him, La
Motte being not yet returned. He en-
tered the hall, followed by the young
Chevalier, and accosting Madame with
a sort of stately politeness, inquired for
La Motte, whom Louis now went tai
seek.
The Marquis remained for a few mi-
nutes silent, and then asked of Madame
La Motte, " how her fair daughter did
Madame understood it was Adeline he
. . meant,


C 236 3
meant, and having answered his in-
quiry, and slightly said that she was
not related to her, Adeline, upon some
indication of the Marquis's wish, was
sent for: she entered the room with a
modest blush and a timid air, which
seemed to engage all his attention. His
compliments she received with a sweet
grace, but, when the younger Chevalier approached, the warmth of his manner
rendered her's involuntarily more reser-
ved, and she scarcely dared to raise her
eyes from the ground, lest they should en-
counter his.
La Motte now entered and apologi-
zed for his absence, which the Marquis
noticed only by a slight inclination of
his head, expressing at the fame time by
his looks, both distrust and pride. They
immediately quitted the abbey together, and the Marquis beckoned his attendants
to follow at a distance; La Motte for-
bade his son to accompany him, but
Louis observed he took the way into the
thickest


[ 233 I
ful constraint, but gradually disclosed the
beauties of her mind, and seemed to pro-
duce a mutual confidence. A similarity
of sentiment soon appeared, and Theo-
dore, by the impatient pleasure which
animated his countenance, seemed fre-
quently to anticipate the thoughts of
Adeline.:
To them the absence of the Marquis
was short, though long to Madame La
Motte, whose countenance brightened, when she heard the trampling of horses
at the gate.
The Marquis appeared but for a mo-
ment, and passed on with La Motte to
a private room, where they remained
for some time in conference, immediately
after which he departed. Theodore took
leave of Adeline, who, as well as La
Motte and Madame, attended them to
the gates, with an expression of tender
regret, and, often as he went, looked
back upon the abbey, till the intervening
i . ,: branches


[ 239 3
branches entirely excluded it from his view.
The transient glow of pleasure diffused
ewer the cheek of Adeline disappeared
with the young stranger, and the sighed
as she turned into the hall. The image
of Theodore pursued her to her chamber;
she recollected with exactness every par-
ticular of his late conversation—his atiments so congenial with her own—his
manners so engaging—his countenance
so animated—so ingenuous and so noble,
in which manly dignity was blended
with the sweetness of benevolence—
these, and every other grace, (he recol-
lected, and a soft melancholy stole upon
her heart. "I mall see him no more,"
said she. A sigh, that followed, told
her more of her heart than she wished to
know. She blushed, and sighed again,
and then suddenly recollecting herself,
ihe endeavoured to divert her thoughts
to a different subject. La Motte's con-
nection with the Marquis for some time
engaged


C 240 ]
engaged her attention, but, unable to
develope the mystery that attended it,
she sought a refuge from her own reflec-
tions in the more pleasing ones to be de-
rived from books. ', , ' :' .
During this time, Louis, shocked and
surprised at the extreme distress which
his father had manifested upon the first
appearance of the Marquis, addressed
him on the subject:. He had no doubt
that the Marquis was intimately con-
cerned in the event which made it ne-
cessary for La Motte to leave Paris, and
he spoke his thoughts without disguise,
lamenting at the same time the unlucky
chance which had brought him to seek
refuge in a place, of all others, the least
capable of affording it—the estate of his
enemy. La Motte did not contradict this opinion of his son's, and joined in
lamenting the evil fate which had con-
ducted him thither. :'.
The term of Louis's absence from his
regiment, was now nearly expired, and
_'t he


C *4 * 3
he took occasion to express his sorrow,
that he must soon be obliged to leave his
father in circumstances so dangerous as
the present, "I should leave you, Sir,
"with less pain," continued he, "was
*' I sure I knew the full extent of your
** misfortunes. At present I am left to
*' conjecture evils, which, perhaps, do
.** not exist. Relieve me, Sir, from this
*' state of painful uncertainty, and suffer
'< me to prove myself worthy of your con-
"fidence."
"I have already answered you on this
<* subject," said La Motte, "and for-
*' bade you to renew it. I am now obli-
ged to tell you, I care not how soon you
*' depart, if I am to be persecuted with
'' these inquiries." La Motte walked
abruptly away, and left his son to doubt
and concern.
The arrival of the Marquis had dissi-
pated the jealous fears of Madame La
.Motte, and she awoke to a sense of her
cruelty towards Adeline. When (lie
Void's, L considered


* [ 242 ]
considered her orphan state—the uni-
form affection which had appeared in
her behaviour—the mildness and pa lience with which she had borne her in-
jurious treatment, she was shocked, and
took an early opportunity of renewing
her former kindness. But she could not
explain this seeming inconsistency of
conduct, without betraying her late sus-
picions, which she now blushed to re-
member, nor could she apologize for her
former behaviour, without giving this
explanation, She contented herself, therefore, with
expressing in her manner the regard
which was thus revived. Adeline was at
first surprised, but she felt too much plea-
sure at the change to be scrupulous in in-
quiring its cause.
But, notwithstanding the satisfaction
which Adeline received from the revival
of Madame La Motte's kindness, her
thoughts frequently recurred to the pe-
culiar and forlorn circumstances of her
*.>. .. .. condition.


C *44 ]
she caught herself busy in conjecture as
to the degree of relationship in which
Theodore stood to the Marquis, but she
immediately checked her thoughts, and
severely blamed herself for having suf-
fered them to stray to an object, which
(he perceived was too dangerous to her
peace.
CHAP.


C H5 3
. * /
r
1 C £ A P. 'VII.
.« j. .- < .1 . * -: i.
.: '' PresenUll*
Are lest than horrible imaginings.
A Few days after the occurrence rela-
ted in the preceding chapter, as Adeline
fat alone in her chamber, she was rou-
sed from a reverie by a trampling of
horses near the gate, and, on looking
from the casement, she saw the Marquis
<5e Montalt enter the abbey. This cir-
cumstance surprized her, and an emo-
tion, whose cause she did not trouble her-
self to inquire for, made her instantly re-
treat from the window. The same cause,
however, led her thither again as hastily, but the object of her search did not ap-
pear, and she was in no haste to retire.
As she stood muling and disappointed,-
the Marquis came out with La Motte,

L3
and,


E 246 ]
and, immediately looking up, saw Ada-
line and bowed. She returned his com-
pliment respectfully, and withdrew from
the window, vexed at having been seen there. They went into the forest, but
the Marquis's attendants did not, as be-
fore, follow them thither. When they
returned, which was not till after a consi-
derable time, the Marquis immediately
mounted his horse and rode away.
For the remainder of the day, La
Motte appeared gloomy and silent, and
was frequently lost in thought. Ade-
line observed him with particular atten-
tion and concern j she perceived that he
was always more melancholy after an
interview with the Marquis, and was now
surprized to hear that the latter had ap-
pointed to dine the next day at the abbey.
When La Motte mentioned this, he
added some high eulogium on the cha-
racter of the Marquis, and particularly
praised his generosity and nobleness of
foul. At this instant, Adeline recol-
lected


C 247 ]
lected the anecdotes she had formerly
heard concerning the abbey, and they
threw a . shadow over the brightness of
that excellence, which La Motte now
celebrated. The account, however, did
not appear to deserve much credit; a
part of it, as far as a negative will admit
of demonstration, having been already
proved false; for it had been reported,
that the abbey was haunted, and no su7
pernatural appearance had ever been ob-
served by the present inhabitants.
Adeline, however, ventured to in-
quire, whether it was the present Mar-
quis of whom those injurious reports had
been raised? La Motte answered hec
with a smile of ridicule; "Stories of
"ghosts and hobgoblins have always
'' been admired and cherished by the
"vulgar," said he. "I am inclined to
"rely upon my own experience, at least,
"as much as upon the accounts of these
"peasants. If you have seen any thing
"to corroborate these accounts, pray
L 4 "inform


i *4* ]
"inform me of it, that I may establish
"my faith."
"You mistake me, Sir," said she,
"it was not concerning supernatural
"agency that I would inquire: I al-
"luded to a different part of the report,
"which hinted, that some person had
"been confined here, by order of the
"Marquis, who was said to have died
"unfairly. This was alledged as a rea-
"son for the Marquis's having abandon-
's ed the abbey."
'* All the mere coinage of idleness,'*
said La Motte; u a romantic tale to ex-
"cite wonder: to see the Marquis is
"alone sufficient to refute this; and if
"we credit half the number of those
"stories that spring from the same source, ** we prove ourselves little superior to
*' the simpletons who invent them. Your
"good sense, Adeline, I think, will
*' teach you the merit of disbelief."
Adeline blushed and was silent;^but
La Motte's defence of the Marquis ap«
peared;


[ 25° 3
times even witty: and discovered great
knowledge of the world; or, what is
often mistaken for it, an acquaintance
with the higher circles, and with the to-
pics of the day.
Here La Motte was also qualified to
converse with him, and they entered
into a discussion of the characters and
manners of the age with great spirit, and
some humour. Madame La Motte had
not seen her husband so cheerful since
they left Paris, and sometimes she could
almost fancy she was there. Adeline
listened, till the cheerfulness, which she
had at first only assumed, became real.
The address of the Marquis was so insi-
nuating and affable, that her reserve in-
sensibly gave way before it, and her na-
tural vivacity resumed its long lost em-
pire.
At parting, the Marquis told La
Motte he rejoiced at having found so
agreeable a neighbour. La Motte bowed.
"I shall sometimes visit you," continued
he,


£ 251 ]
he, "and I lament that I cannot at pre-
"sent invite Madame La Motte and her
"fair friend to my chateau, but it is un-
"dergoing some repairs, which make it
"but an uncomfortable residence."
The vivacity of La Motte disappeared
with his guest, and he soon relapsed into
fits of silence and abstraction. "The
"Marquis is a very agreeable man," said
Madame La Motte.—" Very agreeable,"
replied he.—" And seems to have an
"excellent heart," she resumed, —" An
"excellent one," said La Motte.
"You seem discomposed, my dear;
"what has disturbed you?"
"Not in the least—I was only think-
"ing, that with such agreeable talents,
"and such an excellent heart, it was a
"pity the Marquis should"—
"What? my dear," said Madame
with impatience: "That the Marquis
"should—should suffer this abbey to fall
"into ruins," replied La Motte.
L 6 "Is


[ 252 J
"Is that all t" said Madame with dis-
appointment.—" That is all, upon my
"honour," said La Motie, and left the
room.
Adeline's spirits, no longer supported
by the animated conversation of the Mar-
quis, funk into languor, and when he
departed, she walked pensively into the
forest. She followed a little romantic
path that wound along the margin of the
stream, and was overhung with deep
(hades. The tranquillity of the scene,
which autumn now touched with her
sweetest tints, softened her mind to a
tender kind of melancholy, and she
suffered a tear, which, she knew not
wherefore, had stolen into her eye, to
tremble there unchecked. She came to
a little lonely recess, formed by high
trees; the wind sighed mournfully
among the branches, and as it waved
their lofty heads scattered their leaves
to the ground. She seated herself on a
bank beneath, and indulged the melan-
choly


C m 1
choly reflections that pressed on her
mind. ;. . .,. ,, ...., I . .
O! could I dive into futurity and
'( behold the events which await me!"
said she; "I should, perhaps, by con-
"Rant contemplation, be enabled to
t' meet them with fortitude. An orphan
'< in this wide world—thrown upon the
'' friendship of strangers for comforr,
"and upon their bounty for the very
"means of existence, what but evil have
"I to expect! Alas, my father! how
"could you thus abandon your child—
"how leave her to the storms of life—to
"sink, perhaps, beneath them? Alas, I
"have no friend!"
She was interrupted by a rustling
among the fallen leaves; she turned her
head, and perceiving the Marquis's
young friend, arose to depart. "Par-
s' don this intrusion," said he, "your
"voice attracted me hither, and your
"words detained me: my offence, how-
f* ever, brings with it its own punishment,
I "having


[ 254 ]
"having learned your sorrows—how can "I help feeling them myself? Would
"that my sympathy, or my suffering,
"could rescue you from them !"—He
hesitated—" Would that I could deserve
"the title of your friend, and be thought
"worthy of it by yourself!"
The confusion of Adeline's thoughts
could scarcely permit her to reply; she
trembled, and gently withdrew her hand,
which he had taken, while he spoke, "You have, perhaps, heard, Sir, more
"than is true: I am, indeed, not happy,
"but a moment of dejection has made
me unjust, and I am less unfortunate
"than I have represented. When I said
"I had no friend, I was ungrateful to
"the kindness of Monsieur and Madame
« La Motte, who have been more than
." friends—have been as parents to me."
"If so, I honour them," cried Theo-
dore with warmth; "and if I did not
"feel it to be presumption, I would ask
"why you are unhappy ?—But"—He
paused.


[ *55 ]
paused. Adeline, raising her eyes, saw
him gazing upon her with intense and
eager anxiety, and her looks were again
fixed upon the ground. "I have pained
"you," said Theodore, "by an im>
'' proper request. Can you forgive me,
"and also when I add, that it was an in-
"terest in your welfare, which urged my
** inquiry?"
"Forgiveness, Sir, it is unnecessary
'* to ask, I am certainly obliged by the
"compassion you express. But the even-
"ing is cold, if you please, we will
walk towards the abbey." As they
moved on, Theodore was for some
time silent. At length, " It was but
n lately that I solicited your pardon,"
said he, "and I shall now, perhaps,
"have need of it again; but you will do
"me the justice to believe, that I have a
"strong, and, indeed, a pressing reason
*' to inquire how nearly you are related
"to Monsieur La Motte."


[ z$6 3
"We are not at all related," said
Adeline; "but the service he has done
"me I can never repay, and I hope my
"gratitude will teach me never to forget
"it."
"Indeed!" said Theodore, surprized:
f and may I aik how long you have *' known him?"
"Rather, Sir, let me ask, why these
questions should be necessary?"
"You are just," said he4 with an air
of self-condemnation, r* my conduct has
*' deserved this reproof; I should have
"been more explicit" He looked as
if his mind was labouring with some-
thing which he was unwilling to express.
'* But you know not how delicately I am
"circumstanced," continued he, M yet
*' I will aver, that my questions are
"prompted by the tenderest interest ia
"your happiness—and even by my fears
"for your safety."—Adeline started. "I
"fear you are deceived," said he, "I
** fear there's danger near you."
Adeline


[ ]
this, the withdrew her trembling hand,
which Theodore had pressed to his lips,
in token of acknowledgement, and he
immediately disappeared.
La Motte now approached Adeline,
who, fearing that he had seen Theodore,
was in some confusion. "Whither is
,** Louis gone so fast said La Motte.
She rejoiced to find his mistake, and suf-
fered him to remain in it. They walked
pensively towards the abbey, where Ade-
line, too much occupied by her own
thoughts to bear company, retired to her
chamber. She ruminated upon the words of Theodore, and the more the consi-
dered them, the more she was perplexed.
Sometimes she blamed herself for having
made an appointment, doubting whe-
ther he had not solicited it for the purpose
of pleading a passion; and now delicacy
checked this thought, and made her
vexed that she had presumed upon
having inspired one. She recollected
the serious earnestness of his voice and
manner,


[ *«i ]
e' We shall soon meet again," said Ade-
line, " I trust, in happier circumstances."
La Motte sighed. The countenance of
Louis brightened at her words, '' Do you
*' with it?" said he, with peculiar em phasis. *' Most certainly I do," she
replied. "Can you doubt my regard
"for my best friends?"
'* I cannot doubt any thing that i#
iS good of you," said he.
w You forget you have left Paris,"
said La Motte to his son, while a faint .
smile crossed his face, '* such a compli-
** ment would there be in character with
'* the place—in these solitary woods it is *'* quite outre."
"The language of admiration is not
** always that of compliment, Sir," said
Louis. Adeline, willing to change the
discourse, asked, to what part of France
he was going. He replied, that his regi-
ment was now at Peronne, and he should
go immediately thither. After some
mention of indifferent subjects, the fa-
mily


[ 26a ]
mils withdrew for the night to their seve-
ral chambers.
The approaching departure of her son
occupied the thoughts of Madame La
Motte, and she appeared at breakfast
with eyes swollen with weeping. The
pale countenance of Louis seemed to in-
dicate that he had rested no better than
his mother. When breakfast was over,
Adeline retired for a while, that she
might not interrupt, by her presence,
their last conversation. As she walked
on the lawn before the abbey she returned
in thought to the occurrence of yesterday
evening, and her impatience for the ap-
pointed interview increased. She was
soon joined by Louis. "It was unkind
of you to leave us," said he, "in the
*' last moments of my stay. Could I hope
"that you would sometimes remember
"me, when I am far away, I should
"depart with less sorrow." He then
expressed his concern at leaving her,
and though he had hitherto armed him-
self


t *«3 l self with resolution to forbear a direst
avowal of an attachment, which must be
fruitless, his heart now yielded to the
force of passion, and he told what Ade-
line every moment feared to hear. . *
"This declaration," said Adeline, en^
deavouring to overcome the agitation it
excited, "gives me inexpressible con-
« cern.J'
"O, fay not so!" interrupted Louis,
"but give me some slender hope to sup-
41 port me in the miseries of absence, ** Say that you do not hate me—Say"—
"That I do most readily say," replied
Adeline, in a tremulous voice; '* if it
"will give you pleasure to be assured of
ti my esteem and friendihip—receive this
"assurance:—as the son of my best bene-
"factors, you are entitled to"
"Name not benefits," said Louis,
"your merits out-run them all: and suffer
"me to hope for a sentiment less cool than
'* that of friendship, as well as to believe
4i that I do not owe your approbation of
» "me


[ 264 ]
one to the actions of others. I have
** long borne my passion in silence, be-
"cause I foresaw the difficulties that
.** would attend it, nay, I have even
"dared to endeavour to overcome it: I
** have dared to believe it possible, forgive
*' the supposition, that I could forget
you—and"
"You distress me," interrupted Ade-
line; "this is a conversation which I
"ought not to hear. I am above dis-
'* guise, and, therefore, assure you,
*' that, though your virtues will always
"command my esteem, you have ho-
*' thing to hope from my love. Wer*
** it even otherwise, our circumstances
*' would effectually decide for us. If
.** you are really my friend, you will re-
"joice that I am spared this struggle
t'* between affection and prudence. Let
me hope also, that time will teach you
to reduce love within the limits of
.« friendship."
«' Never Vs


t **5 ];
<* Never!" cried Louis vehemently:
*' Were this possible, my passion would
." be unworthy of its object." While
he spoke, Adeline's favourite fawn
came bounding towards her. This cir-
cumstance affected Louis even to tears.
'* This little animal," said he, after a
sort pause, " first conducted me to you:
*' it was witness to that happy moment
"when I first saw you, surrounded by at-
"tractions too powerful for my heart;
"that moment is now fresh in my me-
"mory, and the creature comes even to
"witness this fad one of my departure."
Grief interrupted his utterance.
When he recovered his voice, he said,
<' Adeline! when you look upon your
M little favourite and caress it, remember
"the unhappy Louis, who will then be
<' far, far from you. Do not deny me
"the poor consolation of believing
'< this!"
"I shall not require such a monitor to
"remind me of you," said Adeline with
Vol, I. M a smile.;


( 266 ]
a smile; "your excellent parents and
"your own merits have sufficient claim "upon my remembrance. Could I fee
your natural good sense resume its in-
** fluence over passion, my satisfaction
"would equal my esteem for you."1, y, \
"Do not hope it," said Louis, ". nor
"will I wish it-—for passion here is vir-
"sue." As he spoke, he saw La Motte
turn round an angle of the abbey. "The
"moments are precious," said he, I
"am interrupted. O! Adeline, farewell
"and say that you will sometimes think
"ofme." . ..f
"Farewel," said Adeline, who was
affected by his distress —" farewell \
"and peace attend you. I will think of
you with the affection of a sister."—
He sighed deeply, and pressed her band;
when La Motte, winding round another
projection of the ruin, again appeared.
Adeline left them together, and with-
drew to her chamber, oppressed by the
scene. Louis's passion and her esteem
were


t *«7 3
were too sincere not to inspire her with
a strong degree of pity for his unhappy
attachment. She remained in her cham-
ber till he had quitted the abbey, unwil-
ling to subject him or herself to the pain
of a formal parting.
. As evening and the hour of appoint-
ment drew nigh, Adeline's impatience in-
creased; yet, when the time arrived, her
resolution failed, and she faltered from her
purpose. There was something of inde-
licacy and dissimulation in an appointed
interview, on her part, that shocked her.
She* recollected the tenderness of Theo-
dore's manner, and several little circum-
stances which seemed to indicate that his
heart was not unconcerned in the event.
Again'she was inclined to doubt, whether
he had not obtained her consent to this
meeting upon some groundless suspi-
cion; and she almost determined not to
go: yet it was possible Theodore's as-
sertion might be sincere, and her danger
reali the chance of this made her de-
M z licate


[ 268 J
icate scruples appear ridiculous; she won-
dered that she had for a moment suffered
them to weigh against so serious an in-
terest, and, blaming herself for the delay
they had occasioned, hastened to the place
of appointment. , .. , ....
The little path, which led to this spot,
was silent and solitary, and when she
reached the recess, Theodore had not ar-
rived. A transient pride made her
unwilling he should find that she was
more punctual to his appointment than
himself; and she turned from the recess
into a track, which wound among the
trees to the right. Having walked some
way, without seeing any person, or hear-
ing a footstep, she returned; but he was
not come, and she again left the place.
A second time me came back, and Theo-
dore was still absent. Recollecting the
time at which she had quitted the abbey,
she grew uneasy, and calculated that the
hour appointed was now much exceed-
ed, She was offended and perplexed;
but


C 274 J
and led her through a long passage to
the foot of a staircase. Here (he feared
to proceed, and was running back, when
the man suddenly turned to pursue her,
and with the terror, which this occasion-
ed, she awoke.
Shocked by these visions, and more
so by their seeming connection, which
now struck her, she endeavoured to con-
tinue awake, lest their terrific images
should again haunt her mind: after some
time, however, her harrafled spirits again
sunk into slumber, though not to re-
pose.
She now thought herself in a large
old gallery, and saw at one end of it a
chamber door standing a little open, and, a light within; she went towards it, and
perceived the man she had before seen,
standing at the door, and beckoning her
towards him. With the inconsistency so
common in dreams, fire no longer endea-
voured to avoid him, but advancing, fol-
lowed him into a suite of very ancient
apart-


[ 275 ]
apartments, hung with black, and light-
ed up as if for a funeral. Still he led
her on, till she found herself in the same
chamber she remembered to have seen in
her former dream: a coffin, covered with
a pall, stood at the farther end of the
room; some lights, and several persons
surrounded it, who appeared to be in
great distress.
Suddenly, she thought these persons
were all gone, and that she was left
alone; that she went up to the coffin,
and while she gazed upon it, she heard
a voice speak, as if from within, but saw
nobody. The man she had before seen,
soon after stood by the coffin, and lifting
the pall, she saw beneath it a dead per-
son, whom she thought to be the dying
Chevalier she had seen in her former
dream: his features were funk in death,
but they were yet serene. While she
looked at him, a stream of blood gushed
from his side, and descending to the
floor, the whole chamber was overflow-
ed;


t a76 ']
ed; at the same time some words were
uttered in the voice she heard before; but
the horror of the scene so entirely over-
came her, that she started and awoke. ,
When she had recovered her recollec-
tion, she raised herself in the bed, to be
convinced it was a dream she had wit-
nessed, and the agitation of her spirits
was so great, that she feared to be alone,
and almost determined to call Annette.
The features of the deceased person, and
the chamber where he lay, were strongly
impressed upon her memory, and she still thought she heard the voice, and saw the
countenance which her dream represent-
ed. The longer she considered these
dreams, the more she was surprized:
they were so very terrible, returned so
often, and seemed to be so connected
with each other, that she could scarcely
think them accidental; yet, why they
should be supernatural, she could not
tell. She slept no more that night.
Ens of You. I.






Innot cmm