sz a'. • t 11 a-- ] t Romance of the Forest: INTERSPMSED WITH SOME PIECES OF POETRY. "Ere the bat hath flown "His doister'd flight; ere to black Hecate's summons, "The (hard-born beetle, with his drowsy hum, "Hath rung night's yawning peal, there (hall be done "A deed of dreadful note." MACBlTH. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. THE SECOND EDITION. BY ANN RADCLIFFE, AUTHOR OF « A SICILIAN ROMANCE, &c." LONDON: HINTED FOR T. HOOKMAN AND J. CARPIJTISj NEW AND OLD BOND STREET. M.DCC.XC1I. -• THE ROMAN CE OF THE FOREST. CHAPTER XIV. "Danger, whose limbs of giant mold "What mortal eye can fix'd behold? "Who stalks his round, an hideous form! *« Homling amidst the midnight storm! "And with him thousand phantoms join'd, Who prompt to deeds occurs'a the mind J hi; "On whom that raving brood of Fate, ** Who lap the blood of Sorrow wait j' '* Who, Fear! this ghastly train can fee, "And look not madly wild like tbee V Collins.' ThE Marquis was punctual to the hour. La Motte received him at the Vol. III. B gate, [ * J gate, but he declined entering, and said he preferred a walk in the forest. Thi- ther, therefore, La Motte attended him. After some general conversation," Well," said the Marquis, " have you considered «c what I said, and are you prepared to ** decide? "I have, my Lord, and will quickly "decide, when you shall farther explain "yourself. Till then I can form no (C resolution." The Marquis appeared dissatissied, and was a moment silent. "Is it then possible," he at length re- sumed, "that you do not understand? *4 This ignorance is surely affected. La ** Motte, I expect sincerity. Tell me, "therefore, is k necessary I should say "more?" *« it is my Lord," said La Motte immediately. "If you fear to conside "in me freely, how can I fully accom- *e plish your purpose?" "Before I proceed farther," said the Marquis, "lei me administer some oath *c which [ 3 ] "which stiall bind you to secrecy. But "this is scarcely necessary; for, could <( I even doubt your word of honour, "the remembrance of a certain trans- "action would point out to you the ne- "cessity of being as silent yourself as "you must wish me to be." There was now a pause of silence, during which both the Marquis and La Motte betrayed some confusion. "I think, La Motte," said he, "I have given you sufficient "proof that I can be grateful; the ser- "vices you have already rendered me SONNET. Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose, And wake the blushes of the rose, That all night long oppress'd with dews, And veil'd in chilling shade its hues, Reclin'd, forlorn, the languid head, And sadly sought its parent bed; Warmth from her ray the trembling flow'r derives. And, sweetly blushing through its tears, revives. "Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose,"' And melt the tears that bend the rose; But can their charms suppress the sigh. Or chace the tear from Sorrow's eye? Can all their lustrous light impart One ray of peace to Sorrow's heart? Ah! no ; their fires her fainting foul oppress— Eve's pensive (hades moresoothe hermeek distress! C 5 When [ 34 ] When Adeline left the Abbey, La Motte had remained for some time at the gate, listening to the steps of the horse that carried her, till the found was lost in distance; he then turned into the hall with a lightness of heart to which he had long been a stranger. The satisfaction of having thus preserved her, as he hoped, from the designs of the Marquis, over- came for a while all sense of the danger in which this step must involve him. But when he returned entirely to his own situ- ation, the terrors of the Marquis's re- sentment struck their full force upon his mind, and he considered how he might best escape it. It was now past midnight—the Mar- quis was expected early on the following day; and in this interval it at first appear- ed probable to him that he might quit the forest. There was only one horse; but he considered whether it would be best to set off immediately for Auboine, where a carriage might be procured to sonvey [ 35 1 convey his family and his moveables frorft the Abbey, or quietly to await the arrival of the Marquis, and endeavour to im- pose upon him by a forged story of Ade- line's escape. The time which must elapse before a carriage couid reach the Abbey would leave him scarcely sufficient to escape from the forest; what money he had remaining from the Marquis's bounty would not carry him far; and when it was expended he must probably be at a loss for subsistence, should he not before then be detected. By remaining at the Abbey it wou'd appear that he was un- conscious of deserving the Marquis's re- sentment, and though he could not ex- pect to impress a belief upon him that his orders had been executed, he might make it appear that Peter only had been accessary to the escape of Adeline; an account which would seem the more pro- bable from Peter's having been formerly detected in a similar scheme. He be- C 6 sieved [- 36 ] sieved also that if the Marquis should threaten to deliver him into the hands of justice, he might save himself by a menace of disclosing the crime he had commissioned him to perpetrate. Thus arguing, La Motte resolved to remain at the Abbey and await the event of the Marquis's disappointment. When the Marquis did arrive, and was informed of Adeline's flight, the strong workings of his foul, which appeared in his countenance, for a while alarmed and terrified La Motte. He cursed himself and her in terms of such coarseness and vehemence as La Motte was astonished to hear from a man whose manners were ge- nerally amiable, whatever might be the violence and criminality of his passions. To invent and express these terms seem- ed to give him not only relief, but de- light; yet he appeared more shocked at the circumstance of her escape than ex- asperated at the carelessness of La Motte, and recollecting at length that he wasted time [ 37-3 time, he lest the Abbey, and dispatch- ed several of his servants in pursuit of her. When he was gone, La Motte, be- lieving his story had succeeded, returned to the pleasure of considering that he had done his duty, and to the hope that Adeline was now beyond the reach of pursuit. This calm was of short conti- nuance. In a few hours the Marquis re- turned, accompanied by the officers of justice. The affrighted La Motte, per- ceiving him approach, endeavoured to conceal himself, but was seized and carried to the Marquis, who drew him aside. "I am not to be imposed upon," said he, "by such a superficial story as you "have invented; you know your life is "in my hands; tell me instantly where "you have secreted Adeline, or I will "charge you with the crime you have "committed against me; but, upon "your disclosing the place of her con- "cealment, I will dismiss the officers, "and, t 38 I ** and, is you wish it, assist you to leave "the kingdom. You have no time to ,c hesitate, and may know that I will "not be trifled with." La Motte at- tempted to appease the Marquis, and affirmed that Adeline was realiy fled he knew not whither. "You will remem- "ber, my Lord, that your character is "also in my power; and that, is you "proceed to extremities, you will com- "pel me to reveal in the face of day "that you would have made me a mur- "derer." "And who will believe you?" said the Marquis. "The crimes that banish- "ed you from society will be no tes- "timony of your veracity, and that with "which I now charge you will bring. "with it a sufficient presumption that "your accusation is malicious. Officers, "do your duty." They entered the room and seized La Motte, whom terror now deprived of all power of resistance, could resistance have availed [ 39 I availed him, and in the perturbation os his mind he informed the Marquis that Adeline had taken the road to Lyons. This discovery, however, was made too late to serve himself; the Marquis seized the advantage it offered, but the charge had been given, and, with the anguish of knowing that he had exposed Adeline to danger, without benefiting himself, La- Motte submitted in silence to his fate. Scarcely allowing him time to collect what little effects might easily be carried with him, the officers conveyed him from the Abbey; but the Marquis, in considera- tion of the extreme distress of Madame- La Motte, directed one of his servants to procure a carriage from Auboine that she might follow her husband* The Marquis, in the mean time, now acquainted with the route Adeline had taken, sent forward his faithful valet to trace her to her place of concealment, and return immediately with intelligence lo the villa, • Abandoned [ 40 ] 'Abandoned to despair, La Motte and his wife quitted the forest of Fontan- ville, which had for so many months af- forded them an asylum, and embarked once more upon the tumultuous world, where justice would meet La Motte in the form of destruction. They had en- tered the forest as a refuge, rendered ne-, ceffary by the former crimes of La Motte, and for some time found in it the secu- rity they sought; but other offences, for even in that sequestered spot there hap- pened to be temptation, soon succeeded, and his life, already sufficiently marked by the punishment of vice, now afforded him another instance of this great truth, '"That where guilt is, there peace can- "not enter." CHAPTER [ 4i ] CHAPTER XV. "Hail awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, And woo the weary to profound repose!" Beattii. Adeline, mean while, and Peter proceeded on their voyage, without any accident, and landed in Savoy, where Peter placed her upon the horse, and himself walked beside her. When he came within sight of his native moun- tains, his extravagant joy burst forth into frequent exclamations, and he would of- ten ask Adeline if she had ever seen such bills in France. " No, no," said he, "the "hills there are very well for French "hills, but they are not to be named on "the fame day with ours." Adeline, lost in admiration of the astonishing and tre- mendous [ 42 3 mendous scenery around her, assented very warmly to the truth of Peter's as- sertion, which encouraged him to ex- patiate more largely upon the advantages of his country; its disadvantages he totally forgot; and though he gave away his last sous to the children of the peasantry that run barefooted by the side of the horse, he spoke of nothing but the hap- piness and content of the inhabitants. His native village, indeed, was an exception to the general character of the country, and to the usual effects of an arbitrary government; it was flourishing, healthy, and happy; and these advan- tages it chiefly owed to the activity and attention of the benevolent clergyman whose cure it was. Adeline, who now began to feel the effects of long anxiety and fatigue, much wished to arrive at the end of her jour- ney, and inquired impatiently of Peter concerning it. Her spirits, thus weak- ened, the gloomy grandeur of the scenes which [ 43 ] which had so lately awakened emo- tions of delighful sublimity, now awed her into terror; she trembled at the sound of the torrents rolling among the discs and thundering in the vale below, and shrunk from the view of the preci- pices, which sometimes overhung the road, and at others appeared beneath k. Fatigued as she was, she frequently dis- mounted to climb on foot the steep flinty road, which she feared to travel on horse- back. The day was closing when they drew near a small village at the foot of the Savoy Alps, and the fun, in al his even- ing splendour, now sinking behind their summits, threw a farewell gleam athwart the landscape, so soft and glowing as drew from Adeline, languid as she was, an exclamation of rapture. The romantic situation of the village next attracted her notice. It stood at the foot of several stupendous mountains, ivhich formed a chain round a lake at some [ 44 ] some little distance, and the woods that swept from their summits almost embo- somed the village. The lake, unruffled by the lightest air, reflected the vermil tints of the horizon with the sublime scenery on its borders, darkening every instant with the falling twilight. When Peter perceived the village, he burst into a shout of joy " Thank God," said he, " we are near home; there is "my dear native place. It looks just "as it did twenty years ago; and these "are the fame old trees growing round our cottage yonder, and the huge rock "that rises above it. My poor father "died there, Ma'amsclle. Pray heaven "my sister be alive; it is a long while "since I saw her." Adeline listened with a melancholy pleasure to these artless expressions of Peter, who, in retracing the scenes of his former days, seemed to live them over again. As they ap- proached the village, he continued to point out various objects of his remem- brance. [ 45 ] brance. "And there too is the good "pastor's chateau; look, Ma'amselle, ** that white house, with the smoke cur- "ling, that stands on the edge of the "lake yonder. I wonder whether he is "alive yet. He was not old when I "left the place, and as much beloved "as ever man was; but death spares "nobody!" They had by this time reached the vil- lage, which was extremely neat, though it did not promise much accommodation. Peter had hardly advanced ten steps be- fore he was accosted by some of his old acquaintance, who shook hands, and seemed not to know how to part with him. He inquired for his sister, and was told she was alive and well. As they pass- ed on, so many of his old friends flocked round him, that Adeline became quite weary of the delay. Many whom he had left in the vigour of life, were now tottering under the infirmities of age, while their sons and daughters, whom he had [ 46 1 had known only in the playfulness of in- fancy, were grown from his remembrance, and in the pride of youth. At length they approached the cottage, and were met by his sister, who, having heard of his arrival, came and welcomed him with unfeigned joy. On seeing Adeline, she seemed sur- prised, but assisted her to alight, and con- ducting her into a small but neat cottage, received her with a warmth of ready kindness which would have graced a bet- ter situation. Adeline requested to speak with her alone, for the room was now crowded with Peter's friends, and then acquainting her with such particulars of her circumstances as it was necessary to communicate, desired to know if she could be accommodated with lodging in the cottage. "Yes, Ma'amsclle," said "the good woman, "such as it is, you "arc heartily welcome, I am only sorry "it is not better. But you seem ill, * Ma'amsclle; what shall I get you?" Adeline, [ 47 1 Adeline, who had been long strug- gling with fatigue and indisposition, now- yielded to their pressure. She said she was, indeed, ill; but hoped that rest would restore her, and desired a bed might be immediately prepared. The good wo- man went out to obey her, and soon re- turning, shewed her to a little cabin, where she retired to a bed, whose clean- liness was its only recommendation. But, notwithstanding her fatigue, she could not sleep, and her mind, in spite of all her efforts, returned to the scenes that were passed, or presented gloomy and imperfect \isions of the future. The difference between her own con- dition and that of other persons, educa- ted as she had been, struck her forcibly, and she wept. " They," said she, " have *c friends and relations, all striving to ** save them not only from what may ** hurt, but what may displease them; "watching not only for their present m safety, but for their future advantage, « and [ 48 ] cc and preventing them even from in- juring themselves. But during my "whole life I have never known a friend; "have been in general surrounded by "enemies, and very seldom exempt "from some circumstance either of dan- "ger or calamity. Yet surely I am not "born to be for ever wretched; the "time will come when" She began to think she might one time be happy; but .recollecting the desperate situation of Theodore, " No," said she, « I can "never hope even for peace!" Early the following morning the good woman of the house came to inquire how she had rested, and found she had flept little, and was much worse than on the preceding- night. The uneasiness of her mind contributed to heighten the feverish symptoms that attended her, and in the-course of the day her disorder be- gan to assume a serious aspect. She ob- served its progress with composure, ret signing herself to the will' of God, and' i > feeling C 49 ] seeling little to regret in life. Her kind hostess did every thing in her power to relieve her, and there was neither phy- sician or apothecary in the village, so that nature was deprived of none of her advantages. Notwithstanding this, the disorder rapidly increased, .and on the third day from its first attack she became delirious; after which she funk into a state of stupefaction. How long she remained in this de- plorable condition she knew not; but, on recovering her fenses, she found her- self in an apartment very different from any she remembered. It was spacious and almost beautiful, the bed and every tiling around being in one stile of elegant sim- plicity. For some minutes she lay in a trance of surprise, endeavouring to recol- lect her scattered ideas of the past, and almost searing to move, lest the pleasing vision should vanish from her eyes. At length she ventured to raise herself, when she presently heard a soft voice Vol. III. D speaking I So ] ispeaking near her, and the bed curtain on one fide was gently undrawn by a beautiful girl. As she leaned forward over the bed, and with a smile of min- gled tenderness and joy inquired of her patient how she did, Adeline gazed in silent admiration upon the most interest- ing female countenance she had ever seen, in which the expression of sweetness, united with lively fense and refinement, was chastened by simplicity. Adeline at length recollected herself sufficiently to thank her kind inquirer, and begged to know to whom she was obliged, and where she was? The lovely girl pressed her hand, " "Tis we who are "obliged," said she. « Oh! how I re- he retired for con- solation to the idea of her he so faithfully loved, and yielding to a gentle, and what the world would call a romantic, sadaess, gradually reassumed his compo- sure. This was the secret luxury to which he withdrew from temporary disappoint- ment—the solitary enjoyment which dis- sipated the cloud of care, and blunted the sting of vexation—which elevated his mind above this world, and opened to his view the sublimity of another. The spot he now inhabited, the sur- rounding scenery, the romantic beauties of the neighbouring walks, were dear to La Luc, for they had once been loved by t 59 I By Clara; they had been the scenes of her tenderness,. and of his happiness. 7 His chateau stood ori the borders of a small lake that was almost environed by mountains of stupendous height, which, shooting into a variety of grotesque forms, composed a scenery singularly solemn and-sublime. Dark woods, in- termingled with bold projections of rock, sometimes barren,. and sometimes cover . ed with the purple bloom of wild flowers, impended over the lake,. and were seen in the clear mirror of its. waters. The wild and alpine heights which rose above were either crowned with perpetual snows, or exhibited tremendous crags and masses of solid rock, whose appearance was con- tinually. changing as the rays of light were variously reflected on their surface, and whose summits were often wrapt in impe- netrable mists. Some cottages and ham- lets, scattered on the margin of the lake,. or seated in picturesque points of view on the rocks above, were thje only objects D 6 that. I 60 ] that reminded the beholder of huma- nity. ..'' v nied his son on horseback to the next town, which was about eight miles from Lelancourt. and there again enforcing all the advice he had formerly given him respecting his conduct and pursuits, and again yielding to the tender weakness of the father, he bade him farewell. Clara wept, and felt more sorrow at this part- ing than the occasion could justify; but this was almost the first time she had known grief, and she artlessly yielded to its influence. E 3 La [ 78 } La Luc and Clara travelled pensively back, and the day was closing when they came within view of the lake, and soon after of the chateau. Never had it ap- peared gloomy till now; but now, Clara wandered forlornly through every de- serted apartment where she had been ac- customed to see her brother, and recol- lected a thousand little circumstance?, which, had he been present, she would have thought immaterial, but on which imagination now stamped a Value. The garden, the scenes around, all wore a me- lancholy aspects and it was long ere they resumed thair natural character and Clara recovered her vivacity. Near four years had elapsed since this separation, when one evening, as Ma- dame La Luc and her niece were sitting at work together in the parlour, a good woman in the neighbourhood desired to be admitted. She came to ask for some medicines, and the advice of Madame La Luc. fc Here is a fad accident hap- "pened [ 79 1 . The ridgy rock, the woods that crown.-Us steep, Th' illumin'd battlement, and darker tower, On the smooth wave in trembling beauty sleep. But lo! the sun recalls his fervid ray. And cold, and dim, the wat'ry visions fail; While o'er yon cliff, whose pointed craggs decay, Mild Evening draws her thin empurpled veil! How sweet that strain of melancholy horn! That floats along the slowly-ebbing wave, And up the far-receding mountains borne, Returns a dying close from Echo's cave! Hail! sliadowy forms of still, expressive Eve! Your pensive graces stealing on my heart, Bid all the fine-attun'd emotions live, And Fancy all her loveliest dreams impart. La Luc observing how much Adeline was charmed with the features of the country, and desirous of amusing her melancholy, which, notwithstanding her efforts, was often too apparent, wished to shew her other scenes than those to which her walks were circumscribed. He [ 99 3 He proposed a party on horseback to take a nearer view of the Glaciers; to attempt their ascent was a difficulty and fatigue to which neither La Luc, in his present state of health, or Adeline, were equal. She had not been accustomed to ride single, and the mountainous road they were to pass made the experiment rather dangerous; but she concealed her fears, and they were not sufficient to make her wish to forego an enjoyment such as was now osfered her. The following day was fixed" for this excursion. La Luc and his party arose at an early hour, and having taken a flight breakfast, they set out towards the Glacier of Montanvert, which lay at a few leagues distance. Peter carried a small basket of provisions; and it was their plan to dine on some pleasant spot in the open air. . It is unnecessary to describe the high enthufiam of Adeline, the more com- placent pleasure of La Luc, and the F 2 transports I 100 1 transports of Clara, as the scenes of thi« romantic country shifted to their eyes. Now frowning in dark and gloomy gran- deur, it exhibited only tremendous rocks, and cataracts rolling from the heights into some deep and narrow valley, along which their united waters roared and foamed, and burst away to regions in- accessible to mortaf foot: and now the scene arose less fiercely wild; The pomp of groves and garniture of fields" were intermingled with the ruder fea- tures of nature, and while the snow froze on the summit of the mountain, the vine blushed at its foot. Engaged in interesting conversation, and by the admiration which the country excited, they travelled on till noon, when they looked round for a pleasant spot where they might rest and take re- freshment. At some little distance they perceived the ruins of a fabric which had once been a castle: it stood nearly on on a point of rock that overhung a deep valley; and its broken turrets rising from among the woods that embosomed it, heightened the picturesque beauty of die object, , The edifice invited curiosity, and the shades repose—La Luc and his party advanced. *' Deep struck with awe, they mark'd the dome "o'erthrown, ** Where once the beauty bloom'd, the wairior . » shone i They saw the castle's mould'ring tow'rs decay'd, "The loose stone tottering o'er the trembling '"ftade."':! - They seated themselves on the grafs under the shade of some high trees near the ruins. An opening in the woods asforded a view of the distant Alps—the deep silence of solitude reigned. For some time they were lost in meditation. Adeline felt a sweet complacency, such as she had; long been a stranger to. Looking at La Luc, she perceived a F. 3 [ loa ] tear stealing down his cheek, while the elevation of his mind was strongly ex- pressed on his countenance. He turned on Clara his eyes, which were now filled with tenderness, and made an effort to recover himself. "The stillness and total seclusion of "this scene," said Adeline," « those stu- "pendous mountains, the gloomy graa- "deur of these woods, together with "that monument of faded glory on "which the hand of time is so empha- "tically impressed, diffuse a sacred en- "thufiam over the mind, and awaken "sensations truly sublime." La Luc was going to speak but Peter coming forward, desired to know whe- ther he had not better open the wallet, as he fancied his honour and the young ladies must be main hungry, jogging on so far up hill and down before dinner. They acknowledged the truth of honest Peter's suspicion, and accepted his hint. Refresh- [ 'iQ3 3 Refreshments were spread on the grass, and having seated themselves under the canopy of waving woods, surrounded by the sweets of wild flowers, they inhaled the pure breeze of the Alps, which might be called spirit of air, and partook of a repast which these circumstances rendered delicious. When they arose to depart, " I am "unwilling," said Clara, " to quit this "charming spot. How delightful would "it be to pass one's life beneath these "shades with the friends who are dear "to one?"—La Luc smiled at the ro- mantic simplicity of the idea; but Ade- line sighed deeply to the image of feli- city, and of Theodore, which it recalled, and turned away to conceal her tears. They now mounted their horses, and soon after arrived at the foot of Montan- vert. The emotions of Adeline, as she contemplated in various points of view the astonishing objects around her, sur- passed all expression; and the feelings [ I04 ] os the whole party were too strong to adcnit of conversation. The profound stillness which reigned in these regions of solitude inspired awe, and heightened the sublimity os the scenery to an ex- quisite degree. "It seems," said Adeline, " as if we "were walking over the ruins of the i ** world, and were the only persons who "had survived the wreck. I can scarce- "ly persuade myself that we are not "left alone on the globe." "The view of these objects," said La Luc, " lift the foul to their Great "Author, and we contemplate with a ** feeling almost too vast for humanity-— "the sublimity of his nature in the ** grandeur of his works."—La Luc raised his eyes, filled with tears, to hea- ven,. and was for some moments lost in silent adoration;. They quitted these scenes with ex- treme reluctance; but the hour of the day, and the appearance of the clouds, which which seemed gathering for a sform, made them hasten their departure. Ade- line almost wished to-have witnessed the tremendous effect of a thunder storm in? these regions. , • • They returned to Leloncourt by a dif- ferent route, and the shade of the over- hanging precipices was deepened by the gloom of the atmosphere. It was even- ing when they came within view of the lake, which the travellers rejoiced to fee, for the storm so long threatened was now fast approaching; the thunder murmur- ed among the Alps; and the dark va- pours that rolled heavily along their sides heightened their dreadful sublimity. La JLuc would have quickened his pace,, but the road winding down the steep side of a mountain made caution neces- sary. The darkening air and the light- nings that now flashed along the horizon- terrified Clara, but she withheld the ex- pression of her fear in consideration of '• IF f her [ io6 } her father. A peal of thunder, which seemed to shake the earth to its founda- tions, and was reverberated in tremen- dous echoes from the cliffs, burst over their heads. Clara's horse took frieght at' the found, and, setting off, hurried her with amazing velocity down the moun- tain towards the lake, which washed its foot. The agony of La Luc, who view- ., ed her progress in the horrible expecta- tion of seeing her dashed down the pre- cipice that bordered the road, is not to be described. Clara kept her seat, but terror had al- most deprived her of sense. Her efforts to preserve herself were mechanical, for she scarcely knew what she did. The horse, however, carried her safely almost to the foot os the mountain, but was making towards the lake, when a gen- tleman who travelled along the road caught the bridle as the animal endea- voured to pass. The sudden stopping of the horse threw Clara to the ground, and, [ m 1 and, impatient of restraint, the animal burst from the hand of the stranger, and p'unged into the lake. The violence of the fall deprived her of recollection; but while the stranger endeavoured to support her, his servant ran to fetch water. . r . She soon recovered, and unclosing her eyes, found herself in the arms of a che- valier, who appeared to support her with difficulty. The compassion expressed in his countenance, while he inquired how she did, revived her spirits, and she was endeavouring to thank him for his kind- ness when La Luc and Adeline came up. The terror impressed on her father's fea- tures was perceived by Clara; languid as she was, she tried to raise herself, and said, wiih a faint smile, which betray- ed, instead of disguising, her sufferings, "Dear Sir, I am not hurt." Her pale countenance and the blood that trickled down her check contradicted her words. But La Luc, to whom 1 terror had sug- F 6 gested E m 1 gested the utmost possible evil, now re- joiced to hear her speak; he recalled some presence of mind, and while Ade- line applied her salts, he chased her temples. When me revived she told him how much she was obliged' to the stranger. La Luc endeavoured to express his grati- tude; but the former interrupting him* begged he might be spared the pain of receiving thanks for having followed only an impulse of common humanity. They were now not far from Lelon- court; but the evening was almost (hut in, and the thunder murmured deeply among the hills. La Luc was distressed how to convey Clara home. In endeavouring to raise her from the ground, the stranger betrayed such evi- dent symptoms of pain, that La Luc inquired concerning it. The sudden jerk which the horse had given the arm of the chevalier, in escaping from his hold, had violently sprained his moulder, and r 3 and rendered his arm almost useless. The pain was exquisite, and La Luc, whose fears for his daughter were now sub- siding, was shocked at the circumstance, and pressed the stranger to accompany him to the village, where relief might be obtained. He accepted the invita- tion, and Clara, being at length placed on a horse led by her father, was con- ducted to the chateau. When Madame, who had been look- ing out for La Luc some time, perceived the cavalcade approaching, she was a- larmed, and her apprehensions were con- firmed when she saw the situation of her. niece. Clara was carried into the house, and La Luc would have sent for a sur- geon, but there was none within several leagues of the village, neither were there any of the physical profession within the same distance. Clara was assisted to her chamber by Adeline, and Madame La Luc undertook to examine the wounds. The result restored peace to the family 3 for for though she was much bruised, she had escaped material injury; a flight contusion on the forehead had occasioned the bloodshed which at first alarmed La Luc. Madame undertook to restore her niece in a few days with the assistance of a balsam composed by herself, on the virtues of which she descanted with great eloquence, till interrupted by La Luc, who reminded her of the condition of her patient. Madame having bathed Clara's bruises, and given her a cordial of incomparable efficacy, left her, and Adeline watched in the chamber of her friend till she re- tired to her own for the night. La Luc, whose spirits had suffered much perturbation, was now tranquil- lized by the report his sister made of Clara. He introduced the stranger, and having mentioned the accident he had met with, desired that he might have . immediate assistance. Madame hastened to her closet, and it is perhaps difficult to determine [ ]' determine whether she felt most concern for the sufferings of her guest, or pleasure at the opportunity thus offered of dis- playing her physical skill. However this might be, she quitted the room with great alacrity, and very quickly return- ed with a phial containing her ineftima~ ble balsam, and having given the neces- sary direction for the application of it, she left the stranger to the care of his servant. La Luc insisted that the chevalier, M. Verneuil, should not leave the chateau that night, and he very readily submitted to be detained. His manners during the evening were as frank and engaging as the hospitality and gratitude of La Luc were sincere, and they soon entered into interesting conversation. M. Ver- neuil conversed like a man who had seen much, and thought more; and if he discovered any prejudice in his opinions, . it was evidently the prejudice of a mind which, which, seeing objects through the me- diurn of its own goodness, tinges them with the hue of its predominant quality. La Luc was much pleased, for, in his re- tired situation, he had not often an oppor- ty of receiving the pleasure which re- sults from a communion of intelligent minds. He found that M. Verneuil had travelled. La Luc having alked some questions relative to England, they fell into discourse concerning the national characters of the French and English. "If it is the privilege of wisdom," said M. Verneuil, tc to look beyond happi- cc ness, I own I had rather be without it. "When we observe the English, their "laws, writings, and conversation, and "at the same time mark their counte- "nances, manners, and the frequency "of suicide among them, we are apt to "- believe that wisdom and happiness "are incompatible. If, on the other "hand, we turn to their neighbours, the "French, I «3 3 French, and see * their wretched po- licy, jdjeir sparkling, but sophistical "discourse, frivolous occupations, and, "withal, their gay animated air, we ^ ihall be compelled to acknowledge *>;lhat' happinese and folly too often *fri.dwell together.".. It is the end of wisdom," said La. Luc, " to attain happiness, and I can ** hardly dignify that conduct or course "of thinking which tends to misery "with the name of wisdom. By this "rule, perhaps, the folly, as we term *.'it, of the French deserves, since its "esfect is happiness, to be called wif- *- dom. That airy thoughtlessness, which u seems alike to contemn reflection and "anticipation, produces all the effect of "it without reducing its subjects to the "mortification of philosophy." Discoursing on the variety of opinions that are daily formed on the fame con- duct, • It must be remembered that this was said in the seventeenth century. [ H4 ] duct, La Luc observed how much that which is commonly called opinion is the result os passion and temper., . "True,'' .said .M. Verneuil, « there "is a tone of thought,. as there is a key "note in music, that leads all its weaker "asfections. Thus where the powers of "judging may be equal, the disposition "to judge is disferent at disferent times, "and .the actions of men are at least but "too often arraigned by whim and ca- "price, by partial vanity and the hu- "mour of the moment." Here La Luc took occasion to repro- bate the conduct of those writers, who, by shewing the dark fide on'y of human na-' ture, and by dwelling on the evils only which are incident to humanity, have fought to degrade man in his own eyes, and to make him discontented with life. "What should we say of a painter," continued La Luc, " who collected in I "his piece objects of a black hue only, fwho presented you with a black man, "a black [ "5 ] "a black horse, a black dog, &c. &c. "and tells you that his is a picture of "nature, and that nature is black ?"— "'Tis true," you would reply, "the "objects you exhibit do exist in nature, "but they form a very small part of her "works. You fay that nature is black, "and, to prove it, you have collected oh "your canvass all the animals of this "hue that exist. But you have forgot "to paint the green earth, the blue sky} "the white man, and objects of -all "those various hues with which creation' "abounds." rt The countenance of M. Verneuil ligh- tened with peculiar animation during the discourse of La Luc.-—" To think well "of his nature," said he, "is necessary "to the dignity and to the happiness of "man. There is a decent pride which "becomes every mind, and is conge- "nial to virtue. That consciousness of *c innate dignity, which shews him the "glory of his nature, will be his best . .'' "pro- [ "6 J "protection from the meanness of vice. Where this consciousness is wanting,"" continued M. Verneuil, " there can be "no fense of moral honour, and confe- "quently none of the higher principles "of action. What can be expected of "him who fays that it is his nature to be "mean and selfisli? Or who can doubt "that he, who thinks thus, thinks from "the experience of his own heart, from "the tendency of his own inclinations? "Let it always be remembered, that he "who would persuade men to be goodx "ought to shew them that they may be "great." "You speak," said La Luc, "with "the honest enthusiasm of a virtuous "mind ;. and in obeying the impulse of "your heart, you utter the truths of "philosophy; and, trust me, a bad "heart and a truly philosophic head "has never yet been united in the "fame individual. Vicious inclinations «* not only corrupt the heart, but the "under- E W7 1 ** understanding, and thus lead to false *' reasoning. Virtue only is on the side «truth." La Luc and his guest, mutually pleased with each other, entered upon the discussion of subjects so interesting to them both, that it was late before they parted for the night. CHAPTER I.. .. • » :. . CHAPTER XVII. ';' \ul "'Twas such a scene as gave a kind relief "To memory, in sweetly pensive grief." Virgil's Tomb. "Mine be the breezy hill, that lkirts the down, "Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, "With here and there a violet bestrown, "Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave, "And many an evening fun mine sweetly on my "grave." The Minstrel. Repose had so much restored Clara. that when Adeline, anxious to know how she did, went early in the morning to her chamber, she found her already risen, and ready to attend the family at breakfast. Monsieur Verneuil appeared also, but his looks betrayed a want of rest, and indeed he had suffered, during the night, a degree of anguish from his arm, which it was an effort of some re- solution [ tl9 ] solution to endure in silence. It was now swelled and somewhat inflamed, and this might in some degree be attri- buted to the effect of Madame La Luc's balsam, whose restorative qualities had for once failed. The whole family sym- pathised with his sufferings, and Ma- dame, at the request of M. Verneui', abandoned her balsam, and substituted an emollient fomentation. From an application of this he, in a short time, found an abatement of the pain, and returned to the breakfast table with greater composure. The happiness which La Luc felt at seeing his daughter in safety was very apparent, but the warmth of his gratitude towards her preserver he found it difficult to express. Clara spoke the genuine emotions of her heart with artless, but modest, energy, and testified sincere concern for the sufferings which she had oacasioned M. Verneuil. The pleasure received from the com- pany of his guest, and the consideration of of the essential service he had' rendered him, co-operated with the natural hos- pitality of La Luc, and he pressed M. Vci neuil to remain some time at the cha- teau.— "I can never repay the service cc you have done me," said La Luc; "yet 1 seek to increase my obligations "to you by requesting you will prolong "your visit, and thus allow me an op- "portunity of cultivating your acquain- "tance." M. Verneuil, who at the time he met La Luc was travelling from Geneva to a distant part of Savoy, merely for the purpose of viewing the country, being now delighted with his host, and with every thing around him, willingly ac- cepted the invitation. In this circum- stance prudence concured with inclina- tion, for to have pursued his journey on horseback, in his present situation, would have been dangerous, if not impracti- cable. The [ «« ] The morning was spent in conversa- tion, in which M. Verneuil displayed a mind enriched with taste, enlightened by science, and enlarged by observa- tion. The situation of the chateau, and the features of the surrounding scenery, charmed him, and in the evening he found himself able to walk with La Luc and explore the beauties of this romantic region. As they passed through the vil- lage, the salutations of the peasants, in whom love and respect; were equally * blended, and their eager inquiries after Clara, bore testimony to the character of La Luc, while his countenance expressed a serene satisfaction, arising from the consciousness of deserving and possessing their love.—" I live surrounded by my "children," said he, turning to M. 'Verneuil, who had noticed their eager- ness, "for such I consider my parishio- "ners. In discharging the duties of "my office, I am repaid not only by "my own conscience, but by their gra- Vol. III. G "titude I < 132 ] ** ritude. There is a luxury in obser- "ying their simple. and honest love, "which I would not exchange for any 35 3 rejoiced in the quiet that would now re- turn to him. But this quiet brought La Luc no re- spite from illness; the fatigue he had suffered in his late exertions seemed to have encreased his disorder, which in a short time assumed the aspect: of a con- sumption. Yielding to the solicitations of his family, he went to Geneva for ad- vice, and was there recommended to try the air of Nice. The journey thither, however, was of considerable length, and believing his life to be very precarious, he hesitated whether to go. He was also unwilling to leave the duty of his parish unper- formed for so long a period as his healdi might require; but this was an objec- tion which would not have withheld him from Nice, had his faith in the climate been equal to that of his physi- cians. His parishioners felt the life of their pastor to be of the utmost consequence to to them. It was" a general' cause, arid they testified at once his worth, and their fense of it, by going in a body to solicit him to leave them. He was much af- fected by this instance of their attach- ment. Such a proof of regard, joined with the entreaties of his own family, and a consideration that for their fakes it was a duty to endeavour to prolong his life, was too powerful to be with- stood, and he determined to set out for Italy. It was settled that Clara and Adeline, whose health La Luc thought required change of air and scene, shouM accom- pany him, attended by the faithful Pe- ter. On the morning of his departure, a large body of his parishioners assembled round the door to bid him farewell. It was an affecting scene they might meet no more. At length, wiping the teat's from his eyes, La Luc said, " Let us M trust in God, my friends; he has power [ 137 ] "power to heal all disorders both of "body and mind. 'We shall rmseir a» if gain, if hot ttr thi$> wbrld, I 'hope in Jf^.'becteK'-'jDieeicgtf-wnduct; be such '^as^o ensure that better." •• The sobs of his people prevented any reply. There was scarcely ardry eye in she village; for there was scarcely an inhabitant of it that was not now assem- bled in the presence [of La Luc. He shook hands with them all, " Farewell, "my friends, said he," " we shall meet "again." "God grant we may!" said they, with one voice of fervent peti- tion. Having mounted his horse, and Clara and Adeline being ready, they took a last leave of Madame La Luc, and quitted the chateau. The people* on- willing to leave La Luc, the greater part of them accompanied him to some distance from the village. As he moved slowly on he cast a last lingering look at his little home, where he had spent fa '1 'many '[ 1 many peaceful years, and which he now- gazed on, perhaps for the last time, and tears rose to his eyes; but he checked them. Every scene of the adjacent country called up, as he passed, some tender remembrance. He looked to- wards the spot consecrated to the me- mory of his deceased wise; the dewy vapours of the morning veiled it. La Luc felt the disappointment more deep- ly, perhaps, than reason could justify; but those who know from experience how much the imagination loves to dwell on any object, however remotely connected with that of our tenderness, will feel with him. This was an object round which the affections of La Luc had settled themselves; it was a memo- rial to the eye, and the view of it a- wakened more forcibly in the mind every tender idea that could associate with the primary subject of his regard. In such cases fancy gives to the illusions of strong affection, the stamp of reality, and [ *39 ] and they are cherished by the heart with romantic fondness. . . v.ii His people accompanied him for near a mile from the village, and could scarce- ly then be prevailed on to leave him; at length he once more bade them fare- wel', and went on his way, followed by their prayers and blessings. La Laic and his little party travelled slowly on, funk in pensive silence—a si- lence too pleasingly fad to be soon relin- quished, and which they indulged with- out fear of interruption. The solitary grandeur of the scenes through which they passed, and the soothing murmur of the pines that waved above, aided this soft luxury of meditation. They proceeded by easy stages; and after travelling for some days among the romantic mountains and pastoral vallies of Piedmont, they entered the rich coun- ty of Nice. The gay and luxuriant views which now opened upon the tra- vellers as they wound among the hills, appeared [ Ho ] appeared like scenes of fairy enchant- ment, or those produced by the lonely visions of the Poets. While the spiral summits of the mountains exhibited the snowy severity of winter, the pine, the cypress, the olive, and the myrtle shaded their fides with the green tints of spring, and groves of orange, lemon, and citron, spread over their feet the full glow of au- tumn. As they advanced, the scenery became still more diversified; and at length, between the receding heights, Adeline caught a glimpse of the distant waters of the Mediterranean, fading into the blue and cloudless'horizon. She had never till now seen the ocean; and this transient view of it roused her imagina- tion, and made her watch impatiently for a nearer prospect. It was towards the close of day when the travel'ers, winding round an abrupt projection of that range of A'ps which crowns the amphitheatre that environs Nice, looked down upon the green hills that that stretch to the shores,, on the city* and.its antient castle* nSfld on the wide waters,,of the Mediterranean; with the rqountajns of Corsica iri; the farthest distance. Such a sweep of sea and land, sa varied with the gay, the magnificient and the awful, would have fixed any eye in admiration: for Adeline and Clara novelty and enthusiasm added their charms to; the prospect. The soft and salubrious air seemed to welcome La Luc to this smiling region, and the serene atmosphere to promise invariable summer. They at length descended upon the little plain where stands the city of Nice, and which was the most extensive piece of level ground they had passed since they entered the county. Here, in the bosom of the mountains, sheltered from the north and the east, where the western gales alone seemed to breathe, all the blooms of spring and the riches of autumn were united. Trees of myrtle bordered the road, which L 142 ] •which wound among groves of orange, lemon, and bergamot, whose delicious fragrance came to the fense mingled with the breath of roses -and carnations that blossomed in their 1 shade.' 'The gently swelling hills that rose from the plain were covered with vines, and crowned with cypresses, olives, and date trees; beyond, there appeared the sweep of lofty mountains whence the travellers had descended, and whence flows the lit- tle river Paglion, swoln by the snows that melt on their summits, and which, after meandering through the plain, washes the wails of Nice, where it falls into the Mediterranean. In this blooming region Adeline observed that the coun- tenances of the peasants, meagre and discontented, formed a melancholy con- trast to the face of the country, and she lamented again the effects of an arbi- trary government, where the bounties of nature, which were designed for all, are monopolixcd by a few, and the • •/' many [ *43 ]. many are susfered to starve tantalized by surrounding plenty, jjsJT^e. city lost much of its enchantment or. a. nearer approach: its narrow streets and (shabby houses but ill answered the expectation which a distant view of its ramparts and its harbour, gay with ves- sels, seemed to authorise. The appear- ance of the inn at which La Luc now alighted, did not contribute to soften his disappointment; but if he was surprised to find such indisferent accommodation at the inn of a town celebrated as the resort of valetudinarians, he was still more so when he learned the disficulty of procuring furnished lodgings. After much search he procured apart- ments in a small but pleasant house, situated a little way out of the town: it had a garden, and a terrace which over- looked the sea, and was distinguished by an air of neatness very unusual in the houses of Nice. He agreed to board with the family, whose table likewise ac- . . . commodated [ H4 J* commodated a gentleman and lady, their lodgers, and thus he became a temporary inhabitant of this charming climate. On the following morning Adeline at an early hour, eager to indulge the new and sublime emotion with which a view of the ocean inspired her, and walked with Clara toward the hills that asforded a more extensive prospect. They pursued their way for some time between high embowering banks, till they arrived at an eminence, whence "Heaven, earth, ocean, smiled!" They sat down on a point of rock, over- shadowed by lofty palm trees, to contem- plate at leisure the magnificent scene. The sun was just emerged from the sea, over which his rays shed a flood of light, and darted a thousand brilliant tints on the vapours that ascended the horizon, and floated there in light clouds, leaving the bosom of the waters below clear as chrystal, except where the white surges , . .. .' were C H5 5 were seen to beat upon the rocks; and discovering the distant sails of the fish- ing boats, and the far distant highlands of Corsica, tinted with ætherial blue. Clara, after some time, drew forth her pencil, but threw it aside in despair. Adeline, as they returned home through a romantic glen, when her fenses were no longer absorbed in the contempla- tion of this grand scenery, and when its images floated on her memory, only, in softened colours, repeated the following lines: SU.N-RISE: A SONNET. Oft let me wander, at the break of day, Thro' the cool vale o'erhung with waving woods. Drink the rich fragrance of the budding May, And catch the murmur of the distant floods; Or rest on the fresh bank os limpid rill, Where sleeps the vi'let in the dewy shade, Where op'ning lilies balmy sweets distill, And the wild musk-rofe weeps along the glade: Vol. III. H Or I 146 ] Or climb the eastern cliff, whose airy head , Hangs rudely o'er the blue and misty main; Watch the sine hues of morn through ætherspread, And paint with roseate glow the chrystal plain. Oh 1 who can speak the rapture of the sonl When o'er the waves the fun first steals to fight, And all the world of waters, as they roll, And Heaven's vast vault unveils in living light I So life's ycung hour to man enchanting smiles, With sparkling health, and joy, and fancy's fairy wiles! La Luc in his walks met with some sensible and agreeable companions, who like himself came to Nice in search of health. Of these he soon formed a small but pleasant society, among whom was u Frenchman, whose mild manners, marked with a deep and interesting melancholy, had particularly attracted La Luc. He very seldom mentioned himself, or any circumstance that might lead to a knowledge of his family, but on other subjects conversed with frank- ness and much intelligence. La Luc had [ 147 1 had frequently invited him to his lodg. ings, but he had always declined'the ihvltan^n^^a'^ws in a manner so gentle(t^jd^saiTO displeasure, and con- vince' La Luc that his refusal was the consequence of a certain dejection of mind which made him reluctant to meet other strangers. The description which La Luc had given of this foreigner had excited the curiosity of Clara; and rhe sympathy which the unfortunate feel for each other called forth the commiseration of Adeline; for that he was unfortunate she could not doubt. On their return from an evening walk La Luc pointed out the chevalier, and quickened his pare to overtake him. Adeline was- for- a,moment impelled to follow, but deli- cacy checked her steps .; she knew how piinful the presence of a stranger oftetv is to a wounded mind, and sorebore to intrude herself on his notice for the fake of only satisfying an idle curiosity. She Ha turne.L [ i4S ] turned therefore into another path; but the delicacy which now prevented the meeting, accident in a few days defeat- ed, and La Luc introduced the stranger. Adeline received him with a soft smile, but endeavoured to restrain the expres- sion of pity which her features had invo- luntarily assumed; she wished him not to know that she observed he was un- happy. After this interview he no longer re- jected the invitations of La Luc, but made him frequent visits, and often ac- companied Adeline and Clara in their rambles. The mild and sensible con- versation of the former seemed to sooth his mind, and in her presence he fre- quently conversed with a degree of ani- mation which La Luc till then had not observed in him. Adeline too derived from the similarity of their taste, and his intelligent conversation, a degree of satisfaction which contributed, with the compassion his dejection inspired, to win her [ i49 3 her confidence, and she conversed with an easy frankness rather unusual to her. His visits soon became more frequent. He walked with La Luc and his family; he attended them on their little excur- sions to view those magnificent remains of Roman antiquity which enrich the neighbourhood of Nice. When the la- dies fat at home and worked, he enli- vened the hours by reading to them, and they had the pleasure to observe his spi- rits somewhat relieved from the heavy melancholy that had oppressed him. M. Amand was passionately fond of music. Clara had not forgot to bring her beloved lute: he would sometimes strike the chords in the most sweet and mournful symphonies, but never could be prevailed on to play. When Ade- line or Clara played, he would sit in deep reverie, and lost to every object around him, except when he fixed his eyes in mournful gaze on Adeline, and a sigh would sometimes escape him. H 3 One t '50 1 One evening Adeline' having excused herself from accompanying La Lnc.,arid Claw in a visit to.a neighbouring family, fiie retired to the terrace of the garden, which overlooked the sea, and as she viewed the tranquil splendour of the set- ting fun, and his glories reflected on the polished surface of the waves, (he touch- ed the strings of the lute in softest har- mony, her voice accompanying it with words which she had one day written after having read that rich effusion of Shakespeare's genius, " A Midsummer "Night's Dream." TITANIA TO HER LOVE. O! sly with me through distant air, To isles that gem the western deep! For laughing Summer revels there, And hangs her wreath on every steep. As through the green transparent sea Light floating on its waves we go, The nymphs (hall gaily welcome me, Far in their coral caves below, For C 15* 3 For oft upon their margin sands, When Twilight leads the fresh'ning hours, I come with all my jocund bands To charm them from their sea-green bow'rs. And well they love our sports to view, And on the Ocean's breast to lave; And oft as we the dance renew, They call up music from the wave. Swift hie we to that splendid clime, Where gay Jamaica spreads her scene, Lifts the blue mountain—wild—sublime! And smooths her vales of vivid green- Where throned high, in pomp of shade, The Fewer of Vegetation reigns, Expanding wide, o'er hill and glade, Shrubs of all growth—fruit of all stains: She steals the fun-beams' fervid glow To paint her flow'rs of mingling hue; And o'er the grape the purple throw, Breaking from verdant leaves to view. There, myrtle bow'rs, and citron grove, O'ercanopy our airy dance; And there the sea-breeze loves to rove When trembles Day's departing glance. H 4 Ani [ fit ] And when the false moon steals away, Or e'er the chacing morn doth rife, Oft, fearless, we our gambols play By the fire-worm's radiant eyes. And fuck the honey'd reeds that swell In tufted plumes of silver white; Or pierce the cocoa's milky cell, To sip the nectar of delight! And when the shaking thunders roll, And lightnings strike athwart the gloom, We shelter in the cedar's bole, And revel 'mid the rich perfume! But chief we love beneath the palm, Or verdant plantain's spreading leaf, To hear, upon the midnight calm, Sweet Philomela pour her grief. To mortal sprite such dulcet sound, Such blissful hours, were never known! O ! fly with me my airy round, And I will make them all thine own! Adeline ceased to sing—when she im- mediately heard repeated in a low voice, "To mortal sprite such dulcet sound, Such blisful hours were never known!" and C 153 ] and turning her eyes whence it came, she saw M. Amand. She blushed and laid down the lute, which he instantly took up, and with a tremulous hand drew forth tones "That might create a foul under the ribs ofDeath.'' In a melodious voice, that trembled with sensibility, he sang the following SONNET. How sweet is Love's first gentle sway, When crown'd with flow'rs he softly smiles! His blue eyes fraught with tearful wiles, Where beams of tender transport play: Hope leads him on his airy way,! And Faith and Fancy still beguiles— Faith quickly tangled in her toils- Fancy, whose magic forms so gay The fair Deceiver's self deceive— "How sweet is Love's first gentle sway!" Ne'er would that heart he bids to grieve From Sorrow's soft enchantments stray- Ne'er—till the God exulting in his art, Relentless frowns, and wings th' envenom'd dart! Mon- [ 154 ] Monsieur Amand paused: he seemed much oppressed, and at length, burst- ing into tears, laid down the instrument and walked abrupdy away to the farther end of the terrace. Adeline, without seeming to observe his agitation, rose and leaned upon the wall, below which a group of fishermen were busily employed in drawing a net. In a few moments he returned, with a composed and softened countenance. "Forgive this abrupt con- duct," said he: " I know not how to "apologize for it but by owning its "cause. 'When I tell you, Madam, that "my tears flow to the memory of a "lady who strongly resembled you, "and who is lost to me for ever, you "will know how to pity me."—His voice faultered, and he paused. Adeline was silent. "The lute," he resumed, "was her favourite instrument, and when "you touched it with such melancholy "expression, I saw her very image be- "fore r. *ss i "fore me. But alas! why do I distress "you with. a knowledge of my sor- "rows! she is gone, and never to return! "And you, Adeline — you"——He checked his speech; and Adeline, turning on him a leek of mournful regard, ob- served a wildnesi in his eyes which alarm- ed her. "These recollections are too- X* painful." said she, in a gentle voice * "let us return to the house; M.LaLuc "is probably come home."—" O no!"' replied M. Amand; "No—this breeze "refreshes me. How often at this hour ** have I talked with her, as I now talk w i t h- "you! Such were the soft tones of her "voice—such the ineffable expression of "her countenance."—Adeline interrupt- ed him. "Let me beg of you to con- ** sider your health—this dewy air can- "not be good for invalids." He stood' with his hands clasped, and seemed nor to hear her. She took up the lute to go, and passed her fingers lightly over the H 6 chords. [ ] chords. The sounds recalled his scatter- ed senses: he raised his eyes, and fixed them in long unsettled gaze upon hers. "Must I leave you here?" said she, smiling, and standing in an attitude to depart—" I entreat you to play again the "air I heard j ust now," said M. Amand, in a hurried voice.—" Certainly;" and she immediately began to play. He leaned against a palm tree in an attitude of deep attention, and as the sounds lan- guished on the air, his features gra- dually lost their wild expression, and he melted into tears. He continued to weep silently till the song concluded, and it was some time before he recovered voice enough to fay, "Adeline, I cannot thank "you for this goodness. My mind has "recovered its bias, you have soothed "a broken heart. Increase the kind- "ness you have shewn me by promising never to mention what you have wit- c' nessed this evening, and J will endea- "vour [ i57 3 "vour never again to wound your sen- "Ability by a similiar offence."—Ade- line gave the required promise and M. A.mand, pressing her hand, with a me- lancholy smile, hurried from the gar- den, and she saw him no more that night.i r, ..i La Luc had been near a fortnight at Nice, and his health, instead of amend- ing, seemed rather to decline, yet he wished to make a longer experiment of the climate. The air, which failed to restore her venerable friend, revived Adeline, and the variety and novelty of the surrounding scenes amused her mind, though, since they could not obliterate the memory cf past, or suppress the pang of present affection, they were ineffectual to dissipate the sick languor of melancholy. Company, by compelling her to with- draw her attention from the subject of her sorrow, afforded her a transient re- lief, but the violence of the exertion ge- neral'y E 158 j nerally left her more depressed. It was in the stillness of solitude, in the tran- quil observance of beautiful nature, that her mind recovered its tone, and indulg- ing the pensive inclination now become habitual to it, was soothed and fortified. Of all the grand objects which nature had exhibited, the ocean inspired herwith the most sublime admiration. She loved to wander alone on its shores, and, when she could escape so long from the duties or the forms of society, she would sit for hours on the beach watching the rolling waves, and listening to their dying mur- mur, till her softened fancy recalled1 long lost scenes, and restored the image of Theodore, when tears of despondency too often followed those of pity and regret; But these visions of memory, painful as they were, no longer excited that phrenzy of grief they formerly awakened in Savoy; the sharpness of misery was passed, though its heavy influence was not perhaps less powerful.. [ i59 1 powerful. To these solitary indulgences generally succeeded calmness, and wkat Adeline endeavoured to believe was re- signation. She usually rose early, and walked down to the shore to enjoy, in the cool and silent hours of the morning, the cheer- ing beauty of nature, and inhale the pure sea-breeze. Every object then smiled in fresh and lively colours. The blue sea, the brilliant sky, the distant fishing boats, with their white fails, and the voices of the fishermen, borne at intervals on the air, were circumstances which re- animated her spirits, and in one of her rambles, yielding to that taste for poetry which had seldom forsaken her, she re- peated the following lines v MORNING, Ct ifr. J; MORNING, ON THE SEA SHORE. What print of fairy feet is here On Neptune's smooth and yellow sands? .; What midnight revel's airy dance, Beneath the moon-beams' trembling glance, Has blest these shores ?—What sprightly bands Have chac'd the waves uncheck'd by fear? Whoe'er they were they fled from morn, For now, all iilent and forlorn, These tide-forsaken sands appear Return, sweet sprites! the scene to cheer! In vain the call !—Till moonlight's hour Again diffuse its softer pow'r, Titania, nor her fairy loves. Emerge from India's spicy groves. Then, when the stiad'wy hour returns, When silence reigns o'er air and earth, And ev'ry star in æther burns, They come to celebrate their mirth; In frolic ringlet trip the ground. Bid Music's voice on Silence win, Till magic echoes answer round— Tnus do their festive rites begin. 0 fairy [ 161 ] O fairy sormi! so coy to mortal ken, Your mystic steps to poets only (hewn, O! lead me to the brook, or hallow'd glen, Retiring far, with winding woods o'ergrown Where'er ye best delight to rule; If in some forest's lone retreat, Thither conduct my willing feet To the light brink of fountain cool, Where, sleeping in the midnight dew, Lie Spring's young buds of ev'ry hue, Yielding their sweet breath to the air; To fold their silken leaves from harm, And their chill heads in moonshine warm, So bright Titania's tender care. There, to the night-bird's plaintive chaunt Your carols sweet ye love to raise, With oaten reed and past'ral lays; And guard with forceful spell her haunt, Who, when your antic sports are done, Oft lulls ye in the lily's cell, Sweet flow'r! that suits your slumbers well, And shields ye from the rising fun. When not to India's steeps ye fly After twilight and the moon, In honey'd buds ye love to lie. While reigns supreme Light's fervid noon; .Nor quit the cell where peace pervades, Till night leads on the dews and shades. E'en now your scenes enchanted meet my sight! I fee the earth uncloie, the palace rife, The high dome swell, and long arcades of light tilitter among the deep embow'ring woods, And glance reflected from the trembling floods! While to soft lutes the portals wide unfold, And fairy forms, of fine æthertal dyes, Advance with frolic step and laughing eyes, Their hair with pearl, their garments deck'd with: gold; Pearls that in Neptune's briny waves they sought* And gold from India's deepest caverns-brought. Thus your light visions to my eyes unveil, Ye sportive pleasures, sweet illusions, hail? But ah! at morn's first blush again ye fade! So from youth's ardent gaze life's landscape gay. And forms in Fancy's summer hues array'd, Dissolve at once in air at Truth's resplendent day I During several days succeeding that on which M. Amand had disclosed the cause of his melancholy, he did not visit La Luc. At length Adeline met him in one of her solitary rambles on the Ihore. He was pale and dejected* and seemed much agitated when he ob- served E ] served her; she therefore endeavoured to avoid him, but he advanced with quickened steps and accosted her. He said it was his intention to leave Nice in a few days. "I have found no benefit "from the-dimate," added M. Amand; "Alas! what climate can relieve the "sickness of the heart! I go to lose in "the varieties of new scenes the remem- "brance of past happiness; yet the ef- "fort is vain; I am every where equally "restless and unhappy." Adeline tried to encourage him to hope much from time and change of place. "Time "will blunt the sharpest edge of sor- row," said she; " I know it from expe- "rience." Yet while she spoke, the tears in her eyes contradicted the asser- tion of her lips. "You have been un- "happy, Adeline!—Yes—I knew it cc from the first. The smile of pity "which you gave me, assured me that "you knew what it was to suffer." The desponding air with which he spoke re- newed [ 164 ] newed her apprehension of a scene simi- lar to the one she had lately witnessed, and ihe changed the subject, but he soon returned to it. "You bid;.me hope "much from time!—My wife !—My "dear wife !"- his tongue fauhered —" It is now many months since I lost "her—yet the moment of her death "seems but as yesterday." Adeline faintly smiled. "You can scarcely judge "of the effect of time yet, you have "much to hope for." He shook his head. "But I am again intruding my V misfortunes on your notice; forgive "this perpetual egotism. There is a "comfort in the pity of the good such "as nothing else can impart; this must "plead my excuse; may you, Adeline, ** never want it. Ah! those tears" Adeline hastily dried them. M. Amand forbore to press the subject, and imme- diately began to converse on indifferent topics. They returned towards the cha- teau, but La Luc being from home, M. Amand mined to coast the Mediterranean as far as Languedoc, where, if the voyage did not answer his expectations, he would land and proceed to Montpellier. When M. Amand learned that La Luc designed to quit Nice in a few days, he determined not to leave it before him. During this interval he had not sufficient resolution to deny himself the frequent conversation of Adeline, though her pre- sence, by reminding him of his lost wife, gave him more pain than comfort. He was the second son of a French gentle- man of family, and had been married about a year to a lady to whom he had long been attached when she died in her lying-in. The infant soon followed its mother, and left the disconsolate father abandoned to grief, which had preyed so heavily on his health, diat his physi- cian thought it necessary to fend him to Nice. From the air of Nice, however, he had derived no benefit, and he now determined to travel farther into Italy, though [ i*7 1 though he no longer felt any interest in those charming scenes, which in happier days, and with her whom he never ceased to lament, would have afforded him the highest degree of mental luxury—now he sought only to escape from himself, or rather from the image of her who had once constituted his truest happiness. La Luc having laid his plan, hired a small vessel, and in a few days embarked, with a sick hope bidding adieu to the shores of Italy and the towering Alps, and seeking on a new element the health which had hitherto mocked his pursuit. M. Amand took a melancholy leave ©f his new friends, whom he attended to the sea side. When he assisted Adeline on board, his heart was too full to suffer him to say farewell; but he stood long on the beach pursuing with his eyes her course over the waters, and waving his hand, till tears dimmed his sight. The breeze wafted the vesiel gently from the coast, and Adeline saw herself surround- ed [ x68 ] ed by the undulating waves of the ocean. The shore appeared to recede, its mourn- tains to lessen, the gay colours of its landscape to melt into each other, and in a short time the figure of M. Amand was seen no more: the town of Nice, with its castle and harbour, next faded away in dis- tance, and the purple tint of the moun- tains was at length all that remained on the verge of the horizon. She sighed as she gazed, and her eyes filled with tears. "So vanished my prospect; of happi- "ness," said she; c' and my suture "view is like the waste of waters that w surround me." Her heart was full, and she retired from observation to a remote part of the deck, where she in- dulged her tears as she watched the ves- sel cut its way through the liquid glass. The water was so transparent that she saw the sun-beams playing at a consider- able depth, and fish of various colours glance athwart the current. Innumer- able marine plants spread their vigorous leaves [ *h 1 leaves on the rocks below, and the rich- ness of their verdure formed a beautiful contrast to the glowing scarlet of the co- ral that branched beside them. The distant coast, at length, entirely disappeared. Adeline gazed with an emotion the most sublime, on the bound- less expanse of waters that spread on all sides: she seemed as if launched into a new world; the grandeur and immen- sity of the view astonished and over- powered her: for a moment she doubted the truth of the compass, and believed it to be almost impossible for the vessel to find its way over the pathless waters to any shore. And when she considered that a plank alone separated her from death, a sensation of unmixed terror su- perceded that of sublimity, and she has- tily turned her eyes from the prospect, and her thoughts from the subject. Vol. III. I CHAP- [ »7° 3 CHAPTER XVIH. "Is there a heart that music cannot melt? ** Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn! Is there who ne'er the mystic transports felt "Of solitude and melancholy born .' "He need not woo the Muse—he is her scorn." Beattie. i. OWARDS evening the captain, to. avoid the danger of encountering a Bar- bary corsair, steered for the French coast, and Adeline distinguished in the gleam of the setting sun the shores of Provence, feathered with wood and green with pas- turage. La Luc, languid and ill, had retired to the cabin, whither Clara at- tended him. The pilot at the helm, guiding the tall vessel through the sound- ing waters, and one solitary sailor, lean- ing with crossed arms against the mast, and C 171 ] and now and then singing parts of a mournful ditty, were all of the crew, except Adeline, that remained upon deck—and Adeline silently watched the declining sun, which threw a saffron glow upon the waves, and on the fails, gently swelling in the breeze that was now dy- ing away. The fun, at length, funk below the ocean, and twilight stole over the scene, leaving the shadowy shores yet visible, and touching with a solemn tint the waters that stretched wide around. She sketched the 'picture, but it was with a faint pencil. NIGHT. O'er the dim breast of Ocean's wave Night spreads afar her gloomy wings, And pensive thought, and silence brings, Save when the distant waters lave; Or when the mariner's lone voice Swells faintly in the passing gale, Or when the screaming sea-gulls poise O^er the tall mast and swelling sail, I 2 Bounding [ '7* 1 Bounding the grey gleam of the deep, Where fancy'd forms arouse the mind, Dark sweep the shores, on whose rude steep Sighs the fad spirit of the wind. Sweet is its voice upon the air At ev'ning's melancholy close, When the smooth wave in silence flows! Sweet, sweet the peace its stealing accents bear! Blest be thy shades, O Night! and blest the song Thy low winds breathe the distant shores along! As the shadows thickened the scene sunk into deeper repose. Even the sail- or's song had ceased; no sound was heard but that of the waters dashing be- neath the vessel, and their fainter mur- mur on the pebbly coast. Adeline's mind was in unison with the tranquillity of the hour: lulled by the waves, she resigned herself to a still melancholy, and sat lost in reverie. The present mo- ment brought to her recollection her voyage up the Rhone, when seeking re- fuge from the terrors of the Marquis de Montalt, she so anxiously endeavoured to [ i73 ] to anticipate her future destiny. She then, as now, had watched the fall of evening and the fading prospect, and she remembered what a deflate feeling had accompanied the impression which those objects made. She had then no friends —no asylum—no certainty of escaping the pursuit of her enemy. Now she had found affectionate friends—a secure re- treat—and was delivered from the terrors she then suffered—but still she was un- happy. The remembrance of Theo- dore—of Theodore who had loved her so truly, who had encountered and suf- fered so much for her sake, and of whose fate she was now as ignorant as when she traversed the Rhone, was an incessant pang to her heart. She seemed to be more remote than ever from the possibi- lity of hearing of him. Sometimes a faint hope crossed her that he had escaped the malice of his persecutor; but when she considered the inveteracy and power of the latter, and the heinous light in I 3 which [ 174 ] which the law regards an assault upon a superior officer, even this poor hope va- nished, and left her to tears and an- guish, inch as this reverie, which began with a sensation of only gentle melan- choly, now led to. She continued to muse till the moon arose from the bosom of the ocean, and shed her trembling lustre upon the waves, diffusing peace, and making silence more solemn; beaming a soft light on the white fails, and throw- ing upon the waters the long shadow of the vessel, which now seemed to glide away unopposed by any current. Her tears had somewhat relieved the anguish of her mind, and she again reposed in placid melancholy, when a strain of such tender and entrancing sweetness stole on the silence of the hour, that it seemed more like celestial than mortal music so soft, so soothing, it sunk upon her ear, that it recalled her from misery to hope and love. She wept again but these were tears which she would not have [ '75 ] have exchanged for mirth and joy. She looked round, but perceived neither ship or boat; and as the undulating sounds swelled on the distant air, she thought they came from the shore. Sometimes the breeze wasted them away, and again returned them in tones of the most lan- guishing softness. The links of the air thus broken, it was music rather than melody that she caught, till, the pilot gradually steering nearer the coast, she distinguished the notes of a song familiar to her ear. She endeavoured to recollect where she had heard it, but in vain; yet her heart beat almost unconsciously with a something resembling hope. Still she listened, till the breeze again stole the sounds. With regret she now per- ceived that the vessel was moving from them, and at length they trembled faint- ly on the waves, funk away at distance, and were heard no more. She remained upon the deck a considerable time, un- willing to relinquish the expectation of 14 hearing [ 176 ] hearing them again, and their sweetness still vibrating on her fancy, and at length retired to the cabin oppressed by a degree of disappointment which the occasion did not appear to justify. La Luc grew better during the voy- age, his spirits revived, and when the vessel entered that part of the Mediter- ranean called the Gulf of Lyons, he was sufficiently animated to enjoy from the deck the nbble prospect: which the sweep- ing shores of Provence, terminating in \he far distant ones of Languedoc, ex- hibited. Adeline and Clara, who anx- iously watched his looks, rejoiced in their amendment; and the fond wishes of the latter already anticipated his per- fect recdvery. Disappointment had too often checked the expectations of Ade- line, to permit her now to indulge an equal degree of hope with that of her friend, yet she confided much in the ef- fect of this voyage. La [ »77 ] La Luc amused himself at intervals with discoursing, and pointing out the situations of considerable ports on the coast, and the mouths of the rivers that, after wandering through Provence, dis- embogue themselves into the Mediterra- nean. The Rhone, however, was the only one of much consequence which he passed. On this object, though it was so distant that fancy, perhaps, rather than the fense, beheld it, Clara gazed with peculiar pleasure, for it came from the banks of Savoy; and the wave which me thought me perceived, had warned the feet of her dear native mountains. The time passed with mingled pleasure and improvement as La Luc described to his attentive pupils the manners and commerce of the different inhabitants of the coast, and the natural history of the country; or as he traced in imagination, the remote wanderings of rivers to their source, and delineated the characteristic beauties of their scenery. I 5 After [ i?8 ] After a pleasant voyage os a sew days, the shores of Provence receded, and that of Languedoc, which had long bounded the distance, became the grand object: of the scene, and the sailors drew near their port. They landed in the after- noon at a small town situated at the foot of a woody eminence, on the right over- looking the sea, and on the left the rich plains of Languedoc, gay with the pur- ple vine. La Luc determined to defer his journey till the following day, and was directed to a small inn at the extre- mity of the town, where the accommo- dation, such as it was, he endeavoured to be contented with. In the evening the beauty of the hour, and the desire of exploring new scenes, invited Adeline to walk. La Luc was fatigued, and did not go out, and Clara remained with him. Adeline took her way to the woods that rose from the margin of the sea, and climbed the wild eminence on which they hung. Often as [ i79 ] as she went she turned her eyes to catch between the dark foliage the blue waters of the bay, the white fail that flitted by, and the trembling gleam of the setting sun. When she reached the summit,. and looked down over the dark tops of the woods on the wide and various pros- pect, she was seized with a kind of still rapture impossible to be expressed, and stood unconscious of the flight of time, till the fun had left the scene, and twi- light threw its solemn shade upon the mountains. The sea alone reflected the fading splendor of the West; its tran- quil surface was partially disturbed by the low wind that crept in tremulous lines along the waters, whence rising to the woods, it shivered their light leaves, and died away. Adeline, resigning herself to the luxury of sweet and tender emo- tions, repeated the following lines: SUNSET [ i8o ] S U N - S E T. Soft o'er the mountain's purple brow Meek Twilight draws her shadows grey; From tufted woods, and vallies low, Light's magic colours steal away. Yet still, amid the spreading gloom, K esplendent glow the western waves, That roll o'er Neptune's coral caves, A zone of light on Ev'ning's dome. On this lone summit let me rest, And view the forms to Fancy dear, Till on the Ocean's darken'd breast The stars of Ev'ning tremble clear; Or the moon's pale orb appear, Throwing her line of radiance wide, Far o'er the lightly-curling tide, That seems the yallow sands to chide. No sounds o'er silence now prevail, Save of the dying wave below, Or sailor's song borne on the gale, Or oar at distance striking slow. So sweet! so tranquil! may my ev'ning ray Set to this world—and rife in future day i Adeline [ Hi ] Adeline quitted the heights, and fol- lowed a narrow path that wound to the beach below: her mind was now parti- cularly sensible to fine impressions, and the sweet notes of the nightingale amid the stillness of the woods again awakened her enthusiasm. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. Child of the melancholy song! O yet that tender strain prolong! Her lengthen'd shade when Ev'ning flings, From mountain-cliffs, and forest's green, And sailing flow on silent wings, Along the glimm'ring Westis seen; I love o'er pathless hills to stray, Or trace the winding vale remote, And pause, sweet Bird! to hear thy lay While moon-beams on the thin clouds float, Till o'er the mountain's dewy head Pale Midnight steals to wake the dead. Far through the Heav'ns' ætherial blue, Wafted on Spring's light airs you come, With blooms, and flow'rs, and genial dew, From climes where Summer joys to roam, O! welcome to your long-lost home! "Child [ 182 ] "Child of the melancholy song!" Who lov'st the lonely woodland-glade To mourn, unseen, the boughs among, When Twilight spreads her pensive sliade. Again thy dulcet voice I hail! O! pour again the liquid note That dies upon the ev'ning gale! For Fancy loves the kindred tone; Her griefs the plaintive accents own. She loves to hear thy music stoat At solemn midnight's stillest hour, And think on friends for ever lost, On joys by disappointment crost, And weep anew Love's charmsul pow'r 1 Then, Memory wakes the magic smile, Th'impaffion'd voice, thejnehing eye, That won't the trusting heart beguile, And wakes again the hopeless sigh I Her skill the glowing tints revive Of scenes that Time had bade decay: She bids the soften'd Passions live— The Paflions urge again their sway. Yet o'er the long-regretted scene Thy song the grace of sorrow throws; A melancholy charm serene, More rare than all that mirth bestows. Then hail, sweet Bird! and hail thy pensive tear \ To Taste, to Fancy, and to Virtue, dear! [ 18+ ] in sweet enchantment. Surprize was soon mingled with delight, when, as the sounds advanced, she distinguished the tone of that instrument, and the melody. os that well known air, she had heard a sew preceding evenings from the shores of Provence. But she had no time for conjecture—footsteps approached, and she renewed her speed. She was now emerged from the darkness of the woods, and the moon which shone bright, ex- hibited along the level sands the town and port in the distance. The steps that had followed now came up with her, and she perceived two men, but they passed in conversation without noticing her, and as they passed she was certain she recol- lected the voice of him who was then speaking. Its tones were so familiar to her ear, that she was surprised at the imperfect memory which did not suffer her to be assured by whom they were uttered. Another step now followed,. and a rude voice called to her to stop.. As [ x85 ] As she hastily turned her eyes she saw- imperfectly by the moonlight a man in a sailor's habit pursuing, while he re- newed the call. Impelled by terror, she fled along the sands, but her steps were short and trembling—those of her pursuer's strong and quick. She had just strength sufficient to reach the men who had before passed her, and to implore their protection, when her pursuer came up with them, but suddenly turned into the woods on the left, and disappeared. She had no breath to answer the in- quiries of the strangers who supported her, till a sudden exclamation, and the sound of her own name, drew her eyes attentively upon the person who uttered them, and in the rays which shone strong upon his features, she distinguished M. Verneuil!—Mutual satisfaction and ex- planation ensued, and when he learned that La Luc and his daughter were at the inn, he felt an increased pleasure in con- ducting [ i86 ] ducting her thither. He said that he had accidenta:ly met with an old friend in Savoy, whom he now introduced by the name of Mauron, and who had pre- vailed on him to change his route and accompany him to the shores of the Me- diterranean. They had embarked from the coast of Provence only a few prece- ding days, and had that evening landed in Languedoc on the estate of M. Mau- ron. Adeline had now no doubt that it was the Bute of M. Verneuil, and which had so often delighted her at Leloncourt, that fne had heard on the sea. When they reached the inn they found La Luc under great anxiety for Adeline, in search of whom lie had sent several people. Anxiety yielded to surprize and pleasure, when he perceived her with M. Verneuil, whose eyes beamed with' unusual animation on seeing Clara. Af- ter mutual congratulations, M. Verneuil observed, and lamented, the very indif- ferent [ '87 ] ferent accommodation which the inn af- forded his friends, and M. Mauron im- mediately invited them to his chateau with a warmth of hospitality that over- came every scruple which- delicacy or pride could oppose. The woods that Adeline had traversed formed a part of his domain, which extended almost to the inn; but he insisted that his carriage should take his guests to the chateau, and departed to give orders for their re- ception. The presence of M. Vernueil, and the kindness of his friend, gave to La Luc an unusual flow of spirits; he conversed with a degree of vigour and liveliness to which he had long been un- accustomed, and the smile of satisfaction that Clara gave to Adeline expressed how much she thought he was already bene- fited by the voyage.' Adeline answered . her look with a smile of less confidence, for she attributed his present animation to a more temporary cause. About [ 188 ] About half an hour after the departure of M. Mauron, a boy, who served as wai- ter, brought a message from a chevalier then at the inn, requesting permission to speak with Adeline. The man who had pursued her along the sands instantly oc- curred to her, and (lie scarcely doubted that the stranger was some person belong- ing to the Marquis de Montalt, perhaps the Marquis himself, though that he should have discovered her accidentally, in so obscure a place, and so immediately upon her arrival, seemed very improbable. With trembling lips, and a countenance pale as death, she enquired the name of the chevalier. The boy was not ac- quainted with it. La Luc asked what sort of a person he was; but the boy, who understood little of the art of describing, gave such a confused account of him, that Adeline could only learn he was not large, but of the middle stature. This circumstance, however, convincing her it was not the Marquis de Montalt wha [ i89 ] who desired to see her, she asked whe- ther it would be agreeable to La Luc to have the stranger admitted. La Luc said, " By all means;" and the waiter withdrew. Adeline fat in trembling ex- pectation till the door opened, and Louis de la Motte entered the room. He advanced with an embarrassed and melancholy air, though his countenance had been enlightened with a momentary pleasure when he first beheld Adeline- Adeline, who was still the idol of his heart. After the first salutations were over, all apprehensions of the Marquis being now dissipated, she enquired when Louis had seen Monsieur and Madame La Motte. "I ought rather to ask you that quef- "tion," said Louis, in some confusion, "for I believe you have seen them since "I have; and the pleasure of meeting "you thus is equalled by my surprize. M I have not heard from my father for "some time, owing probably to my re- "giment [ *9° J ct giment being moved to new quar- « ters." He looked as if he wished to be inform- ed with whom Adeline now was 5 but as this was a subject upon which it was im- possible she could speak in the presence of La Luc, she led the conversation to general topics, after having said that Monsieur and Madame La Motte were well when she left them. Louis spoke little and-often looked anxiously at Ade- line, while his mind seemed labouring un- der strong oppression. She observed this, and recollecting the declaration he had made her on the morning of his departure from the Abbey, she attributed his present embarrassment to the effect of a passion yet unsubdued, and did not appear to no- tice it. After he had sat near a quarter os an hour under a struggle of feelings which he could neither conquer or con- ceal, he rose to leave the room, and as he passed Adeline, said, in a low voice, "Do permit me to speak with you alone "for [ «*i 1 ct for five minutes." She hesitated in some confusion, and then saying there were none but friends present, begged he would be seated.—" Excuse me," said he, in the same low accent; "What I "would say nearly concerns you, and tc you only. Do favour me with a few u moments attention." He said this with a look that surprised her; and hav- ing ordered candles in another room, she went thither. Louis fat for some moments silent, and seemingly in great perturbation of mind. At length he said, " I know not whether "to rejoice or to lament at this unexpect- "ed meeting, though, if you are in safe "hands, I ought certainly to rejoice, "however hard the task that now falls "to my lot. I am not ignorant of the "dangers and persecutions you have suf- "fered, and cannot forbear expressing "my anxiety to know how you are "now circumstanced. Are you indeed "with friends ?"—" I am," said Ade- line; \ lines "M. La Motte has informed you" ——" No," replied Louis, with a deep sigh, " not my father."—He paused.— "But I do indeed rejoice," resumed he. "O ! how sincerely I rejoice! that you "are in safety. Could you know, lovely "Adeline, what I have suffered!" He checked himself.—" I understood "you had something of importance to "say, Sir," said Adeline; " you must "excuse me if I remind you that I have "not many moments to spare." "It is indeed of importance," replied Louis; "yet I know not how to mention "it—how to soften This talk is too "severe. Alas! my poor friend!" "Who is it you speak of, Sir!" said Adeline, with quickness. Louis rose from his chair, and walked about the room. "I would prepare you for what "I have to fay," he resumed, "but "upon my soul I am not equal to it." "I entreat you to keep me no longer "in suspence," said Adeline, who had a wild [ m 1 a wild suspicion that it was Theodore he would speak of. Louis still hesitated. "Is it—O is it ?—I conjure you tell me "the worst at once," said she, in a voice of agony. "I can bear it in- "deed I can." "My unhappy friend 1" exclaimed Louis! " O Theodore!"—" Theodore!" faintly articulated Adeline, " he lives "then!" "He does," said Louis, "but"—He stopped.—" But what?" cried Adeline, trembling violently; "If "he is living you cannot tell me worse "than my fears suggest; I entreat you, "therefore, not to hesitate."—Louis resumed his feat, and, endeavouring to assume a collected air, said, " He is "living, Madam, but he is a prisoner, "and—for why should I deceive you? "I fear he has little to hope in this "world." "I have long seared so, Sir," said Adeline, in a voice of forced compo- sure; " you have something more ter- Vol. IfL K "rible [ *94 ] ed La Luc, in surprize and apprehen- sion.—" Your son!" said Adeline, in a trembling voice, "your son !"—The astonishment and anguish depictured on her countenance increased the apprehen- sions of this unfortunate father, and he renewed his question. But Adeline was totally unable to answer him; and the distress of Louis, on thus unexpectedly discovering the father of his unhappy friend, and knowing that it was his task to disclose the fate of his son, deprived him for some time of all power of utter- ance, and La Luc and Clara, whose fear* were every instance heightened by this dreadful silence, continued to repeat their questions. At length a fense of the approaching sufferings of the good La Luc overcoming \ K 3 every t 198 I every other feeling, Adeline recovered strength of mind sufficient to try to sofren the intelligence Louts had to commu- nicate, and to conduct Clara to another room. Here she collected resolution to tell her, and with much tender conside- ration, the circumstances of her brother's situation, concealing only her knowledge of his sentence being already pronounc- ed. This relation necessarily included the mention of their attachment, and in the friend of her heart Clara discovered the innocent cause of her brother's de- struction. Adeline also learned the oc- casion os that circumstance which had contributed to keep her ignorant cf Theodore's relationship to La Luc; she was told the former had taken the name of Peyrou, with an estate which had been left him about a year before by a relation of his mother's upon that con- dition. Theodore had been designed for the church, but his disposition inclined him to a more active life than the clerical habic [ *99 1 habit would admit of, and on his acces- sion to this estate he had entered into the service of the French king. In the few and interrupted interviews which had been allowed them at Caux, Theodore had mentioned his family to Adeline only in general terms, and thus, when they were so suddenly separated, had, without designing it, left her in ignorance of his father's name and place of residence. The facredness and delicacy of Ade- line's grief, which had never permitted her to mention the subject of it even to Clara, had since contributed to deceive her. The distress of Clara, on learning the situation of her brother, could in- dure no restraint; Adeline, who, by a strong effort of mind, had command- ed her feelings so as to impart this intelli- gence with to erable composure, was now almost overwhelmed by her own and Cla- ra's accumulating sufferings. While they K 4 wept [ 200 } wept forth the anguish of their hearts, a scene, if possible, more affecting passed be- tween La Luc and Louis, who perceived it was necessary to inform him, though cautiously and by degrees, of the full ex- tent of his calamity. He therefore told La Luc, that though Theodore had been fiist tried for the offence of having quit- ted his post, he was now condemned on a charge of assault made upoH his gene- ral officer, the Marquis de Montalt, who had brought witnesses to prove that his life had been endangered by the circum- stance; and who having pursued the pro- secution with the most bitter rancour, had at length obtained the sentence which the law could not withhold, but which every other officer of the regiment de- plored. Louis added, that the sentence was to be executed in less than a fortnight, and that Theodore being very unhappy at receiving no answers to the letters he had sent his father, wishing to see him once more, [ 201 1 more, and knowing that there was now no time to be lost, had requested him to go to Leloncourt and acquaint his father with his situation. La Luc received the account of his son's condition with a distress that admit- ted neither of tears or complaint. He asked where Theodore was, and desiring to be conducted to him, he thanked Louis for all his kindness, and ordered post horses immediately. A carriage was soon ready, and this unhappy father, after taking a mournful leave of M. Verneuil, and sending a compliment to M. Mauron, attended by his family, set out for the prison of his son. The journey was a silent one; each individual of the party endeavoured, in consideration of each other, to suppress the expression of grief, but was unable to do more. La Luc appeared calm and complacent; he seemed frequently to be engaged in prayer; but a struggle for K 5 resignation [ 202 ] resignation and composure was sometimes visible upon his countenance, notwith- standing the efforts of his mind to con- ceal it. CHAPTER [ 20J 1 CHAPTER XIX. c* And renom'd wiih disgrace the dart of Death." \y E now return to the Marquis de Montalt, -who having seen La Motte safely lodged in the prison of D y, and learning the trial would not come on immediately, had returned to his villa on the borders of the sorest, where he expected to hear news of Adeline. It had been his intention to follow his servants to Lyons; but he now deter- mined to wait a few days for letters, and he had little doubt that Adeline, since her flight had been so quickly pur- sued, would be overtaken, and probably before she could reach that city. In this expectation he had been miserably dis- appointed; for his servants informed him,. Sevva rb. K 6 that [ 204 3 that though they traced her thither, they had neither been able to follow her route beyond, nor to discover her at Lyons. This escape she probably owed to hav- ing embarked on the Rhone, for it does not appear that the Marquis's people thought of seeking her on the course of that river. His presence was soon after required at Vaceau, where the court martial was then sitting; thither, therefore, he went, with passions still more exasperated by his late disappointment, and procured the condemnation of Theodore. The sentence was universally lamented, for Theodore was much beloved in his regi- ment; and the occasion of the Marquis's personal resentment towards him being known, every heart was interested in his cause. Louis de la Motte happening at this time to be stationed in the fame town, heard an imperfect account of his story, and being convinced that the prisoner was the young [ 205 ] young chevalier whom he had formerly seen with the Marquis at the Abbey, he was induced partly from compassion, and partly with a hope of hearing of his parents, to visit him. The compassionate sympathy which Louis expressed, and the zeal with which he tendered his ser- vices, affected Theodore, and excited in him a warm return of friendship. Louis made him frequent visits, did every thing that kindness could suggest to alleviate his sufferings, and a mutual esteem and confidence ensued. Theodore at length communicated the chief subject of his concern to Louis, who discovered, with inexpressible grief, that it was Adeline whom the Marquis had thus cruelly persecuted, and Adeline for whose sake the generous Theodore was about to suffer. He soon perceived a'so that Theodore was his favoured rival; but he generoufly suppressed the jealous pang this discovery occasion- ed, and determined that no prejudice of passion A [ 206 ] passion should withdraw him from the duties of humanity and friendlhip. He eagerly inquired where Adeline then re- sided. "She is yet, I fear, in the power "of the Marquis," said Theodore, sigh- ing deeply. "O God !—these chains!" —and he threw an agonizing glance upon them. Louis fat silent and thought- ful; at length starting from his reverie, he said he would go to the Marquis, and immediately quitted the prison. The Marquis was, however, already set off for Paris, where he had been summoned to appear at the approaching trial of La Motte; and Louis, yet ignorant of the late transactions at the Abbey, returned to. the prison, where he endeavoured to for- get that Theodore was the favoured rival of his love, and to remember him only as the defender of Adeline. So earnest- ly he pressed his offers of service, that Theodore, whom the silence of his father equally surprised and afflicted, and who was very anxious to fee him once again, accepted [ 207 ] accepted his proposal of going himself to Savoy. n My letters I strongly suf- "pect to have been intercepted by the "Marquis," said Theodore; "if so, "my poor father will have the whole "weight of this calamity to sustain at "once, unless I avail myself of your "kindness, and I shall neither fee him "or hear from him before I die. Louis! "there are moments when my fortitude "shrinks from the conflict, and my «* fenses threaten to desert me." No time was to be lost; the warrant for his execution had already received the king's signature, and Louis immediately set forward for Savoy. The letters of Theodore had indeed been intercepted by order of the Marquis, who, in the hope of discovering the asylum of Ade- line, had opened and afterwards de- stroyed them. But to return to La Luc, who now drew near Vaceau, and who his family observed to be greatly changed in his looks [ ao8 ] looks since he had heard the late cala-- mitous intelligence; he uttered no com- plaint; but it was too obvious that his dis- order had made a rapid progress. Louis, who, during the journey, proved the goodness of his disposition by the deli- cate attentions he paid this unhappy par- ty, concea'ed his observation of the de- cline os La Luc, and, to support Ade- line's spirits, endeavoured to convince her that her apprehensions on this subject: were groundless. Her spirits did indeed require support, for she was now within a few miles of the town that contained Theodore; and while her increasing per- turbation almost overcome her, she yet tried to appear composed. When the car- riage entered the town, me cast a timid and anxious glance from the window in search of the prison; but having passed through several streets without perceiving any building which corresponded with her idea of that she looked for, the coach stopped at the inn. The frequent changes in [ 209 ] in La Luc's countenance betrayed the violent agitation of his mind, and when he attempted to alight, feeble and ex- hausted, he was compelled to accept the support of Louis, to whom he faintly said, as he passed to the parlour, " I am "indeed sick at heart, but I trust the pain "will not be long." Louis pressed his hand without speaking, and hastened back for Adeline and Clara, who were already in the passage. La Luc wiped the tears from his eyes (they were the first he had shed) • as they entered the room. "I would go immediately to "my poor boy," said he to Louis; u yours, Sir, is a mournful office—be so "good as to conduct me to him." Fie rose to go, but, feeble and overcome with grief, again sat down. Adeline and Clara united in entreating that he would com- pose himself, and take some refreshment, and Louis urging the necessity of pre- paring Theodore for the interview, pre- vailed with him to delay it till his son should shou'd be informed of his arrival, and immediately quitted the inn for the prison of his friend. When he was gone, La Luc, as a duty he owed those he loved, tried to take some support, but the con- vulsions of his ihroat would not suffer him to swallow the wine he held to his parched lips, and he was now so much disordered, that he desired to retire to his chamber, where alone, and in prayer, he passed the dreadful interval of Louis's absence. Clara on the bosom of Adeline, who sat in calm but deep distress, yielded to the violence of her grief. "I (hall lose "my dear father too," said she; "I see "it: I shall lose my father and my bro- "ther together:" Adeline wept with her friend for some time in silence; and then attempted to persuade her that La Luc was not so ill as she apprehended. "Do not mislead me with hope," she replied, "he will not survive the "shock of this calamity—I saw it from "the [ 211 ] "the first." Adeline knowing that La Luc's distress would be heightened by the observance of his daughter's, and that indulgence would only encrease its poignancy, endeavoured to rouse her to an exertion of fortitude by urging the necessity of commanding her emotion in the presence of her father. "This "is possible," added she," "however "painful may be the effort. You must "know, my dear, that my grief is not "inferior to your own, yet 1 have hi- "therto been enabled to support my "sufferings in silence, for M. La Luc "I do, indeed, love and reverence as "a parent." Louis meanwhile reached the prison of Theodore, who received him with an air of mingled surprize and impa- tience. "What brings you back so "soon," said he, "have you heard "news of my father?" Louis now gradually unfolded the circumstances ©f their meeting, and La Luc's arrival at Vaceau. [ 212 ] Vaceau. A various emotion agitated the countenance of Theodore, on receiv- ing this intelligence. "My poor fa- "ther !" said he, " he has then followed ** his son to this ignominious place! Lit- "tie did I think when last we parted he "would meet me in a prison, under con- "demnation !" This reflection roused an impetuosity of grief which deprived him for some time of speech. "But where is "he?" said Theodore, recovering him- self; "now he is come, I shrink from "the interview I have so much wished "for. The sight of his distress will be "dreadful to me. Louis! when I am "gone—comfort my poor father." His voice was again interrupted by sobs; and Louis, who had been fearful of "acquainting him at the fame time of the arrival of La Luc, and the disco- very of Adeline, now judged it proper to administer the cordial of this latter intelligence. The > t «3 ] The glooms of a prison, and of ca- lamity, vanished for a transient mo- ment; those who had seen Theodore would have believed this to be the in- stant which gave him life and liberty. When his first emotions subsided, " I "will not repine," said he;" since "I know that Adeline is preserved, "and that I shall once more see my "father, I will endeavour to die with "resignation." He enquired if La Luc was then in the prison; and was told he was at the inn with Clara and Adeline. "Adeline! Is Adeline there "too!—This is beyond my hopes. Yet '* why do I rejoice? I must never fee her u more: this is no place for Adeline." Again he relapsed into an agony of distress—and again repeated a thousand questions concerning Adeline, till he was reminded by Louis that his father was impatient to fee him—when, shock- ed that he had so long detained his friend, he entreated him to conduct [ 214 1 La Luc to the prison, and endeavoured to recollect fortitude for the approaching interview. When Louis returned to the inn La Luc was still in his chamber, and Clara quitting the room to call him, Ade- line seized with trembling impatience the opportunity to enquire more parti- cularly concerning Theodore, than she chose to do in the presence of his un- happy sister. Louis represented him to, be much more tranquil than he really was : Adeline was somewhat soothed by the account; and her tears, hitherto re- strained, flowed silently and fast, till La Luc appeared. His countenance had recovered its serenity, but was im- pressed with a deep and steady sorrow, which excited in the beholder a mingled emotion of pity and reverence. " How "is my son ? sir," said he as he entered the room. " We will go to him imme- diately." Clara [ «s 1 Clara renewed the entreaties that had .been already rejected, to accompany her father, who persisted in a refusal. " To- *c morrow you shall see him," added he;" "but our first meeting must be "alone. Stay with your friend my "dear; she has need of consolation." When La Luc was gone, Adeline, un- able longer to struggle against the. force of grief, retired to her chamber and her bed. La Luc walked silently towards the prison, resting on the arm of Louis. It was now night: a dim lamp that hung above shewed them the gates, and Louis rung a bell; La Luc, al- most overcome with agitation, leaned against the postern till the porter ap- peared. He enquired for Theodore, and followed the man ., but when he reached the second court yard he seemed ready to faint, and again stopped. Louis desired the porter would fetch some wa- ter; but La Luc, recovering his voice, said i [ 2l6 ] said he Ihould be soon better, and would not suffer him to go. In a few minutes he was able to follow Louis, who led him through several dark passages, and up a flight of steps to a door, which being unbarred, disclosed to him the prison os his son. He was seated at a small table, on which stood a lamp that threw a fee- ble light across the place sufficient only to shew its desolation and wretchedness. When he perceived La Luc he sprung from his chair, and in the next moment was in his arms. "My father!" said he in a tremulous voice. "My son!" exclaimed La Luc; and they were for some time silent, and locked in each other's embrace. At length Theodore led him to the only chair the room af- forded, and seating himself with Louis at the foot of the bed, had leisure to observe the ravages which illness and calamity had made on the features of his parent. La Luc made several ef- forts to speaks but unable to articulate, laid t 217 ] laid his hand upon his breast and sighed deeply. Fearful of the consequence of so affecting a scene on his shattered frame, Louis endeavoured to call off his attention from the immediate object of his distress, and interrupted the silence; but La Luc shuddering, and complain- ing he was very cold, funk back in his chair. His condition roused Theodore from the stupor of despair; and while he flew to support his father, Louis ran out for other assistance. —" I shall soon be better, Theodore," said La Luc, unclosing his eyes, "the faintness is cc already going off. I have not been "well of late; and this fad meeting!" Unable any longer to command himself, Theodore wrung his hand, and the dis- tress which had long struggled for utter- ance burst in convulsive sobs from his breast. La Luc gradually revived, and exerted himself to calm the transports of his son; but the fortitude of the latter had now entirely forsaken him, Vol. III. L and t MB ] and he could only utter exclamation and complaint. "Ah! little did I "think we should ever meet under cir- "cumstances so dreadful as the pre- "sent! But I have not deserved them, "my father! the motives of my con- "duct have still been just." "That is my supreme consolation," said La Luc, "and ought to support "you in this hour of trial. The Al- "mighty God, who is the judge of "hearts, will reward you hereafter. "Trust in him, my son; I look. to "him with no feeble hope, but with a "firm reliance on his justice!" La Luc's voice faultered; he raised his eyes to heaven with an expression of meek devotion, while the tears of hu- manity fell slowly on his cheek. - Still more affected by his last words, Theodore turned from him, and paced the room with quick steps: the entrance of Louis was a very seasonable relief to La Luc, who taking a cordial he had brought, [ 2i9 1 brought, was soon sufficiently restored to discourse on the subject: most interest- ing to him. Theodore tried to attain a command of his feelings, and succeed- ed. He conversed with tolerable com- posure for above an hour, during which La Luc endeavoured to elevate, by re- ligious hope, the mind of his son, and to enable him to meet with fortitude the aweful hour that approached. But the appearance of resignation which Theo- dore attained always vanished when he reflected that he was going to leave his father a prey to grief, and his beloved Adeline for ever. When La Luc was about to depart he again mentioned her. "Afflicting as an interview must be in "our present circumstances," said he} ** I cannot bear the thoughts of quitting "the world without seeing her once "again; yet I know not how to ask "her to encounter, for my sake, the "misery of a parting scene. Tell her "that my thoughts never, for a mo- L 2 "raent, [ 220 ] * ment, leave her; that" La Luc interrupted, and assured him, that since he so much wished it, he should see her, though a meeting could serve only to heighten the mutual anguish of a final separation. "I know it—I know it too well," said Theodore; "yet I cannot resolve "to see her no more, and thus spare her "the pain this interview must inflict. "O my father! when I think of those "whom I must soon leave for ever, my 'c heart breaks. But I will indeed try "to profit by your precept and exam* "pie, and shew that your paternal care ** has not been in vain. My good "Louis, go with my father—he has "need of support. How much I owe "this generous friend," added Theo- dore, "you well know, Sir."—" I do, "in truth," replied La Luc, "and can "never repay his kindness to you. He "has contributed to support us all; but "you require comfort more than my- "self t 221 ] "self—he shall remain with you—I will "go alone." This Theodore would not suffer; and La Luc no longer opposing him, they affectionately embraced, and separated for the night. 'When they reached the inn La Luc consulted with Louis on the possibility of addressing a petition to the sovereign time enough to save Theodore. Hi* distance from Paris, and the short inter- val before the period fixed for the exe- cution of the sentence, made this design difficult; but believing it was practica- ble, La Luc, incapable as he appeared of performing so long a journey, deter- mined to attempt it. Louisj thinking that the undertaking would prove fatal to the father, without benefiting the son^ endeavoured, though faintly, to dissuade him from it—but his resolution was fixed.—" If I sacrifice the small remains "of my life in the service of my child," said he, " I shall lose little; if I save L 3 « him, [ 222 J rt him, I shall gain every thing. There "is no time to be lost—I will set off "immediately." He would have ordered post horses, but Louis, and Clara, who was now come from the bed side of her friend, urged the necessity of his taking a few hours repose: he was at length com- pelled to acknowledge himself unequal to the immediate exertion which paren- tal anxiety prompted, and consented to seek rest. When he had retired to his chamber, Clara lamented the condition of her fa- ther.—cc He will not bear the journey," said she; " he is greatly changed within "these few days." — Louis was so en- tirely of her opinion, that he could not disguise it, even to flatter her with a hope. She added, what did not contri- bute to raise his spirits, that Adeline was so much indisposed by her grief for the situation of Theodore, and the sufferings of [ **2 ] of La Luc, that she dreaded the con- sequence. It has been seen that the passion of young La Motte had suffered no abatement .from time or absence; on the contrary, the persecution and the dangers which had pursued Adeline awakened all his tenderness, and drew her nearer to his heart. When he had discovered that Theodore loved her, and was beloved again, he experienced all the anguish of jealousy and disap- pointment; for though she had forbade him to hope, he found it too painful an effort to obey her, and had secretly che- rished the flame which he ought to have stifled. His heart was, however, too no- ble to suffer his zeal for Theodore to abate because he was his favoured rival, and his mind too strong not to conceal the anguish this certainty occasioned. The attachment which Theodore had testified towards Adeline even endeared him to Louis, when he had recovered L 4 from [ 524 ] from the first shock, of disappointment, and that conquest over jealousy which originated in principle, and was pursued with difficulty, became afterwards his pride and his glory. Wheq, however, he again saw Adeline—saw her in the mild dignity of sorrow more interesting than ever—saw her, though sinking be- neath its pressure, yet tender and solici- tous to soften the afflictions of those around her—it was with the utmost dif- ficulty he preserved his resolution, and forbore to express the sentiments she in- spired. When he farther considered that her acute sufferings arose from the strength of her affection* he more than ever wish- ed himself the object of a heart capable of so tender a regard, and Theodore in prison and in chains was a momentary object of envy. In the morning, when La Luc arose from short and disturbed flumbers, he found Louis, Clara, and Adeline, whom indisposition could not prevent from pay- ing [ ] Ing him this testimony of respect and af- fection, assembled in the parlour of the inn to see him depart. After a slight breakfast, during which his feelings per- mitted him to fay little, he bade his friends a fad farewel, and stepped into the carriage, followed by their tears and prayers.—Adeline immediately retired to her chamber, which she was too ill to quit that day. In the evening Clara left her friend, and, conducted by Louis, went to visit her brother, whose emo- tions, on hearing of his father's depar- ture, were various and strong. L 5 CHAP- [ ] CHAPTER XX. ** "Tis only when witli imbred horror smote "At some base act, or done, or to be done, "That the recoiling soul, with conscious dread, "Shrinks back into itself." Mason. We return now to Pierre De la Motte, who, after remaining some weeks in the prison of-D——y, was removed to take his trial in the courts of Paris, whither the Marquis de Montalt followed to pro- secute the charge. Madame De la Motte accompanied her husband to the prison of the Chatelet. His mind funk under the weight of his misfortunes, nor could all the efforts of his wife rouse him from the torpidity of despair which a conside- ration of his circumstances occasioned. Should he be even acquitted of the charge [ "7 ] charge brought against him by the Mar- quis (which was very unlikely), he was now in the scene of his former crimes, and the moment that should liberate him from the walls of his prison would pro- bably deliver him again into the hands of offended justice. The prosecution of the Marquis was • too well founded, and its object of a nature too serious, not to justify the terror of La Motte. Soon after the latter had settled at the Abbey of St. Clair, the small stock of money which the emer- gency of his circumstances had left him being nearly exhausted, his mind be- came corroded with the most cruel anx- iety concerning the means of his suture subsistence. As he was one evening rid- ing alone in a remote part of the forest, musing on his distressed circumstances, and meditating plans to relieve the exi- gencies which he saw approaching, he perceived among the trees, at some dis- tance, a chevalier on horseback, who was L 6 riding I "8 1 riding deliberately along, and seemed •wholly unattended. A thought darted across the mind of La Motte that he might be spared the evils which threat- ened him by robbing this stranger. His former practices had passed the boundary of honesty—fraud was in some degree familiar to him—and the thought was not dismissed He hesitated —— every moment of hesitation increased the power of temptation—the opportunity was such as might never occur again. He looked round, and as far as the trees opened saw no person but the chevalier, who seemed by his air to be a man of distinction. Summoning all his courage, La Motte rode forward and attacked him. The Marquis de Montalt, for it was him, was unarmed, but knowing that his attendants were not far off, he refused to yield. While they were strug- gling for victory, La Motte saw several horsemen enter the extremity of the ave- nue, and, rendered desperate by oppo- sition [ m 3 sition and delay, he drew from his pock- et a pistol (which an apprehension of banditti made him usually carry when he rode"' to a distance from the Abbey) and fired at the Marquis, who staggered and fell senseless to the ground. La Motte had time to steal from his coat a brilliant star, some diamond rings from his fingers, and to rifle his pockets, be- fore his attendants came up. Instead of pursuing the robber, they all, in their first confusion, flew to assist their lord, and la Motte escaped. He stopped before he reached the Ab- bey at a little ruin, the tomb formerly mentioned, to examine his booty. It consisted of a purse containing seventy louis d'ors; of a diamond star, three rings of great value, and a miniature set with brilliants of the Marquis himself, which he intended as a present for his favourite mistress. To La Motte, who but a few hours before had seen himself nearly destitute, the view of this treasure C *JO ] treasure excited an almost ungovernable transport; but it was soon checked when he remembered the means he had em- ployed to obtain it, and that he had paid for the wealth he contemplated the price of blood. Naturally violent in his passions, this reflection funk him from the summit of exultation to the abyss of despondency. He considered himself a murderer, and startled as one awakened from a dream, would have given half the world, had it been his, to have been as poor, and, comparatively, as guiltless as a few preceding hours had seen him. On examining the portrait, he discovered the resemblance, and believing that his hand had deprived the original of life, he gazed upon the picture with unutter- able anguish. To the horrors of re- morse succeeded the perplexities of fear. Apprehensive of he knew not what, he lingered at the tomb, where he at length deposited his treasure, believing that if his offence should awaken justice, the Abbey [ ] Abbey might be searched, and these jewels betray him. From Madame La Motte it was easy to conceal his increase of wealth; for as he had never made her acquainted with the exact state of his finances, she had not suspected the extreme poverty which menaced him, and as they continued to live as usual, stie believed that their expences were drawn from the usual supply. But it was not so easy to disguise the workings of remorse and horror: his manner be- came gloomy and reserved, and his fre- quent visits to the tomb, where he went partly to examine his treasure, but chief- ly to indulge in the dreadful pleasure of contemplating the picture of the Mar- quis, excited curiosity. In the solitude of the forest, where no variety of objects occurred to renovate his ideas, the horri- ble one of having committed murder was ever present to him.—When the Marquis arrived at the Abbey, the asto- nishment and terror of La Motte, for at first [ ] first he scarce knew whether he beheld the shadow or the substance of a human form, were quickly succeeded by appre- hension of the punishment due to the crime he had really committed. When his distress had prevailed on the Marquis to retire, he informed him that he was by birth a chevalier: he then touched upon such parts of his misfortunes as he thought would excite pity, expressed such abhorrence of his guilt, and volun- tarily uttered such a solemn promise of returning the jewels he had yet in his possession, for he had ventured to dis- pose only of a small part, that the Mar- quis at length listened to him with some degree of compassion. This favourable sentiment, seconded by a selfish motive, induced the Marquis to compromise with La Motte. Of quick and inflammable passions, he had observed the beauty ps Adeline with an eye of no common re- gard, and he resolved to spare the life of La Motte upon no other condition than the [ m ] the sacrifice of this unfortunate girl. La Motte had neither resolution or virtue sufficient to reject the terms—the jewels were restored, and he consented to be- tray the innocent Adeline. But as he was too well acquainted with her heart to believe that she would easily be won to the practice of vice, and as he still felt a degree of pity and tenderness for her, he endeavoured to prevail on the Marquis to forbear precipitate measures, and to attempt gradually to undermine her principles by seducing her affections. He approved and adopted this plan: the failure of his first scheme induced him to employ the stratagems he after- wards pursued, and thus to multiply the misfortunes of Adeline. Such were the circumstances which had brought La Motte to his present de- plorable situation. The day of trial was now come, and he was led from prison into the court, where the Marquis ap- peared as his accuser. When the charge was [ 234 ] was delivered, La Motte, as is usual, pleaded not guilty, and the Advocate Nemours, who had undertaken to plead for him, afterwards endeavoured to make it appear that the accusation, on the part of the Marquis de Montalt, was false and malicious. To this purpose he men- tioned the circumstance of the latter hav- ing attempted to persuade his client to the murder of Adeline: he farther urged that the Marquis had lived in habits of intimacy with La Motte for several months immediately preceding his arrest, and that it was not till he had disap- pointed the designs of his accuser, by conveying beyond his reach the unhap- py object of his vengeance, that the Marquis had thought proper to charge La Motte with the crime for which he stood indicted. Nemours urged the im- probability of one man's keeping up a friendly intercourse with another from whom he had suffered the double injury of assault and robbery; yet it was cer- *.' .v tain [ »35 ] tain that the Marquis had observed a frequent intercourse with La Motte for some months following the time specified for the commission of the crime. If the Marquis intended to prosecute,' why was it not immediately after his discovery of La Motte? and if not then, what had influenced him to prosecute at so distant a period? To this nothing was replied on the part of the Marquis: for as his conduct on this point had been subservient to his designs on Adeline, he could not justify it but by exposing schemes which would betray the darkness of his character, and invalidate his cause. He, therefore, 'contented himself with producing seve- ral of his servants as witnesses of the as- sault and robbery, who swore without scruple to the person of La Motte, though not one of them had seen him otherwise than through the gloom of evening and riding off at full speed. On a cross ex- amination most of them contradicted each [ 236 ] each other; their evidence was of course rejected; but as the Marquis had yet two other witnesses to produce, whose ar- rival at Paris had been hourly expected, the event of the trial was postponed, and the court adjourned. La Motte was re-conducted to his pri- son under the same pressure of despon- dency with which he had quitted it. As he walked through one of the avenues he passed a man who stood by to let him proceed, and who regarded him with a fixed and earnest eye. La Motte thought he had seen him before; but the imper- fect view he caught of his features through the duskiness of the place made him un- certain as to this, and his mind was in too perturbed a state to suffer him to feel an interest on the subject. 'When he waa gone the stranger inquired of the keeper of the prison who La Motte was; on being told, and receiving answers to some further questions he put, he desired he might be admitted to speak with him. The I 237 ] The request, as the man was only a debtor, was granted: but as the doors were now shut for the night, the inter- view was deferred till the morrow. La Motte found Madame in his room, where she had been waiting for some hours to hear the event of the trial. They now wished more earnestly than ever to see their son; but they were, as he had sus- pected, ignorant of his change of quarters, owing to the letters which he had, as usual, addressed to them under an assumed name, remaining at the post-house of Auboin. This circumstance occasioned Madame La Motte to address her letters to the place of her son's late residence, and he had thus continued ignorant of his fa- ther's misfortunes and removal. Ma- dame La Motte, surprised at receiving no answers to her letters, sent off ano- ther, containing an account of the trial as far as it had proceeded, and a request that her son would obtain leave of ab- sence, and set out for Paris instantly. As C ] As she was still ignorant of the failure of her letters, and had it been otherwise, would not have known whither to have sent them, she directed this as usual. Mean-while his approaching fate was never absent for a moment from the mind of La Motte, which, feeble by nature, and still more enervated by habits of in- dulgence, refused to support him at this dreadful period. "While these scenes were passing at Paris, La Luc arrived there without any acci- dent, after performing a journey, during which he had been supported almost en- tirely by the spirit of his resolution. He hastened to throw himself at the feet of the sovereign, and such was the excess of his feeling on presenting the petition which was to decide the fate of his son, that he could only look silently up, and then fainted. The king received the paper, and giving orders for the un- happy father to be taken care of, passed on. He was carried back to his hotel, where [ 239 ] 'where he awaited the event of this his final esfort. Adeline, mean-while, continued at Vaceau in a state of anxiety too power- ful for her lorig-agitated frame, and the illness in consequence of this, confined her almost wholly to her chamber. Some- times she ventured to flatter herself with a hope that the journey of La Luc would be successful: but these short and illu- sive intervals of comfort served only to heighten, by contrast, the despondency that succeeded, and' in the alternate ex- tremes of feeling she experienced a state more torturing than that produced either by the sharp sting of unexpected cala- mity, or the sullen pain of settled de- spair- . When she was well enough she came down to the parlour to converse with Louis, who brought her frequent ac- counts of Theodore, and who passed every moment he could snatch from the duty of his profession in endeavours to support support and console his afflicted friends. Adeline and Theodore both looked to him for the little comfort allotted them, for he brought them intelligence of each other, and whenever he appeared a tran- sient melancholy kind of pleasure played round their hearts. He could not con- ceal from Theodore Adeline's indisposi- tion, since it was necessary to account for her not indulging the earnest wish he re- peatedly expressed to fee her again. To Adeline he spoke chiefly of the fortitude and resignation of his friend, not how- ever forgetting to mention the tender af- fection he constantly expressed for her. Accustomed to derive her sole consolation from the presence of Louis, and to ob- serve his unwearied friendship towards him whom she so truly loved, she found her esteem for him ripen into gratitude, and her regard daily increase. The fortitude with which he had said Theodore supported his calamities was somewhat exaggerated. He could not sufficiently [ Hi ] sufficiently forgot those ties which bound him to life to meet his fate with firmness but though the paroxysms of grief were acute and frequent, he sought, and often attained in the presence of his friends, a manly composure. From the event of his father's journey he hoped little, yet that little was sufficient to keep his mind in the torture of suspence till the issue should appear. On the day preceding that fixed for the execution of the sentence La Luc reached Vaceau. Adeline was at her chamber window when the carriage drew up to the inn; she saw him alight, and with feeble steps, supported by. Peter, enter the house. From the Ian-' guor of his air me drew no favourable omen, and, almost finking under the violence of her emotion, she went to meet him. Clara was already with her father when Adeline entered the room. She approached him, but, dreading to receive from his lips a confirmation of Vol. III. M the [ H2 ] the misfortune his countenance seemed to indicate, she looked expreflively at him and sat down, unable to speak the question she would have asked. He held out his hand to her in silence, sunk back in his chair, and seemed to be fainting under oppression of heart. His manner con- firmed all her fears; at this dreadful con- viction her fenses failed her, and she fat motionless and stupified. La Luc and Clara were too much oc- cupied by their own distress to observe her situation; after some time she breath- ed a heavy sigh, and burst into tears. Relieved by weeping, her spirits gradual- ly returned, and she at length said to La Luc, " It is unnecessary, Sir, to ask the "event of your journey; yet, when "you can bear to mention the subject, « I wish"—- La Luc waved his hand—" Alas!" said he, "I have nothing to tell but what "you already guess too well. My poor "Theodore!"—His voice was convuls- ed [ 243 ] ed with sorrow, and some moments of unutterable anguish followed. Adeline was the first who recovered sufficient recollection to notice the ex- treme languor of La Luc, and attend to his support. She ordered him refresh- ments, and entreated he would retire to his bed and suffer her to send for a physi- cian; adding, that the fatigue he had suffered made repose absolutely necessary. •c Would that I could find it, my dear "child," said he; "it is not in this "world that I must look for it, but in a "better, and that better, I trust, I shall * soon attain. But where is our good cc friend, Louis La Motte? He must lead "me to my son."—Grief again interrupt , ed his utterance, and the entrance of Louis was a very seasonable relief to them all. Their tears explained the question he would have aiked; La Luc immediately inquired for his son, and thanking Louis for all his kindness to him, desired to be conducted to the prison. Louis endea- M 2 voured I 244 ] vourcd to persuade him to defer his visit till the morning, and Adeline and Clara joined their entreaties with his, butLaLuc had determined to goth at night.—" His (C time is short," said he; "a few hours "and I shall lee him no more, at least "in this world; let me not neglect "these precious moments. Adeline! "I had promised my poor boy that he t( mould see you once more; you are not "now equal to the meeting. I will try to "reconcile him to the disappointment; "but if I fail, and you are better in the "morning, I know you will exert your- "se!f to sustain the interview."—Ade- line looked impatient, j and attempted to speak. La Luc rose to depart, but could only reach the door of the room, where, faint and feeble, he sat down in a chair. "I must submit to,neces- « sity," said he; "I find I am not cc able to go farther to-night. Go to "him, La Motte, and tell him I am "somewhat disordered by my journey, « but [ 245 ] "but that I will be with him early in "the morning. Do not flatter him "with a hope; prepare him for the *tiworst." There was a pause of silence; La Luc at length recovering himself, desired Clara would order his bed to be got ready, and she willingly obeyed. When he witlidrew, Adeline told Louis, what was indeed unnecessary, the event of La Luc's journey, "I ft own," continued she, "that I had *' sometimes suffered myself to hope, and "I now feel this calamity with double "force. I fear ' too that M. La Luc "will- fink under its pressure; he is '* much altered for the worst since he **. set out for Paris. Tell me your opi- <* nion sincerely." . JThe change was so obvious, that Louis could^iot deny it, but he endeavoured to sooth her apprehension by ascribing this alteration, in a great measure, to the temporary fatigue of travelling. Ade- line declared her resolution of accom- M 3 panying [ 246 3 panying La Luc to take leave of Theo- dore in the morning. "1 know not how "I shall support the interview," sari she; "but to see him once more is a ,( duty I owe both to him and myself. "The remembrance of having neglected "to give him this last proof of affec- "tion would pursue me with incessant •* remorse." After some farther conversation on this subject Louis withdrew to the prison, ruminating on the best means of impart- ing to his friend the fatal intelligence he had to communicate. Theodore re- ceived it with more composure than he had expected; but he asked, with impa- tience, why he did not see his father and Adeline, andon beinginformed that indis- position withheld them, his imagination seized on the worst possibility, and sug- gested that his father was dead. It was a considerable time before Louis could con- vince him of the contrary, and that Ade- line Was notdangerousiy ill; when, how- ever, [ 447 ] ever, he was assured that he should fee them in the morning, be became more tranquil. He desired his friend would not leave him that night. t* These are "the last hours we can pass together," added he; "I cannot fleep! Stay with "me and lighten their heavy mo- "ments. I have need of comfort, "Louis. Young as I am, and held "by such strong attachments, I cannot "quit the world with resignation. 1 "know not how to credit those stories "we hear of philosophic fortitude ; wis- "dom cannot teach us cheerfully to re* „** sign a good, and life in my circum- "stances is surely such." The night was passed in embarrassed conversation; sometimes interrupted by long fits of silence, and sometimes by the paroxysms of despair and the morning of that day which was to lead Theodore to death at length dawned through the grates of his prison. M 4 La [ 243 ] La Luc mean while passed a sleepless and dreadful night. He prayed for for- titude and resignation both for himself and Theodore; but the pangs of nature were powerful in his heart, and not to be subdued. The idea of his lamented wife, and-of what she would have susser- ed had she lived to witness the ignomi- nious death which awaited her son, fre- quently occurred to him. It seemed as if a destiny had hung over the lise of Theodore, for it is pro- bable that the king might have granted the petition of the unhappy father, had it not happened that the Marquis de Montalt was present at court when the .paper was presented. The appearance and singular distress of the petitioner had interested the monarch, and, instead of putting by the paper, he opened it. As he threw his eyes over it, observing that the criminal was of the Marquis de Montak's regiment: he turned to him and inquired the nature of the offence for which I 249 ] which the culprit was about to suffer. •The answer was such as might have been expected from the Marquis, and the king was convinced that Theodore was not a proper object of mercy. • . But to return to La Luc, who was called according to his order, at a very early hour. Having passed some time .in prayer, he went down to the parlour, where Louis, punctual to the moment already waited to conduct him to the prison. He appeared calm and collec- ted, but his countenance was impressed with a fixed despair that sensibly affected his young.friend. While they waited for Adeline he spoke little, and seemed strug- gling to attain the fortitude necessary to support him through the approaching scene. Adeline not appearing, he at length sent to hasten her, and was told she had been ill, but was recovering. She had indeed passed a night of such agi- tation, that her frame had sunk under it, and she was now endeavouring to re- M 5 . cover cover strength and composure sufficient 4Q.. sustain her in this dreadful hour. Every moment that brought her nearer to it had increased her emotion, and the apprehension of being prevented seeing Theodore had alone enabled her to strug- gle against the united pressure of illness and grief. ... She now, with Clara, joined La Luc, who advanced as they entered the room, and took a hand of each in silence. Af- ter some moments he proposed to go, and they stepped into a carriage which conveyed them to the gates of the pri- son. The crowd had already began to assemble there, and a confused murmur arose as the carriage moved forward; it was a grievous sight to the friends of Theodore. Louis supported Adeline when she alighted, she was scarcely able to walk, and with trembling steps (he followed La Luc, whom the keeper led towards that part of the prison where his son was confined. It was now eight o'clock [ ] o'clock, the sentence was not to be exe- cuted till twelve, but a guard of fol- •diers was already placed in the court, and as this unhappy party passed along the narrow avenues they were met by several officers who had been to take a last farewel of Theodore. As they as- cended the stairs that led to his apart- ment, La Luc's ear caught the clink of chains, and heard him walking above with a quick irregular step. The un- happy father, overcome by the moment which now pressed upon him, stopped, and was obliged to support himself by the bannister. Louis scaring that the con-1 sequence of his grief might be fatal, shac-. tered as his frame already was, would have gone for assistance, but he made a. sign to him to stay. "I am better;" said La Luc, " O God! support me "through this hour 1" and in a few minutes he was able to proceed. As the warder unlocked the door, the harsh grating of the key shocked Ade M 6 line [ 252 ] line, but in the next moment she was in the presence of Theodore, who sprung to meet her, and caught her in his arms before she sunk to the ground. As her head reclined on his shoulder, he again viewed that countenance so dear to him, which had so often lighted rapture in his heart, and which though pale and in- ^animate as it now was, awakened him to momentary^ delight. When at length slie unclosed her eyes, she fixed them. in .long and mournful gaae upon Theodore, who pressing her to his heart could an- swer her only with a smile of mingled .tenderness, and despair; the tears he en- deavoured to restrain trembled in his .eyes, and he forgot for a time every thing but Adeline. La Luc who had seated himself at the soot of the bed, seemed unconscious of what passed a- round him, and entirely absorbed in his own grief; but Clara, as she elapsed the. hand of her brother, and hung weeping on his arm, expressed aloud all I 253 ] all the anguish of her heart, and at length recalled the attention of Ade- line, who in a voice scarecly audible entreated she would spare her father. Her words roused Theodore, and sup- porting Adeline to a chair, he turned to La Luc. "My dear child!" said La Luc, grasping his hand and bursting into tears, " My dear child!" They wept together. After a long interval of silence, he said, " I thought I could "have supported this hour, but I am "old and feeble. God knows my ef- "forts for resignation, my faith in his "goodness!" Theodore, by a strong and sudden ex- ertion, assumed a composed and firm countenance, and endeavoured by every gentle argument to sooth and comfort his weeping friends. La Luc at length seem- ed to conquer his sufferings; drying his eyes, he said, " My son, I ought to "have set you a better example, and "practised the precepts of fortitude I "have I .254 J "have so often given you. But it is "over} I know, and will perform,^rby "duty." .. Adeline' breathed a'hfcavy sigh, and continued to weep. "6e "comforted, my love, we part bupipr "a time," said Theodore, as hVlussed the tears from her cheek; and uniting her hand with that of his father's, he earnestly recommended her to his pro- tection, "Receive her," added he, "as the most precious legacy I can be- "queath; consider her as your child. • "She will console you when I am gone, "she will more than supply the loss of "your son." La Luc assured him that he did now, and mould continue to, regard Adeline as his daughter. During those afflicting hours he endeavoured to dissipate the terrors of approaching death, by inspir- ing- his son with religious confidence. His conversation was pious, rational, and consolatory: he spoke not from the cold dictates of the head, but from the feel- 'V ings C 3*5 '] ings of a heart which had long lo^edf'atid r practised the pure precepts of Christiani- ty, and which how drew from them a comfort such as nothing earthly could bestow. "You are young, my son," said he, **and are yet innocent of any great .crime; you may therefore look on "death without terror, for to the guilty "only is its approach dreadful. I feel "that I shall not long survive you, and "I trust in a merciful God that we shall "meet in a state where sorrow never comes where the Son of Righteous- "ness frail rife with healing in his "wing!" As he spoke he looked up; the tears still trembled in his eyes, which beamed with meek yet fervent devotion, and his countenance glowed with the dignity of a superior being. "Let us not neglect these awful mo- ** ments," said La Luc, rising, " let "our united prayers ascend to Him who "alone can comfort and support us!" They [ aS6 i They all knelt down, and he grayed with that simple and sublime eloquence '» which true piety inspires. When he rose he embraced his' children separate1 ly, and when he came to Theodore he paused, gazed upon him with an earn- est, mournful expression, and was for tome" time unable to speak. Theodore could not bear this; he drew his hand before his eyes, and vainly endeavoured to stifle the deep fobs which convulsed his frame. At length recovering his voice, he entreated his father would leave him. "This misery is too much "for us all," said he, ** let us not pro- long it. The time is now drawing "on leave me to compose myself. "* The sharpness of death consists 1st '""parting with those who are dear to "us; when that is passed, death is dis- "armed." "I will not leave you, my son," re- plied La Luc, " My poor girls shall go, 'l but for me/1 will be with you in your "last [ 257 ] "last moments." Theodore felt that this would be too much for them both, and urged every argument which reason could suggest to prevail with his father to re- linquish his design. But he remained firm in' his determination. cc I will "not suffer a selfish consideration of the „ "pain I may endure," said La Luc, tr to tempt me to desert my child when "he will most require my support. It is "my duty to attend you, aud nothing "shall withhold me." '» Theodore seized on the words of La Luc—" As you would that I should be "supported in my last hour," said he, "I entreat that you will not be witness ,c of it. Your presence, my dear fa- "ther, would subdue all my fortitude— "would destroy what little composure I "may otherwise be able to attain. Add "not to my sufferings the view of your "distress, but leave me to forget, if "possible, the dear parent I must quit "for ever." His tears flowed' anew. La E 258 ] La L.uc continued to gaze on him in silent agony; at length he said, " Well, "be it so. Is indeed my presence would "distress you, I will not go." His voice was broken and interrupted. Af- ter a pause of some moments he again embraced Theodore—" We must part," said he, "we must part, byt it is only "for a time—we shall soon be re-united "in a higher world! O God! thou "seest my heart—thou seest all its feel- "ings in this bitter hour !"—Grief again overcame him. He pressed Theodore in his arms; and, at length, seeming to summon all his fortitude, he again said, "We must part—Oh! my son, farewell "for ever in this world!—The mercy of Almighty God support and bless you!" He turned away to leave the prison, but, quite worn out with grief, sunk into a chair near the door he would have opened. Theodore gazed, with a dis- tracted countenance, alternately on his father, on Clara, and oa Adeline, whom he [ 259 3 he pressed to his throbbing heart, and their tears flowed together. "And do "I then," cried he, "for the last time "look upon that countenance!—Shall ,c 1 never—never more behold it ?*w "O! exquisite misery! Yet. once again "—once more," continued he, pressing her cheek, but it was insensible and cold as marble. Louis, who had left the room soon after La Luc arrived, that his presence might not interrupt their farewel grief, now returned. Adeline railed her head, and perceiving who entered, it again sunk on the bosom of Theodore. . . Louis appeared much agitated. La Luc arose. "We must go," said he: "Adeline, my love, exert yourself— "Clara—my children, let us depart. "— Yet one last —last embrace, and "then!" Louis advanced and took his hand; "My dear Sir, I have some- "thing to fay; yet I fear to tell it."— What do you mean?" said La Luc, with i 260 ] with quickness: "No new misfortune "can have power 'to afflict me at this "moment. Do not fear to speak."— "I rejoice that I cannot put you to the "proof/' replied Louis; "I have seen "you sustain the most trying affliction "with fortitude. Can you support the "transports of hope ?"—La Luc gazed eagerly on Louis—" Speak !J' said he, in a faint voice. Adeline raised her head, and, trembiing between hope and fear; looked at Louis as if she would have searched his soul.'1 He smiled cheerfully upon her. ,c Is it—O! is it possible 1" she exclaimed, suddenly re-animated— "He lives! He lives j"i-She said no more, but' ran to La Luc, who sunk in his chair, 'while' Theodore and Clara with ohe voice called on Louis to relieve them from the tortures of sus- pence. He proceeded to inform them that he had obtained from the commanding of- ficer a respite for Theodore till the king's farther [ stff ] farther pleasure could be known, and this in consequence of a letter received that morning from his mother, Madame De la Motte, in which she mentioned some very extraordinary circumstances that had appeared in the course of a trial lately conducted at Paris, and which so materially affected the character of the Marquis de Montalt as to render it pos- sible a pardon might be obtained for Theodore. These words darted with the rapidity of lightning upon the hearts of his, hearers. La Luc revived, and that pri- son, so lately the scene of despair, now echoed only to the voices of gratitude and gladness. La Luc, raising his clasp- ed hands to Heaven, said, " Great God! V support me in this moment as thou "hast already supported me !—If my "soon lives, I die in peace." He embraced Theodore, and remem- bering the anguish of his last embrace, tears of thankfulness and joy flowed to the the contrast. So powerful indeed was the esfect: of this temporary reprieve, and of the hope it introduced, that if an absolute pardon had been obtained, it could scarcely for the moment have disfused a more lively joy. But when the first emotions were subsided, the un- certainty of Theodore's fate once more appeared. Adeline forbore to express her fense of this, but Clara without scruple la- mented the possibility that her brother might yet be taken from them, and all their joy be turned to sorrow. A look from Adeline checked her. Joy was, however, so much the predominant feeling os the present moment, that the shade which reflection threw upon their hopes passed away like the cloud that is dispelled by the strength of the sun-beam; and Louis alone was pensive and abstracted. When they were sufficiently composed, he informed them that the contents of Madame de la Motte's letter obliged him to set out for Paris immediately; and C 263 ) and that the intelligence he had to com- municate intimately concerned Adeline, who would undoubtedly judge it neces- sary to go thither also as soon as her health would permit. He then read to his impatient auditors such passages in the letter as were necessary to explain his meaning; but as Madame de la Motte had omitted to mention some circum- stances of importance to be understood, the following is a relation of the occur- rences that had lately happened at Paris. It may be remembered, that on the first day of his trial, La Motte, in pas- sing from the courts to his prison, saw a person whose features, though imperfect- ly seen through the dulk, he thought he recollected; and that this fame person, after inquiring the name of La Motte, desired to be admitted to him. On the following day the warder complied with his request, and the surprize of La Motte may be imagined when, in the stronger light os his apartment, he distinguished 1 [ rf4 3 the countenace of the man from whose hands he had formerly received Ade- line. On observing Madame De la Matte in the room, he said he had something of consequence to impart, and desired to be left alone with the prisoner. When she was gone, he told De la Motte that he understood he was confined at the suit of the Marquis de Montalt. La Motte assented.—" I know him for a "villain," said the stranger boldly.— "Your case is desperate. Do you wish "for life i" "Need the question be asked!" "Your trial, I understand, proceeds "to-morrow. I am now under con- "finement in this place for debt; but "if you can obtain leave for me to go "with you into the courts, and a con- "dition from the judge that what I rc- "veal shall not criminate myself, I will "make discoveries that shall confound "that same Marquis; I will prove him "avil- [ *65 3 "a villain; and it shall then be judged "how far his word ought to be taken "against you." La Motte, whose interest was now strongly excited, desired he would ex- plain himself; and the man proceeded to relate a long history of the misfor- tunes and consequent poverty which had tempted him to become subservient to the schemes of the Marquis, till he sud- denly checked himself, and said, " When "I obtain from the court the promise I "require, I will explain myself fully; "till then I cannot say more on the "subject." La Motte could not forbear expressing a doubt of his sincerity, and a curiosity concerning the motive that had induced him to become the Marquis's accuser.— "As to my motive, it is a very natural "one," replied the man; " it is no "easy matter to receive ill usage with- "out resenting it, particularly from a Vol. III. N "villain I 166 3 villain whom you have served."—r.La Motte, for his own sake, endeavoured to check the vehemence with which this was uttered. "I care not who hears ** me," continued the stranger, but at the fame time he lowered his voice; ** I repeat it the Marquis has used "me ill 1 have kept his secret long ** enough. He does not think it worth "while to secure my silence, or he *• would relieve my necessities. I am "in prison for debt, and have applied to him for relief ± since he does not ** chuse to give it, let him take the con- sequence. I warrant he shall soon re- «, pent that he has provoked me, and *tis "sit he should.'* The doubts of La Motte were now dissipated; the prospect of life again opened upon him, and he assured Du Basse (which was the stranger's name), with much warmth, that he would com- mission his Advocate to do all in his power [ *7 •] power to obtain leave for his appearance on the trial, and to procure the necessary -condition. After some farther conver- 'fa lion they parted* '*'> Z'-- 'J iT5i-'! 1 •' > ; ':} j. :irp'.» •:1 :i" 73V--; ti;»>i -v/* I •> .:jicw >i >[•'.•:• : •_'>• ••'••; •' !, •• r1.i lo /r:'-1;-; v.-. :. .• •' • • K i. * ;. . .. . . . 3.• '* * - • * • * • \ ^ ** »• ,. ** ,,; ,' ...I, ... . , !... . N a • ... CHAP- [ a68 ] CHAPTER XXI. "Drag forth the legal monster into light, V Wrench from his hand Oppression's iron rod, "And bid the cruel feel the pains they give." • jfV 8 u Cf LEAVE was at length granted for the appearance of Du Bosse, with a promise that his words should not criminate him, and he accompanied La Motte into court. The confusion of the Marquis de Montalt on perceiving this man was ob- served by many persons present, and particularly by La Motte, who drew from this circumstance a favourable pre- sage for himself. When Du Bosse was called upon, he informed the court, that on the night of the [ «9 3 the twenty-first of April, in the preced- ing year, one Jean d'Aunoy, a man he had kno'wn many years, came to his lodging. After they had discoursed for some time on their circumstances, d'Au- noy said he knew a way by which Du Bosse might change all his poverty to riches, but that he would not fay more till he was certain he would be willing to follow it. The distressed state in which Du Bosse then was made him anxious to learn the means which would bring him relief; he eagerly inquired what his friend meant, and after some time d'Aunoy explained himself. He said he was em- ployed by a nobleman (whom he after- wards told Du Bosse was the Marquis de Montalt), to carry off a young girl from a convent, and that she was to be taken to a house a few leagues distant from Paris. "I knew the house he described "well," said Du Bosse, " for I had been "there many times with d'Aunoy, who "lived there to avoid his creditors, N 3 "though [ 270 ] / "-though he often passed his nights at "Pans." He-would not tell me more of the scheme, but said he should want assistants, and if land my brother, who is since dead, would join him, his em- ployer would grudge no money, and we should be well rewarded. I desired him again t© tell me more of the plan, but he was obstinate, and after I had told him I would consider of what he said, and speak to my brother, he went away. "When he called the next night for "his answer, my brother and I agreed *c to engage, and accordingly we went "home with him.. He then told us that c* the young lady he was to bring thither "was a natural daughter of the Marquis "de Montalt, and of a nun belonging '* to a convent of Ursalines: that his "wife had received the child immedi- "ately on its birth, and had been al- "lowed a handsome annuity to bring it "up as her own,- which she had done "tiil her death. The child was then w placed I «7* I u placed in a convent and designed for "the veil; but. when (he was of an "age to receive the vows,. £be had stea-> "dily persisted in refusing them. This "circumstance had so much exasperated u the Marquis, that in his rage he or- dered, that if she persisted in her ob- **stinacy stie slvould be removed from "the convent, and got rid of any way, "since if she lived in the world her "birth might be discovered, and in "consequence of this* her mother, for w whom he had yet a regard, would "be condemned to expiate her crime *♦ by a temble death," Du Bosse was interrupted in his nar- rative by the council of the Marquis, who contended that the circumstances alledged tending to criminate his client, the proceeding was both irrelevant and illegal.. He was answered that it was not irrelevant, and therefoie not illegal, for that the circumstances which threw light upon the character of the Marquis, N 4 as- [ £73 ] soften the heart of d'Aunoy towards the Marquis's daughter, and that they pre- vailed with him to write again and plead for her. D'Aunoy went to Paris, to await the answer, leaving them and the ycung girl at the house on the heath, where the former had consented to re- main, seemingly for the purpose os exe- cuting the orders they might receive, but really with a design to save the de- voted victim from the sacrifice. It is probable that Du Bosse, in this instance, gave a false account of his mo- tive, since if he was really guilty of an in- tention so atrocious as that of murder, he would naturally endeavour to conceal it. However this might be, he affirmed that on the night of the twenty-sixth of April, he received an order from d'Aunoy for the destruction of the girl whom he had afterwards delivered into the hands of La Motte. La Motte listened to this relation in astonishment i when he knew that Adeline N 5 was was the daughter of the Marquis, and remembered the crime to which he had once devoted Her, his frame thrilled with horror. He now took up the story, and added an account of what had passed at the Abbey between the Marquis and himself concerning a design of the for- mer upon the life of Adeline; urgingj as a proof of the present prosecution 6$'t~- ginating in malice, that it had com- menced immediately after he had- effec- ted her escape from the Marquis. He concluded, however, with faying, that as the Marquis had immediately sent his people in pursuit of her, it was possible she might yet have fallen a victim to his vengeance.' - Here the Marquis-'s council again in- terfered, and their objections were again over-ruled by the court. The uncommon degree of emotion which his countenance betrayed during the narrations of Du- Boffe- and-De la Motte, was generally -observed. The court suspended the sen- tence t m I tenoe of the latter,. ordered that ' the Marquis should be put 'under immediate arrest, and that Adeline (the name given by her foster mother) and .Jean d'Aunoy fliould be sought for- . . -.' '. ".: The Marquis was accordingly seized at the-st^u of the crown, and put under confinement till Adeline should appear,. or proof eouJd be obtained that Ihe died by his order, and till d'Aunoy should confirm or destroy the evidence of De la Motte. Madame, who at length obtained in- telligence of her son's residence from the town where he was formerly stationed, had acquainted him with his father's situation, and the procedings of the trial; and as she believed that Adeline, if (he had been so fortunate as to escape the Mar- quis's pursuit, was still in Savoy, Ihe de- sired Louis would obtain leave of absence, and bring her to Paris, where her imme- diate presence was requisite to fubstan- N 6 ;. tiate [ *76 ] tiate the evidence, and probably to save the life of La Motte. On the receipt of her letter, which happened on the morning appointed for the execution of Theodore, Louis went immediately to the commanding officer to petition for a respite till the king's fur- ther pleasure should be known. He founded his plea on the arrest of the Marquis, and shewed the letter he had just received. The commanding osficer readily granted a reprieve, and Louis, who, on the arrival of this letter, had forborne to communicate its contents to Theodore, lest it should torture him with false hope, now hastened to him with this comfortable news. CHAPTER » C *7* 1 before her, prepared to perform a. rapid journey of some hundred miles. '.' Theodore tenderly intreated that she would Ib far consider her health as to-1 delay this journey for a few days; but with a smile of enchanting tenderness she assured him, that she was now too happy to be ill, and that the same cause which would confirm her happiness would ccm>>' firm her health. So strong was the effect: of hope upon her mind now, that it suc- ceeded to the misery of despair, that it overcame the shock she suffered on be- lieving herself a daughter of the Mar- quis, and every other painful reflection. She did not even soresee the obstacle that circumstance might produce to her union with Theodore, should he at last be per- mitted tc»live. It was settled that she should set off sou Paris in a few hours with Louis, and at- tended by Peter. These hours were passed by La Luc and his somily in th# prison. --': .' .. '.. :.... \../«'. i '' Whea I w 3 When the time of her departure ar- rived the spirits of Adeline agaia for-, fbok her, and the illusions of joy disap- peared. She no longer beheld Theodore as one respited from death, but took leave of him with a mournful pre-senti- ment that she should see him no more. So strongly was this presage impressed upon her mind, that it was long before she could summons resolution to bid him farewel; and when she had done so, and even left the apartment, she returned to take of him a last look. As she waa once more quitting the room, her me- lancholy imagination represented Theo-. dore at the place of execution, pale and convulsed in death she again turned her lingering eyes upon him; but fancy af- fected her sense, for she thought as she now gazed that his countenance changed, and assumed a ghastly hue. All her reso- ld ion vanished, and such was the anguish of hei heart, that she resolved to defer her journey till to morrow, though she .must [ 28o ] must by this means lose the protection os Louis, whose impatience to meet his fa- ther would not susfer the delay. The triumph of passion, however, was tran- sient; soothed by the indulgence she promised herself, her grief subsided, rea- son resumed its influence; she again saw the necessity of her immediate departure, and recollected sufficient resolution to submit. La Luc would have accompa- nied her for the purpose of again soli- citing the King in behalf of his son, had not the extreme weakness and lassitude to which he was. reduced made travelling impracticable. At length, Adeline, with a heavy heart, quitted Theodore, notwithstand- ing his intreaties, that she would not un- dertake the journey in her present weak state, and was accompanied by Clara and La Luc to the inn. The former parted from her friend with many tears, and much anxiety for her welfare, but. under a hope of soon meeting again . Should [ I to gaze upon it till an abrupt turning in the street concealed it from her view. She then sunk back in the carriage, and yielding to the melancholy of her hearts wept in silence. Louis was not disposed to interrupt it; his thoughts were anxi- ously employed on his father's situation, and the travellers proceeded many miles, widiout exchanging a word. ?,r* At Paris, whither we shall now return, the search after Jean d'Aunoy was pro- secuted without success. The house on the heath, described by Du Bosse, was found uninhabited, and to the places of> his usual resort in the city, where the officers of the police awaited him, he no longer came. It even appeared doubtful whether he was living, for he had absented himself from the houses of his customary rendezvous some time be- fore the trial of La Motte; it was there- fore certain that his absence was not oc- casioned by any thing which had passed in the courts* C 283 ] In the solitude of his confinement the Marquis de Montalt had leisure to reflect; on the pasty and to repent of his crimes •, but reflection and repentance formed as yet no part of his disposition. He turned •with impatience from recollections which produced only pain, and looked forward to the future with an endeavour to avert the disgrace and punishment which he saw impending. The elegance of his manners had so effectually veiled the depravity of his heart, that he was a fa? vourite with his sovereign; and on this circumstance he rested his hope of secur rity. He, however, severely repented that he had indulged the hasty spirit of revenge which had urged him to the pro- secution of La Motte, and had thus un- expectedly involved him in a situation dangerous—if not fatal—since if Adeline could not be found he would be con- cluded guilty of her death. But the appearance of d.'Aunoy was the circum- stance he most: dreaded i and to oppose the [ *84 ] the possibility of this, he employed se- cret emissaries to discover his retreat, and to bribe him to his interest. These were, however, as unsuccessful in their research as the officers of police, and the Marquis at length began to hope the man was really dead. La Motte mean while awaited with trembling impatience the arrival of his son, when he should be relieved,- in some degree, from his uncertainty con- cerning Adeline. On his appearance he rested his only hope of life, since the evi- dence against him would lose much of its validity from the confirmation she would give of the bad character of his prosecu- tor; and if the Parliament even con- demned la Motte, the clemency of the King might yet operate in his favour. Adeline arrived at Paris after a jour- ney of several days, during which she was chiefly supported by the delicate at- tention of Louis, whom fne pitied and esteemed, though Ihe could not love. - - Sh« Madame there gave her a dreum'stah- tial account of La MotteY situation, and concluded with faying, tMt as the sen- tence of her husband had been suspended till some certainty could be obtained concerning the late criminal designs of the Marquis, and Adeline could con- firm the chief part of La Mortens testi- mony, it was probable that now she was arrived the court would proceed imme- diately. She now learnt the full extent of her obligation to La Motte; for she was till now ignorant that when he sent her from the forest he saved Kerrfrorn death. Her horror os the Marquis, whom she could not bear to consider as her fa- ther, and her gratitude to her deliverer redoubled, and she became impatient tb give the testimony so necessary- to: thfe hopes of her preserver. Madame then said, she believed it was not too late to :gain admittance that night to the' Chats- let; and as she knew how anxiously her husband wished to see Adeline, she en- treated I 287 ] treated her consent to go thither. Ade- line, though much harassed and fatigued, complied. When Louis returned from M. Nemour's, his father's advocate, whom he had hastened to inform of her arrival, they all set out for the Chatelet. The view of the prison into which they were now admitted so forcibly recalled to Ade'ine's mind the situation of The- odore, that she with difficulty sup- ported herself to the apartment of La Motte. When he saw her a gleam of joy passed over his countenance; but again relapsing into despondency, he looked mournfully at her, and then at Louis, and groaned deeply. Adeline, in whom all remembrance of his former cruelty was lost in his subsequent kind- ness, expressed her thankfulness for the life he had preserved, and her anxiety to serve him, in warm and repeated terms. But her gratitude evidently distressed him; instead of reconciling him to him- self, it seemed to awaken a remembrance [ 288 ] os the guilty designs he had once assisted, and to strike the fangs of conscience deeper in his heart. Endeavouring to conceal his emotions, he entered on the subject of his present danger, and in- formed Adeline what testimony would be required of her on the trial. Aster above an hour's conversation with La Motte, she returned to the lodgings of Madame, where, lanquid and ill, she withdrew to her chamber, and tried to obliviate her anxieties in steep. The Parliament which conducted the trial re-assembled in a few days after the arrival of Adeline, and the two remain- ing witnesses of the Marquis, on whom he now rested his cause against La Motte, appeared. She was led trem- bling into the court, where almost the first object that met her eyes was the Marquis de Montalt, whom she now beheld with an emotion entirely new to her, and which was strongly tinctured with horror. When Du Bosse saw her he immediately swore [ 1 swore to her identity; his testimony was confirmed by her manner; for on per- ceiving him she grew pale, and a uni- versal tremor seized her. Jean d'Au- noy could no where be found, and La Motte was thus deprived of an evidence which essentially affected his interest. Adeline, when called upon, gave her little narrative with clearness and preci- sion; and Peter, who had conveyed her from the Abbey, supported the testimony she offered. The evidence produced was sufficient to criminate the Marquis of the intention of murder, in the minds of most people present; but it was not sufficient to affect the testimony of his two last wit- nesses, who possitively swore to the com- mission of the robbery, and to the person of La Motte, on whom sentence of death was accordingly pronounced. On re- ceiving this sentence the unhappy crimi- nal fainted, and the compassion of the assembly, whose feelings had been un- Vol.III. O usually I 290 3 usually interested in the decision, was expressed in a general groan. * Their attention was quickly called to a new object—k was Jeand'Aunoy who now entered the court. But his evi- dence, if it could ever, indeed, have been the means of saving La Motte, came too late. He was re-conducted to prison; but Adeline, who, extremely Ihocked by his sentence, was much in- disposed, received orders to remain in the court during the examination of 'd'Aunoy, This man had been at length found in the prison of a provincial town, where some of his creditors had thrown him, and from which even the money which the Marquis had remitted to him for the purpose of satisfying the craving importunities of Du Bosse, had been in- sufficient to release him. Meanwhile the revenge of the latter had been roused against the Marquis by an imaginary neglect, and the money which was de- signed [ *9* ] signed to relieve his necessities was spent by d'Aunoy in riotous luxury. He was confronted with Adeline and with Du Bosse, and ordered to confess all he knew concerning this mysterious affair, or to undergo the torture. D'Aunoy, who was ignorant how far the suspicions concerning the Marquis extended, and who was conscious that his own words might condemn him, remained for some time obstinately silent.; but when the question was administered his resolution gave way, and he confessed a crime of which he had not even been suspected. It appeared that, in the year 1642, d'Aunoy, together with one Jacques Martigny, and Francis Balliere, had way- laid, and seized, Henry Marquis de Montalt, half brother to Phillipe; and after having robbed him, and bound his servant to a tree, according to the orders they had received, they conveyed him to the Abbey of St. Clair, in the distant forest of Fontanville. Here he was O 2 confined E 292 ] confined for some time till farther direc- tions were received from Phillipe de Montalt, the present Marquis, who was then on his estatesin a northern province of France. These orders were for death, and the unfortunate Henry was assassi- nated in his chamber in the third week of his confinement at the Abbey. On hearing this Adeline grew faint; stie remembered the MS. she had found, together with the extraordinary circum- stances that had attended the discovery; every nerve thrilled with horror, and raising her eyes she saw the countenance of the Marquis overspread with the livid paleness of guilt. She endeavoured, how- ever, to arrest her fleeting spirits while the man proceeded in his confession. 'When the murder was perpetrated d'Aunoy had returned to his employer, who gave him the reward agreed upon, and in a few months after delivered into his hands the infant daughter of the late Marquis, whom he conveyed to a dis- tant C 293 ] tant part of the kingdom, where, assum- ing the name of St Pierre, he brought her up as his own child, receiving from the present Marquis a considerable an- nuity for his secrecy. Adeline, no longer able to struggle with the tumult of emotions that now rushed upon her heart, uttered a deep sigh and fainted away. She was carried from the court, and, when the confu- sion occasioned by this circumstance sub- sided, Jean d'Aunoy went on. He re- lated, that on the death of his wife, Ade- line was placed in a convent, from whence she was afterwards removed to another, where the Marquis had destined her to receive the vows. That her determined rejection of them had occasioned him to resolve upon her death, and that she had accordingly been removed to the house on the heath. D Aunoy added, that by the Marquis's order he had mifled Du Bosse with a false story of her birth. Having after some time discovered that O 3 his [ 294 ] his comrades had deceived him con- cerning her death, d'Aunoy separated from them in enmity; but they unani- mously determined to conceal her escape from the Marquis, that they might enjoy the recompenee of their supposed crime. Some months subsequent to this period, however, d'Aunoy received a letter from the Marquis, charging him with the truth, and promising him a large reward if he would confess where he had placed Adeline. In consequence of this letter he acknowledged that she had been given into the hands of a stranger; but who he was, or where he lived, was not known. Upon these depositions Phillipe de Montalt was committed to take his trial for the murder of Henry, his brother; d'Aunoy was thrown into a dungeon of the Chatelet, and Du Bosle was bound to appear as evidence. The feelings of the Marquis, who, in a prosecution stimulated by revenge, had [ 295 J had thus unexpectedly exposed his crimes to the public eye, and betrayed himself to justice, can only be imagined. The passions which had tempted him to the commission of a crime so horrid as that of murder—and what, if possible, height- ened its atrocity, the murder of one connected with him by the ties of blood,, and by habits of even infantine associ- ation—the passions which had stimulated him to so monstrous a deed were ambi- tion, and the love of pleasure. The first was more immediately gratified by the title of his brother; the latter by the riches which would enable him to in- dulge his voluptuous inclinations. The late Marquis de Montalt, the fa- ther of Adeline, received from his an- cestors a patrimony very inadequte to support the splendour of his rank; but he had married the heiress of an illus- trious family, whose fortune amply sup- plied the deficiency of his own. He had the misfortune to lose her, for she was O + amiable [ a96 ] amiable and beautiful, soon aster the birth of a daughter, and it was then that the present Marquis formed the diabo- lical design of destroying his brother. The contrast of their characters pre- vented that cordial regard between them which their near relationship seemed to demand. Henry was benevolent, mild, and contemplative. In his heart reigned the love of virtue; in his manners the strictness of justness was tempered, not weakened, by mercy; his mind was en- larged by science, and adorned by ele- gant literature. The character of Phil- lipe has been already delineated in his actions; its nicer shades were blended with some shining tints; but these served only to render more striking by contrast the general darkness of the portrait. He had married a lady, who, by the death of her brother, inherited con- siderable estates, of which the Abbey of St, Clair, and the villa on the borders of the C 297 3 the forest of Fontanville, were the chief. His passion for magnificence and dissipa- tion, however, soon involved him in dif- ficulties, and pointed out to him the conveniency of possessing his brother's wealth. His brother and his infant daughter only stood between him and his wishes; how he removed the father has been already related: why he did not employ the fame means to secure the child, seems somewhat surprising, un- less we admit that a destiny hung over him on this occasion, and that she was suffered to live as an instrument to punish the murderer of her parent. When a retrospect is taken of the vicissitudes and dangers to which she had been exposed from her earliest infancy, it appears as if her preservation was the effect of some- what more than human policy, and af- fords a striking instance that Justice, however long delayed, will overtake the guilty. O S While [ 49« 3 While the late unhappy Marquis wa» susfering at the Abbey, his brother, who, to avoid suspicion, remained in the north of France, delayed the execution of his horrid purpose from a timidity natural to a mind not yet inured to enormous guilt. Before he dared to. deliver his final orders, he waited to know whether the story he contrived to propagate of his brother's death would veil his crime from suspicion. It succeeded but too well; for the servant, whose life had been spared that he might relate the tale, naturally enough concluded that his Lord had beea murdered by banditti; and the peasant, who a few hours after found the servant wounded,. bleeding, and bound to a tree, and knew also that this spot was infested by robbers, as na- turally believed him, and spread the re- port accordingly. „. . From this period the Marquis, to 'wh©m the Abbey of St. Clair belonged t 299 ] 'in right of his wife, visited it only twice* and that at distant times, till after an inr. terval of several years he accidentally found La Motte its inhabitant. He re- sided at Paris, and on his estate in the north, except that once a year he usually passed a month at his delightful villa on the borders of the forest. In the busy scenes of the Court, and in the dissipa- tions of pleasure, he tried to lose the re- membrance of his guilt; but there were times when the voice of conscience would be heard, though it was soon again lost in the tumult of the workL It isprobabie, that on the night of his. abrupt departure from the Abbey, the solitary silence and gloom of the hour, in a place which had been the scene of his former crime, called up the remembrance of his brother with a force too powerful for fancy, and awakened horrors which. compelled him to quit the polluted spot. If it was so, .it is however certain that the spectres of conscience vanished with the O 6 dark- [ 3°o ] darkness; for on the following day he returned to the Abbey, though it may be observed, he never attempted to pass another night there. But though terror was roused for a transient mo- ment, neither pity or repentance suc- ceeded, since when the discovery of Adeline's birth excited apprehension for his own life, he did not hesitate to repeat the crime, and would again have stained his foul with human blood. This disco- very was effected by means of a seal, bearing the arms of her mother's family, which was impressed on the note his servant had found, and had delivered to him at Caux. It may be remem- bered, that having read this note, he was throwing it from him in the fury of jea- lousy; but that after examining it again, it was carefully deposited in his pocket- book. The violent agitation which a suspicion of this terrible truth occasioned, deprived him for a while of all power to act. When he was well enough to write he [ 3°i ] he dispatched a letter to d'Aunoy, the purport of which has been already men- tioned. From d'Aunoy he received the confirmation of his fears. Knowing that his life must pay the forfeiture of his crime, should Adeline ever obtain a knowledge of her birth, and not daring again to confide in the secrecy of a man who had once deceived him, he resolved, after some deliberation, on her death. He immediately set out for the Abbey, and gave those directions concerning her, which terror for his own safety, still more than a desire of retaining her estates, sug- gested. , As the history of the seal which re- vealed the birth of Adeline is rather re- markable, it may not be amiss to men- tion, that it was stolen from the Mar- quis, together with a gold watch, by Jean dAunoy: the watch was soon dis- posed of, but the seal had been kept as a pretty trinket by his wife, and at her death went with Adeline among her clothes [ 3oi ] clothes to the convent. Adeline had carefully preserved it, because it had once belonged to the woman whom she be- lieved to have been her mother. CHAPTER C 303 3 i. CHAPTER XXIII. ««While anxious doubt distracts the tortur'd heart." W E now return to the course of the narrative, and to Adeline, who was car- ried from the court to the lodging of Madame De la Motte. Madame was, however, at the Chatalet with her hus- band, suffering all the distress which the sentence pronounced against him might be supposed to inflict. The feeble frame of Adeline, so long harrassed by grief and fatigue, almost sunk under the agita- tion which the discovery of her birtl* excited. Her feelings on this occasion were too complex to be analysed. From an orphan, subsisting on the bounty of others, without family, with few friends, and t 305 ] On the return of Madame La Motte Adeline endeavonred, as usual, to sup- press her own emotions, that me might sooth the affliction of her friend. She related what had passed in the court af- ter the departure of La Motte, and thus caused, even in the sorrowful heart of Madame, a momentary gleam of satis- faction. Adeline determined to recover, if possible, the manuscript. On inquiry she learned that La Motte, in the con- fusion of his departure, had left it among other things at the Abbey. This cir- cumstance much distressed her, the more so because she believed its appearance might be of importance on the approach- ing trial: (he determined, however, if she should recover her rights, to have the manuscript sought for. In the evening Louis joined this mournful party: he came immediately from his father, whom he left more tran- quil than he had been since the fatal sen- tence was pronounced. After a silent [ 307 ] nesses could be collected. Among these were the Abbess of the Convent, who had received her from the hands of dAunoy; Madame La Motte, who was present when Du Bosse compelled her husband to receive Adeline; and Peter, who had not only been witness to this circumstance, but who had conveyed her from the Abbey that she might escape the designs of the Marquis. La Motte, and Theodore La Luc, were incapaci- tated by the sentence of the law from appearing on the trial. When La Motte was informed of the discovery of Adeline's birth, and that her father had been murdered at the Abbey of St. Clair, he instantly remembered, and mentioned to his wife, the skeleton he found in the stone room leading to the subterranean cells. Neither of them doubted, from the situation in which it lay, hid in a chest in an obscure room strongly guarded, that La Motte had seen the remains of the late Marquis. Madame [ 503 ] Madame, however, determined not to shock Adeline with the mention of this circumstance till it should be necessary to declare it on the trial. 'As the time of this trial drew near the distress and agitation of Adeline in- creased. Though justice demanded the life of the murderer, and though the tenderness and pity which the idea of her father called forth urged her to avenge his death, she could not, without horror, consider herself as the instrument of dispensing that justice which would deprive a fellow being of existence; and there were times when she wished the secret of her birth had never been re- vealed. If this sensibility was, in hef peculiar circumstances, a weakness, it was at least an amiable one, and as such deserves to be reverenced. The accounts she received from Va- ceau of the health of M. La Luc did not contribute to tranquillize her mind. The symptoms described by Clara seem- ed I 3<>9 ] ed to say that he was in the last stage of a consumption, and the grief of Theodore and herself on this occasion was express- ed in her letters with the lively eloquence so natural to her. Adeline loved and re- vered La Luc for his own worth, and for the parental tenderness he had shewn her, but he was still dearer to her as the father of Theodore, and her concern for his declining state was not inferior to that of his children. It was increased by the reflection that she had probably been the means of shortening his life, for she too well knew that the distress occa- sioned him by the situation in which it had been her misfortune to involve The • odore, had shattered his frame to its pre- sent infirmity. The same cause also with-held him from seeking in the cli- mate of Montpellier the relief he had formerly been taught to expect there. When she looked round on the con- dition of her friends, her heart was al- most overwhelmed with the prospects it [ 3io ] it seemed as if she was destined to involve all those most dear to her in calamity. With respect to La Motte, whatever were his vices, and whatever the designs in which he had formerly engaged against her, she forgot them all in the service he had finally rendered her, and considered it to be as much her duty, as she felt it to be her inclination, to intercede in his behalf. This, however, in her present situation, she could not do with any hope of success; but if the suit, upon which depended the re-establishment of her rank, her fortune, and consequently her influ- ence, should be decided in her favour, she determined to throw herself at the king's. feet, and, when she pleaded the cause of Theodore, ask the Use of La Motte. A few days preceding that of the trial Adeline was informed a stranger desired to speak with her, and on going to the room where he was she found M. Ver- nueil. Her countenance expressed both surprize t 3» J fiarprize and satisfaction at this unexpect- ed meeting, and she inquired, though with little expectation of an affirmative, if he had heard of M. La Luc. "I "have seen him," said M. Vernueil; "I am just come from Vaceau. But ** I am sorry I cannot give you a better "account of his health. He is greatly and *c I cannot deny myself the pleasure of • *c telling you that I am related, though "distantly, to the late Marchioness, your "mother, for that she was your mother, "I cannot doubt." Adeline rose hastily and advanced to- wards M. Verneuil; surprize and satis- faction re-animated her features. u Da I "indeed fee a.relation?" said she in a sweet and tremulous voice, "and one "whom I can welcome as a friend?" Tears trembled in her eyes; and she re- ceived M. Verneuil's embrace in silence. It was some time before her emotion would permit her to speak. To Adeline, who from her earliest in- fancy had been abandoned to strangers, a forlorn and helpless orphan; who had never [ 3*3 3 never till lately known a relation, and who then sound one in the person of an inveterate enemy, to her this discovery was as delightful as unexpected. But after struggling for some time with the various emotions that pressed upon her heart, she begged M. Verneuil's permis- sion to withdraw till she could recover composure. He would have taken leave, but she entreated him not to go. The interest which M. Verneuil took in the concerns of La Luc, which was strengthened by his increasing regard for Clara, had drawn him to Vaceau, where he was informed of the family and pecu- liar circumstances of Adeline. On re- ceiving this intelligence he immediately set out for Paris to offer his protection and assistance to his newly-discovered re- lation, and to aid, if possible, the cause of Theodore. Adeline in a short time returned, and could then bear to converse on the subject of her family. M. Verneuil offered her his Vol. III. P support [ 3*7 3 that he did not despair os finally obtain- ing a pardon. This hope, though but saintly express- ed, and written evidently for the purpose of consoling Adeline, did not entirely fail of the desired effect. She yielded to its enchanting influence, and forgot for a while the many subjects of care and anxiety which surrounded her. Theodore said little of his father's health; what he did fay was by no means so discouraging as the accounts of Clara, who, less anxious to conceal a truth that must give pain to Adeline, expressed, without reserve, all her apprehension and concern. P j CHAP. E 319 J as may be imagined, was crowded with persons of distinction, and the spectacle it presented was strikingly solemn, yet magnificent. 7When she appeared before the tribu- nal, Adeline's emotion surpassed all the- arts of disguise, but adding to the natu- ral dignity of her air an expression of soft timidity, and to her downcast eyes a sweet confusion, it rendered her an object still more interesting; and she attracted the universal pity and admira- tion of the assembly. When she ven- tured to raise her eyes, she perceived that the Marquis was not yet in the court, and while she awaited his appear- ance in trembling expectation, a confused murmuring rose in a distant part of the hall. Her spirits now almost forsook her; the certainty of seeing immedi- ately, and consciously, the murderer of her father chilled her with horror, and she was with difficulty preserved from fainting. Alow sound now run through P4 the [ 3^6 ] the court, and an air of confusion ap- peared, which was soon communicated to the tribunal itself. Several of the members arose, some lest the hall, the whole place exhibited a scene of disor- der, and a report at length reached Adeline that the Marquis de Montalt was dying. A considerable time elapsed in uncertainty; but the confusion conti- nued; the Marquis did not appear; and at Adeline's request M. Verneuil went in quest of more positive informa- tion. He followed a crowd which was hur- rying towards the Chatelet, and with 'some difficulty gained admittance into the prison; but the porter at the gate, whom he had bribed for a passport, 'could give him no certain information efn the subject of his enquiry, and not 'being at liberty to quit his post, fur- nished M. Verneuil with only a vague direction to the Marquis's apartment. The courts were silent and deserted, but t 323 3 former, the cause in which he had• risked his life, and the occasion of the late Marquis's enmity towards him, were circumstances so notorious, and so for- cible, that it is more than probable the monarch would have granted his pardon to a pleader less irresistable than was Adeline de Montalt. Theodore La Luc not only received an ample par- don, but in consideration of his gallant conduct: towards -Adeline, he was soon- after raised to a post of considerable, rank in the army. , For La Motte, who had been con- demned for the robbery on full evi- dence, and who had been also charged; with the crime which had formerly com- pelled him to quit Paris,, a pardon could not be obtained; but at the earnest sup- plication of Adeline, and in considera- tion of the service he had finally render- ed her, his sentence was softened from death to banishment.. This indulgence,, however, would have availed him little,, E6 had [ 324 ] had not the noble generosity of Adeline silenced other prosecutions that were preparing against him, and bestowed on him a sum more than sufficient to support his family in a foreign country. This kindness operated so powerfully upon his heart, which had been betray- ed through weakness rather than natural depravity, and awakened so keen a re- morse for the injuries he had once medi- tated against a benefactress so noble, that his former habits became odious to him, and his character gradually recovered the hue which it would probably always have worn had he never been exposed to the tempting dissipations of Paris. The passion which Louis had so long owned for Adeline was raised almost to adoration by her late conduct; but he now relinquished even the faint hope which he had hitherto almost uncon- sciously cherished, and, since the life which was granted to Theodore ren- dered this sacrifice necessary, he could not [ m ] not repine. He resolved, however, to seek in absence the tranquillity he had lost, and to place his future happiness on that of two persons so deservedly dear to him. On the eve of his departure La Motte and his family took a very affecting leave of Adeline; he left Paris for England, where it was his design to settle; and Louis, who was eager to fly from her enchantments, set out on the same day for his regiment. Adeline remained some time at Paris to settle her affairs, where she was intro- duced by M. V to the few and dis- tant relations that remained of her fa- mily. Among these were the Count and Countess D , and the Mon. Amand, who had so much engaged her pity and esteem at Nice. The lady, whose death he lamented, was of the family of de Montalt; and the resemblance which he had traced between her features and those of Adeline, her cousin, was something more [ ^26 ] more than the effect of fancy. The. death of his elder brother had abruptly. recalled him from Italy; but Adeline had the satisfaction to observe, that the heavy melancholy which formerly op- pressed him, had yielded to a sort of placid resignation, and that his counte- nance was often enlivened by a transient gleam of cheerfulness. The Count and Countess D' . ., who were much interested by her goodness and beauty, invited her to make their hotel her residence while she remained at Paris. Her first care was to have the remains of her parent removed from the Abbey of St. Clair, and deposited in the vault of his ancestors. D'Aunoy was tried, condemned, and hanged, for the murder. At the place of execution he had de- scribed the spot where the remains of the Marquis were concealed, which was in the stone room already mentioned, be- longing to the Abbey. M. V ac- compa- [ 3^7 1 companled the officers appointed for the search, and attended the ashes of the Marquis to St. Maur, an estate in one of the northern provinces. There they were deposited with the solemn funeral pomp becoming his rank: Adeline at- tended as chief mourner; and this last duty paid to the memory of her parent, she became more tranquil and resigned. The MS. that recorded his sufferings had been found at the Abbey, and de- livered to her by M. V , and she preserved it with the pious enthusiasm so» sacred a relique deserved. On her return to Paris, Theodore La Luc, who was come from Montpelier, awaited her arrival. The happiness of this meeting was clouded by the account he brought of his father, whose extreme danger had alone withheld him from hastening the moment he obtained his liberty to thank Adeline for the life she had preserved. She now received him as the friend to whom she was indebted for [ 329 ] ing the dulcet chords, accompanied it with the following words: SONG. The rose that weeps with morning dew, And glitters in the funny ray, In tears and smiles resembles you, When Love breaks Sorrow's cloud away. The dews that bend the blushing flow'r. Enrich the scent—renew the glow; So Love's sweet tears exalt his pow'r, So bliss more brightly mines by woe! Her affection for Theodore had in- duced Adeline to reject several suitors which her goodness, beauty, and wealth, had already attracted, and who, though infinitely his superiors in point of for- tune, were many of them inferior to him in family, and all of them in merit. The various and tumultuous emotions which the late events had called forth in the [ 33° 3 the bosom os Adeline were now sub- sided; but the memory of her father still tinctured her mind with a melan- choly that time only could subdue; and she refused to listen to the supplications of Theodore till the period she had pre- scribed for her mourning should be ex- pired. The necessity of rejoining his regiment obliged him to leave Paris. within the fortnight after his arrival; but he carried with him assurance of receiv- ing her hand soon after she should lay aside her sable habit, and departed there- fore with tolerable composure. M. La Luc's very precarious state was a source of incessant disquietude to Ade- line, and she determined to accompany M. V j who was now the declared lover of Clara, to Montpelier, whither La Luc had immediately gone on the liberation of his son. For this journey she was preparing when (he received from her friend a flattering account of his amendment and as some farther set- tlement. [ 332 ] tilities between France and Spain soon after permitted Theodore to join this happy party. When La Luc, thus re- stored to those most dear to him, looked back on the miseries he had escaped, and forward to the blessings that awaited him, his heart dilated with emotions of ex- quisite joy and gratitude; and his vene- rable countenance, softened by an ex- pression of complacent delight, exhibited a perfect picture of happy age. CHAP- [ 333 1 CHAPTER XXV. "Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: c' They would have thought who heard the strain, "They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids "Amidst the festal sounding (hades, "To some unweary'g minstrel dancing, "While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, "Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round." Ode to the Passions. ^DELINE, in the society of friends so beloved, lost the impression of that melancholy which the fate of her parent had occasioned; she recovered all her natural vivacity; and when she threw off the mourning habit which filial piety had required her to assume, she gave her hand to Theodore. The nuptials, which were celebrated at St. Maur, were graced by the presence of the Count and Countess I 33S 1 itrmch of the solitude of her life; and this was with her brother an additional motive for his speedy departure. The- odore and Adeline, who could not sup- port the thought of a separation, from this venerable parent, endeavoured to persuade him to give up his chateau, and to reside with them in France; but he was held by strong ties to Lelon- court. For many years he had consti- tuted the comfort and happiness of his parishioners; they revered and loved him as a father—he regarded them with an affection little short of parental. The attachment they discovered towards him on his departure was not forgotten either, it had made a deep impression on his mind, and he could not bear the thought of forsaking them now that Heaven had showered on him its abundance. "It is "sweet to live for them," said he, " and •" I will also die amongst them." A sen- timent of a still more tender nature,— (and let not the stoic prophane it with the t 336 ] the name of weakness, or the man of the world scorn it as unnatural)—a sentiment still more tender attracted him to Lelon- court,—the remains of his wife reposed there. Since La Luc would not reside in France, Theodore and Adeline, to whom the splendid gaieties that courted them at Paris were very inferior temptations to the sweet domestic pleasures and refined society which Leloncourt would afford, determined to accompany La Luc and Mon. and Madame Verneuil abroad. Adeline arranged her affairs so as to ren- der her residence in France unnecessary; and having bade an affectionate adieu to the Count and Countess D , and to M. Amand, who had recovered a tolera- ble degree of cheerfulness, she departed with her friends for Savoy. They travelled leisurely, and frequent- ly turned out of their way to view what- ever was worthy of observation. After a long and pleasant journey they came once [ 337 ] once more within view os the Swiss mountains, the fight of which revived a -thousand interesting recollections in the mind of Adeline. She remembered the circumstances and the sensations un- der which Ihe had first seen them—when , an orphan, flying from persecution to seek shelter among strangers, and lost to the only person on earth whom she loved —she remembered this, and the contrast of the present moment struck with all its force upon her heart. The countenance of Clara brightened into smiles of the most animated delight as she drew near the beloved scenes of her infant pleasures; and Theodore, often looking from the windows, caught with patriotic enthusiasm the magnificent and changing scenery which the receding mountains successively disclosed. It was evening when they approached within a few miles of Leloncourt, and the road, winding round the foot of a stu- pendous cragg, presented them a full Vol. III.' Q_ view [ 33* ] view of the lake, and of the peaceful dwelling of La Luc. An exclamation of joy from the whole party announced the discovery, and the glance of pleasure was reflected from every eye. The fun's last light gleamed upon the waters that re- posed in " chrystal purity" below, mel- lowed every feature of the landscape, and touched with purple splendour the clouds that rolled along the mountain tops. La Luc welcomed his family to his happy home, and sent up a silent thanks- giving that he was permitted thus to re- turn to it. Adeline continued to gaze upon each well known object, and again reflecting on the vicissitudes of grief and joy, and the surprising change of fortune, which she had experienced since last she saw them, her heart dilated with grati- tude and complacent delight. She look- ed at Theodore, whom in these very scenes she had lamented as lost to her for ever who, when found again, was about to [ 339 1 to be torn from her by an ignominious death., but who now fat by her side her secure and happy husband, the pride of his family and herself; and while the sensibility of her heart flowed in tears from her eyes, a smile of ineffable ten- derness told him all she fe't. He gently pressed her hand, and answered her with a look of love. Peter, who now rode up to the car- riage with a face full of joy and of im- portance, interrupted a course of senti- ment which was become almost too inte- resting. "Ah! my dear master!" cried he, "welcome home again. Here is "the village, God bless it! It is worth "a million such places as Paris. Thank "St. Jacques, we are all come safe back "again * This effusion of honest Peter's joy was received and answered with the kindness it deserved. As they drew near the lake music sounded over the water, and they presently saw a large party of the villa- Q^2 gers [ 340 ] gets assembled on a green spot that sloped to the very margin of the waves, and dancing in all their holiday finery. It was the evening of a festival. The elder peasants fat under the shade of the trees that crowned this iittle eminence, eating milk and fruits, and watching their sons and daughters frisk it away to the sprightly notes of the tabor and pipe, which was joined by the softer tones of a mandolin. The scene was highly interesting, and what added to its picturesque beauty was a groupe of catt'e that stood, some on the brink, some half in the water, and others reposing on the green bank, while several peasant girls, dressed in the neat simplicity of their country, were dispen- sing the milky feast. Peter now rode on first, and a crowd soon collected round him, who learning that their beloved master was at hand, went forth to meet and welcome him. Their warm and ho- nest expressions of joy diffused an exqui- site [ 342 ] "how they sparkle round that little pro- "montory on the left. The freshness "os the hour too invites to dancing." They all agreed to the proposal. "And let the good people who have "so heartily welcomed us home be call- "ed in too," said La Luc: "they shall "all partake our happiness. There is "devotion in making others happy, and ** gratitude ought to make us devour. "Peter, bring more wine, and set some "tables under the trees." Peter flew, and, while chairs and tables were plac- ing, Clara ran for her favourite lute, the lute which had formerly afforded her such delight, and which Adeline had often touched with a melancholy expres- sion. Clara's light hand now ran over the chords, and drew forth tones of ten- der sweetness, her voice accompanying the following AIR. [ 343 3 AIR. Now, at Moonlight's fairy hour, When faintly gleams each dewy steep, And vale and mountain, lake and bow'r, In solitary grandeur sleep; When slowly sinks the evening breeze, That lulls the mind in pensive care, And Fancy loftier visions fees, Bid Music wake the silent air. Bid the merry, merry tabor sound, And with the Fays of lawn or glade. In tripping circlet beat the ground Under the high trees' trembling shade. "Now, at Moonlight's fairy hour" Shall Music breathe her dulcet voice, And o'er the waves, with magic pow'r, Call on Echo to rejoice! Peter, who could not move in a sober step, had already spread refreshments under the trees, and in a short time the lawn was encircled with peasantry. The rural [ 345 ] ed out for a residence in the neighbour-, hood. At the distance of a sew leagues, on the beautiful banks of the lake of Ge- neva, where the waters retire into a small bay, he purchased a villa. The chateau was characterized by an air of simplicity and taste, rather than of magnificence, which, however, was the chief trait in the surrounding scene. The chateau was al- most encircled with woods, which form- ing a grand amphitheatre swept down to the water's edge, and abounded with wild and romantic walks. Here nature was suffered to sport in all her beautiful luxu- riance, except where here, and there, the hand of art formed the foliage to admit a view of the blue waters of the lake, with the white fail that glided by, or of the distant mountains. In front of the chateau the woods opened to a lawn, and the eye was suffered to wander over the lake, whose bosom presented an ever- moving picture, while its varied margin, sprinkled with villas, woods, and towns, and C 346 ] and crowned beyond with the snowy and sub'ime Alps, rising point behind point in awful confusion, exhibited a scenery of almost unequalled magnifi- cence. . Here, contemning the splendour of false happiness, and possessing the pure and rational delights of a love refined into the most tender friendship, fur- rounded by the friends so dear to them, and visited by a select and enlightened society—here, in the very bosom of fe- licity, lived Theodore and Adeline La Luc. The passion of Louis De la Motte yielded at length to the powers of absence and necessity. He still loved Adeline, but it was with the placid tenderness of friendship, and when at the earnest invi- tation of Theodore, he visited the villa, he beheld their happiness with a satisfac- tion unalloyed by any emotion of envy. He afterwards married a lady of some fortune at Geneva, and resigning his com- [ 347 ] commission in the French service, set- tled on the borders of the lake, and in- creased the social delights of Theodore and Adeline. Their former lives afforded an exam- ple of tria's well endured and their present, of virtues greatly rewarded; and this reward they continued to de- serve for not to themselves was their happiness contracted, but diffused to all who came within the sphere of their in- fluence. The indigent and unhappy rejoiced in their benevolence, the vir- tuous and enlightened in their friendship, and their children in parents whose ex- ample impressed upon their hearts the precepts offered to their understandings. FINIS. 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