[] THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST.

CHAPTER XI.

THE dawn of morning now trembled through the clouds, when the travellers ſtopped at a ſmall town to change horſes. Theodore entreated Adeline to alight and take ſome re⯑freſhment, and to this ſhe at length conſented. But the people of the inn were not yet up, and it was ſome time before the knocking and roar⯑ing of the poſtillion could rouſe them.

[4] Having taken ſome ſlight refreſhment, Theo⯑dore and Adeline returned to the carriage. The only ſubject upon which Theodore could have ſpoke with intereſt, delicacy forbade him at this time to notice; and after pointing out ſome beautiful ſcenery on the road, and making other efforts to ſupport a converſation, he relapſed into ſilence. His mind, though ſtill anxious, was now relieved from the apprehenſion that had long oppreſſed it. When he firſt ſaw Ade⯑line, her lovelineſs made a deep impreſſion on his heart: there was a ſentiment in her beauty, which his mind immediately acknowledged, and the effect of which, her manners and con⯑verſation had afterwards confirmed. Her charms appeared to him like thoſe ſince ſo finely deſ⯑cribed by an Engliſh poet:

A knowledge of her deſtitute condition, and of the dangers with which ſhe was environed, had awakened in his heart the tendereſt touch of pity, and aſſiſted the change of admiration into love. The diſtreſs he ſuffered, when com⯑pelled to leave her expoſed to theſe dangers, [5] without being able to warn her of them, can on⯑ly be imagined. During his reſidence with his regiment, his mind was the conſtant prey of ter⯑rors, which he ſaw no means of combating, but by returning to the neighbourhood of the abbey, where he might obtain early intelligence of the Marquis's ſchemes, and be ready to give his aſſiſtance to Adeline.

Leave of abſence he could not requeſt, with⯑out betraying his deſign where moſt he dreaded it ſhould be known, and, at length, with a gene⯑rous raſhneſs, which, though it defied law was impelled by virtue, he ſecretly quitted his regiment. The progreſs of the Marquis's plan he had obſerved, with trembling anxiety, till, the night that was to decide the fate of Adeline and himſelf rouſed all his mind to action, and involved him in a tumult of hope and fear—hor⯑ror and expectation.

Never, till the preſent hour, had he ventured to believe ſhe was in ſafety. Now the diſtance they had gained from the chateau, without per⯑ceiving any purſuit, increaſed his beſt hopes. It was impoſſible he could ſit by the ſide of his beloved Adeline, and receive aſſurances of her gra⯑titude and eſteem, without venturing to hope for her love. He congratulated himſelf as her preſer⯑ver, and anticipated ſcenes of happineſs when ſhe ſhould be under the protection of his family. The clouds of miſery and apprehenſion diſappear⯑ed from his mind, and left it to the ſunſhine of joy. [6] When a ſhadow of fear would ſometimes return, or when he recollected, with compunction, the circumſtances under which he had left his regi⯑ment, ſtationed, as it was, upon the frontiers, and in a time of war, he looked at Adeline, and her countenance, with inſtantaneous magic, beamed peace upon his heart.

But Adeline had a ſubject of anxiety from which Theodore was exempt; the proſpect of her future days was involved in darkneſs and uncertainty. Again ſhe was going to claim the bounty of ſtrangers—again going to en⯑counter the uncertainty of their kindneſs; ex⯑poſed to the hardſhips of dependance, or to the dif⯑ficulty of earning a precarious livelihood. Theſe anticipations obſcured the joy occaſ oned by her eſcape, and by the affection which the conduct and avowal of Theodore had exhibited. The delicacy of his behaviour, in forbearing to take advantage of her preſent ſituation to plead his love, increaſed her eſteem, and flattered her pride.

Adeline was loſt in meditation upon ſubjects like theſe, when the poſtillion ſtopped the car⯑riage; and pointing to part of a road, which wound down the ſide of a hill they had paſſed, ſaid there were ſeveral horſemen in purſuit! Theodore immediately ordered him to proceed with all poſſible ſpeed, and to ſtrike out of the great road into the firſt obſcure way that offered. The poſtillion cracked his whip in the air, and [7] ſet off as if he was flying for life. In the mean while Theodore endeavoured to re-animate Ade⯑line, who was ſinking with terror, and who now thought, if ſhe could only eſcape from the Marquis, ſhe could defy the future.

Preſently they ſtruck into a bye lane, ſcreened and overſhadowed by thick trees; Theodore again looked from the window, but the cloſing boughs prevented his ſeeing far enough to deter⯑mine whether the purſuit continued. For his ſake Adeline endeavoured to diſguiſe her emo⯑tions. ‘"This lane,"’ ſaid Theodore, ‘"will certainly lead to a town or village, and then we have nothing to apprehend; for, though my ſingle arm could not defend you againſt the number of our purſuers, I have no doubt of being a'le to intereſt ſome of the inhabitants in our behalf."’

Adeline appeared to be comforted by the hope this reflection ſuggeſted, and Theodore aga n looked back, but the windings of the road clo⯑ſed his view, and the rattling of the wheels over⯑came every other ſound. At length he called to the poſtillion to ſtop, and having liſtened at⯑tentively, without perceiving any ſound of hor⯑ſes, he began to hope they were now in ſafety. ‘"Do you know where this road leads?"’ ſaid he. The poſtillion anſwered that he did not, but he ſaw ſome houſes through the trees at a diſtance, and believed it led to them. This was moſt welcome intelligence to Theodore, [8] who looked forward and perceived the houſes. The poſtillion ſet off, ‘"Fear nothing, my adored Adeline,"’ ſaid he, ‘"you are now ſafe; I will part with you but with life."’ Adeline ſighed, not for herſelf only, but for the danger to which Theodore might be expoſed.

They had continued to travel in this man⯑ner for near half an hour, when they arrived at a ſmall village, and ſoon after ſtopped at an inn, the beſt the place afforded. As Theodore lifted Adeline from the chaiſe, he again entreat⯑ed her to diſmiſs her apprehenſions, and ſpoke with a tenderneſs, to which ſhe could reply only by a ſmile that ill concealed her anxiety. After ordering refreſhments, he went out to ſpeak with the landlord, but had ſcarcely left the room, when Adeline obſerved a party of horſe⯑men enter the inn-yard, and ſhe had no doubt theſe were the perſons from whom they fled. The faces of two of them only were turned to⯑wards her, but ſhe thought the figure of one of the others not unlike that of the Marquis.

Her heart was chilled, and for ſome moments the powers of reaſon forſook her. Her firſt de⯑ſign was to ſeek concealment; but while ſhe conſidered the means, one of the horſemen look⯑ed up to the window near which ſhe ſtood, and ſpeaking to his companions, they entered the inn. To quit the room, without being obſer⯑ved, was impoſſible; to remain there, alone and unprotected as ſhe was, would almoſt be [9] equally dangerous. She paced the room in an ago ny of terror, often ſecretly calling on Theodore and often wondering he did not return. Theſe were moments of indeſcribable ſuffering. A loud and tumultuous ſound of voices now aroſe from a diſtant part of the houſe, and ſhe ſoon diſtinguiſhed the words of the diſputants. ‘"I arreſt you in the King's name,"’ ſaid one ‘"and bid You, at your peril, attempt to go from hence, except under a guard."’

The next minute Adeline heard the voice of Theodore in reply. ‘"I do not mean to diſ⯑pute the King's orders,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and give you my word of honour not to go without you; but firſt unhand me, that I may return to that room; I have a friend there whom I wiſh to ſpeak with."’ To this propoſal they at fi [...]ſt objected, conſidering it merely as an ex⯑cuſe to obtain an opportunity of eſcaping; but after much altercation and entreaty, his requeſt was granted. He ſprang forwards towards the room where Adeline remained, and while a ſerjeant and corporal followed him to the door, the two ſoldiers went out into the yard of the inn, to watch the windows of the apartment.

With an eager hand he uncloſed the door, but Adeline haſtened not to meet him, for ſhe had fainted almoſt at the beginning of the diſ⯑pute. Theodore called loudly for aſſiſtance, and the miſtreſs of the inn ſoon appeared with her ſtock of remedies, which were adminiſtered [10] in vain to Adeline, who remained inſenſible, and by breathing alone gave ſigns of her exiſt⯑ence. The diſtreſs of Theodore was in the mean time heightened by the appearance of the offi⯑cers, who, laughing at the diſcovery of his pretended friend, declared they could wait no longer. Saying this, they would have forced him from the inanimate form of Adeline, over whom he hung in unutterable anguiſh, when fiercely turning upon them, he drew his ſword and ſwore no power on earth ſhould force him away before the lady recovered.

The men, enraged by the action and the de⯑termined air of Theodore, exclaimed, ‘"Do you oppoſe the King's orders?"’ and advanced to ſeize him, but he preſented the point of his ſword, and bid them at their peril approach. One of them immediately drew, Theodore kept his guard, but did not advance. ‘"I demand only to wait here, till the lady recovers,"’ ſaid he; ‘"you underſtand the alternative."’ The man, already exaſperated by the oppoſition of Theodore, regarded the latter part of his ſpeech as a threat, and became determined not to give up the point; he preſſed forward, and while his comrade called the men from the yard, Theo⯑dore wounded him ſlightly in the ſhoulder, and received himſelf the ſtroke of a ſabre on his head.

The blood guſhed furiouſly from the wound; Theodore, ſtaggering to a chair, ſunk into it, juſt as the remainder of the party entered the [11] room, and Adeline uncloſed her eyes to ſee him ghaſtly pale, and covered with blood. She ut⯑tered an involuntary ſcream, and exclaiming, ‘"they have murdered him,"’ nearly relapſed. At the ſound of her voice he raiſed his head, and ſmiling held out his hand to her. ‘"I am not much hurt,"’ ſaid he faintly, ‘"and ſhall ſoon be better, if indeed you are recovered."’ She haſtened towards him, and gave her hand. ‘"Is nobody gone for a ſurgeon?"’ ſaid ſhe, with a look of agony. ‘"Do not be alarmed,"’ ſaid Theodore, ‘"I am not ſo ill as you imagine."’ The room was now crowded with people, whom the report of the affray had brought together; among theſe was a man, who acted as phyſi⯑cian, apothecary, and ſurgeon to the village, and who now ſtepped forward to the aſſiſtance of Theodore.

Having examined the wound, he declined giving his opinion, but ordered the patient to be immediately put to bed, to which the officers objected, alledging that it was their duty to car⯑ry him to the regiment. ‘"That cannot be done without great danger to his life,"’ re⯑plied the doctor; ‘"and"—’ ‘"Oh! his life,"’ ſaid the ſerjeant; ‘"we have nothing to do with that, we muſt do our duty."’ Adeline, who had hitherto ſtood in trembling anxiety, could now no longer be ſilent. ‘"Since the ſurgeon,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"has declared it his opinion, that this gentleman cannot be removed in his preſent [12] condition, without endangering his life, you will remember, that if he dies, yours will probably anſwer it."’

‘"Yes,"’ rejoined the ſurgeon, who was un⯑willing to relinquiſh his patient, ‘"I declare be⯑fore theſe witneſſes, that he cannot be remov⯑ed with ſafety: you will do well, therefore, to conſider the conſequences. He has receiv⯑ed a very dangerous wound, which requires the moſt careful treatment, and the event is even then doubtful; but if he travels, a fever may enſue, and the wound will then be mor⯑tal."’ Theodore heard this ſentence with compoſure, but Adeline could with difficulty conceal the anguiſh of her heart: ſhe rouſed all her fortitude to ſuppreſs the tears that ſtruggled in her eyes; and though ſhe wiſhed to intereſt the humanity, or to awaken the fears of the men, in behalf of their unfortunate priſoner, ſhe dared not to truſt her voice with utterance.

From this internal ſtruggle ſhe was relieved by the compaſſion of the people who filled the room, and becoming clamorous in the cauſe of Theodore, declared the officers would be guilty of murder if they removed him. ‘"Why he muſt die at any rate,"’ ſaid the ſerjeant, ‘"for quitting his poſt, and drawing upon me in the execution of the King's orders."’ A faint ſickneſs ſeized the heart of Adeline, and ſhe leaned for ſupport againſt Theodore's chair, whoſe concern for himſelf was for a while ſuſ⯑pended [13] in his anxiety for her. He ſupported her with his arm, and forcing a ſmile, ſaid in a low voice, which ſhe only could hear, ‘"This is a miſrepreſentation; I doubt not, when the affair is inquired into, it will be ſettled with⯑out any ſerious conſequences."’

Adeline knew theſe words were uttered only to conſole her, and therefore did not give much credit to them, though Theodore continued to give her ſimilar aſſurances of his ſafety. Mean⯑while the mob, whoſe compaſſion for him had been gradually excited by the obduracy of the officer, were now rouſed to pity and indignation by the ſeeming certainty of his puniſhment, and the unfeeling manner, in which it had been denounced. In a ſhort time they became ſo much enraged, that, partly from a dread of farther conſequences, and partly from the ſhame which their charges of cruelty occaſioned, the ſerjeant conſented that he ſhould be put to bed, till his commanding officer might direct what was to be done. Adeline's joy at this circum⯑ſtance overcame for a moment the ſenſe of her misfortunes, and of her ſituation.

She waited in an adjoining room the ſentence of the ſurgeon, who was now engaged in exa⯑mining the wound; and though the accident would in any other circumſtances have ſeverely afflicted her, ſhe now lamented it the more, be⯑cauſe ſhe conſidered herſelf as the cauſe of it, [14] and becauſe the misfortune, by illuſtrating more fully the affection of her lover, drew him cloſer to her heart, and ſeemed, therefore, to ſharpen the poignancy of her affliction. The dreadful aſſertion that Theodore, ſhould he re⯑cover, would be puniſhed with death, ſhe ſcarce⯑ly dared to conſider, but endeavoured to believe that it was no more than a cruel exaggeration of his antagoniſt.

Upon the whole, Theodore's preſent danger, together with the attendant circumſtances, awakened all her tenderneſs, and diſcovered to her the true ſtate of her affections. The grace⯑ful form, the noble, intelligent countenance, and the engaging manners which ſhe had at firſt admired in Theodore, became afterwards more intereſting by that ſtrength of thought, and ele⯑gance of ſentiment, exhibited in his converſati⯑on. His conduct, ſince her eſcape, had excited her warmeſt gratitude, and the danger which he had now encountered in her behalf, called forth her tenderneſs, and heightened it into love. The veil was removed from her heart, and ſhe ſaw for the firſt time, its genuine emotions.

The ſurgeon at length came out of Theodore's chamber into the room where Adeline was waiting to ſpeak with him. She inquired con⯑cerning the ſtate of his wound. ‘"You are a relation of the gentleman's, I preſume, Ma⯑dam; his ſiſter, perhaps"’ The queſtion vexed and embarraſſed her, and, without an⯑ſwering [15] it, ſhe repeated her inquiry. ‘"Per⯑haps, Madam, you are more nearly related,"’ purſued the ſurgeon, ſeeming alſo to diſregard her queſtion, ‘"perhaps you are his wife."’ Adeline bluſhed, and was about to reply, but he continued his ſpeech. ‘"The intereſt you take in his welfare is, at leaſt, very flattering, and I would almoſt conſent to exchange con⯑ditions with him, were I ſure of receiving ſuch tender compaſſion from ſo charming a lady."’ Saying this, he bowed to the ground. Adeline aſſuming a very reſerved air, ſaid, ‘"Now, Sir, that you have concluded your compliment, you will perhaps, attend to my queſtion; I hav enquired how you left your patient."’

‘"That, Madam, is, perhaps, a queſtion very difficult to be reſolved; and it is likewiſe a very diſagreeable office to pronounce ill news—I fear he will die."’ The ſurgeon opened his ſnuff-box and preſented it to Adeline [...] ‘"Die!"’ ſhe exclaimed in a faint voice, ‘"Die!"’

‘"Do not be alarmed, Madam,"’ reſumed the ſurgeon, obſerving her grow pale, ‘"do not be alarmed. It is poſſible that the wound may not have reached the —,"’ he ſtammered; ‘"in that caſe the —,"’ ſtammering again, ‘"is not affected; and if ſo, the interior mem⯑branes of the brain are not touched: in this caſe the wound may, perhaps, eſcape inflam⯑mation, [16] and the patient may poſſibly recover. But if, on the other hand, —"’

‘"I beſeech you, Sir, to ſpeak intelligibly,"’ interrupted Adeline, ‘"and not to trifle with my anxiety. Do you really believe him in danger?"’

‘"In danger, Madam,"’ exclaimed the ſur⯑geon, ‘"in danger! yes, certainly, in very great danger."’ Saying this, he walked away with an air of chagrin and diſpleaſure. Adeline remained for ſome moments in the room, in an exceſs of ſorrow, which ſhe found it impoſſible to reſtrain, and then drying her tears, and en⯑deavouring to compoſe her countenance, ſhe went to inquire for the miſtreſs of the inn, to whom ſhe ſent a waiter. After expecting her in vain for ſome time, ſhe rang the bell, and ſent another meſſage ſomewhat more preſſing. Still the hoſteſs did not appear, and Adeline, at length, went herſelf down ſtairs, where ſhe found her, ſurrounded by a number of people, relating, with a loud voice and va [...]ious geſti⯑culations, the particulars of the late accident. Perceiving Adeline, ſhe called out, ‘"Oh! here is Mademoiſelle herſelf,"’ and the eyes of the aſſembly were immediately turned upon her. Adeline, whom the crowd prevented from approaching the hoſteſs, now beckoned her, and was going to withdraw, but the land⯑lady, eager in the purſuit of her ſtory, diſ⯑regarded the ſignal. In vain did Adeline en-[17] endeavour to catch her eye; it glanced every where but upon her, who was unwilling to attract the farther notice of the crowd by calling out.

‘"It is a great pity, to be ſure, that he ſhould be ſhot,"’ ſaid the landlady, ‘"he's ſuch a handſome man; but they ſay he certainly will if he recovers. Poor Gentleman! he will very likely not ſuffer though, for the doctor ſays he will never go out of this houſe alive."’ Adeline now ſpoke to a man who ſtood near, and deſiring he would tell the hoſteſs ſhe wiſhed to ſpeak with her, left the place.

In about ten minutes the landlady appeared. ‘"Alas! Madamoiſelle,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"your brother is in a ſad condition; they fear he won't get over it."’ Adeline inquired whether there was any other medical perſon in the town than the ſurgeon whom ſhe had ſeen. ‘"Lord, Madam, this is a rare healthy place; we have little need of medicine people here; ſuch an accident never happened in it before. The doctor has been here ten years, but there's very bad encouragement for his trade, and I believe he's poor enough himſelf. One of the ſort's quite enough for us."’ Adeline interrupted her to aſk ſome queſtions concern⯑ing Theodore, whom the hoſte's had attended to his chamber. She inquired how he had borne the dreſſing of the wound, and whether he ap⯑peared to be eaſier after the operation; queſtions [18] to which the hoſteſs gave no very ſatisfactory anſwers. She now inquired whether there was any ſurgeon in the neighbourhood of the town, and was told there was not.

The diſtreſs viſible in Adeline's countenance ſeemed to excite the compaſſion of the landlady, who now endeavoured to conſole her in the beſt manner ſhe was able. She adviſed her to ſend for her friends, and offered to procure a meſ⯑ſenger. Adeline ſighed and ſaid it was un⯑neceſſary. ‘"I don't know, Ma'amſelle, what you may think neceſſary,"’ continued the hoſteſs, ‘"but I know I ſhould think it very hard to die in a ſtrange place with no relati⯑ons near me, and I dare ſay the poor gentle⯑man thinks ſo himſelf; and, beſides, who is to pay for his funeral if he dies?"’ Adeline begged ſhe would be ſilent, and, deſiring that every proper attention might be given, ſhe promiſed her a reward for her trouble, and re⯑queſted pen and ink immediately. ‘"Ay, to be ſure, Ma'amſelle, that is the proper way; why your friends would never forgive you if you did not acquaint them; I know it by my⯑ſelf. And as for taking care of him, he ſhall have every thing the houſe affords, and I warrant there is never a better inn in the pro⯑vince, though the town is none of the big⯑geſt."’ Adeline was obliged to repeat her re⯑queſt for pen and ink, before the loquacious hoſteſs would quit the room.

[19] The thought of ſending for Theodore's friends had, in the tumult of the late ſcenes, never oc⯑curred to her, and ſhe was now ſomewhat con⯑ſoled by the proſpect of comfort which it opened for him. When the pen and ink were brought, ſhe wrote the following note to Theodore.

‘"In your preſent condition, you have need of every comfort that can be procured you, and ſurely there is no cordial more valuable in illneſs, than the preſence of a friend: ſuffer me, therefore to acquaint your family with your ſituation; it will be a ſatisfaction to me, and, I doubt not, a conſolation to you."’

In a ſhort time after ſhe had ſent the note, ſhe received a meſſage from Theodore, en⯑treating moſt reſpectfully, but earneſtly, to ſee her for a few minutes. She immediately went to his chamber, and found her worſt appre⯑henſions confirmed, by the languor expreſſed in his countenance, while the ſhock ſhe received, together with her ſtruggle to diſguiſe her emo⯑tions, almoſt overcame her. ‘"I thank you for this goodneſs,"’ ſaid he, extending his hand which ſhe received, and, ſitting down by the bed, burſt into a flood of tears. When her agitation had ſomewhat ſubſided, and, remov⯑ing her handkerchief from her eyes, ſhe again looked on Theodore, a ſmile of the tendereſt love expreſſed his ſenſe of the intereſt ſhe took in his welfare, and adminiſtered a temporary relief to her heart.

[20] ‘"Forgive this weakneſs,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"my ſpirits have of late been ſo variouſly agi⯑tated"—’Theodore interrupted her—‘"Theſe tears are moſt flattering to my heart. But, for my ſake endeavour to ſupport yourſelf: I doubt not I ſhall ſoon be better; the ſur⯑geon"—’

‘"I do not like him,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"but tell me how you find yourſelf?"’ He aſſured her that he was now much eaſier than he had yet been, and mentioning her kind note, he led to the ſubject, on account of which he had ſolicited to ſee her. ‘"My family,"’ ſaid he, ‘"reſide at a great diſtance from hence, and I well know their affection is ſuch, that, were they informed of my ſituation, no con⯑ſideration, however reaſonable, could prevent their coming to my aſſiſtance; but before they can arrive, their preſence will probably be unneceſſary,"’ (Adeline looked earneſtly at him) ‘"I ſhould probably be well,"’ pur⯑ſued he, ſmiling, ‘"before a letter could reach them; it would, therefore, occaſion them unneceſſary pain, and, moreover, a fruitleſs journey. For your ſake, Adeline, I could wiſh they were here, but a few days will more fully ſhew the conſequences of my wound: let us wait, at leaſt, till then, and be directed by circumſtances."’

Adeline forbore to preſs the ſubject farther, and turned to one more immediately inte⯑reſting. [21] ‘"I much wiſh,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"that you had a more able ſurgeon; you know the geography of the province better than I do; are we in the neighbourhood ofany town likely to afford you other advice?"’

‘"I believe not,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and this is an affair of little conſequence, for my wound is ſo inconſiderable, that a very moderate ſhare of ſkill may ſuffice to cure it. But why, my beloved Adeline, do you give way to this anxiety? Why ſuffer yourſelf to be diſturbed by this tendency to forbode the worſt? I am willing, perhaps preſump⯑tuouſly ſo, to attribute it to your kindneſs, and ſuffer me to aſſure you, that, while it excites my gratitude, it increaſes my ten⯑dereſt eſteem. O Adeline! ſince you wiſh my ſpeedy recovery, let me ſee you compoſ⯑ed: while I believe you to be unhappy I can⯑not be well."—’She aſſured him ſhe would endeavour to be, at leaſt, tranquil, and fearing the converſation, if prolonged, would be preju⯑dicial to him, ſhe left him to repoſe.

As ſhe turned cut of the gallery, ſhe met the hoſteſs, upon whom certain words of Adeline had operated as a taliſman, transforming neglect and impertinence into officious civility. She came to enquire whether the gentleman above ſtairs had every thing that he liked, for ſhe was ſure it was her endeavour that he ſhould. ‘"I have got him a nurſe, Ma'amſelle, to attend [22] him, and I dare ſay ſhe will do very well, but I will look to that, for I ſhall not mind helping him myſelf ſome times. Poor gentle⯑man! how patiently he bears it! One would not think now that he believes he is going to die; yet the doctor told him ſo himſelf, or at leaſt as good."’ Adeline was extremely ſhocked at this imprudent conduct of the ſur⯑geon, and diſmiſſed the landlady, after ordering a ſlight dinner.

Towards evening the ſurgeon again made his appearance, and, having paſſed ſome time with his patient, returned to the parlour, according to the deſire of Adeline, to inform her of his con⯑dition. He anſwered Adeline's inquiries with great ſolemnity. ‘"It is impoſſible to determine poſitively, at preſent, Madam, but I have reaſon to adhere to the opinion I gave you this morning. I am not apt, indeed, to form opinions upon uncertain grounds. I will give you a ſingular inſtance of this:’

‘"It is not above a fortnight ſince I was ſent for to a patient at ſome leagues diſtance. I was from home when the meſſenger arrived, and the caſe being urgent, before I could reach the patient, another phyſician was conſulted, who had ordered ſuch medicines as he thought proper, and the patient had been apparently relieved by them. His friends were con⯑gratulating themſelves upon his improvement when I arrived, and had agreed in opinion [23] with the phyſician, that there was no danger in his caſe. Depend upon it, ſaid I, you are miſtaken; theſe medicines cannot have relieved him; the patient is in the utmoſt danger. The patient groaned, but my bro⯑ther phyſician perſiſted in affirming that the remedies he had preſcribed would not only be certain, but ſpeedy, ſome good effect having been already produced by them. Upon this I loſt all patience, and adhering to my opinion, that theſe effects were fallacious and the caſe deſperate, I aſſured the patient himſelf that his life was in the utmoſt danger. I am not one of thoſe, Madam, who deceive their pati⯑ents to the laſt moment; but you ſhall hear the concluſion.’

‘"My brother phyſician was, I ſuppoſe, en⯑raged by the firmneſs of my oppoſition, for he aſſumed a moſt angry look, which did not in the leaſt affect me, and turning to the patient, deſired he would decide, upon which of our opinions to rely, for he muſt decline acting with me. The patient did me the honour,"’ purſued the ſurgeon, with a ſmile of compla⯑cency, and ſmoothing his ruffles, ‘"to think more highly of me than, perhaps, I deſerved, for he immediately diſmiſſed my opponent. I could not have believed, ſaid he, as the phyſician left the room, I could not have believed that a man, who has been ſo many [24] in the profeſſion, could be ſo wholly ignorant of it.’

‘"I could not have believed it either, ſaid I.—I am aſtoniſhed that he was not aware of my danger, reſumed the patient.—I am aſtoniſhed likewiſe, replied I—I was reſolved to do what I could for the pati⯑ent, for he was a man of underſtanding, as you perceive, and I had a regard for him. I, therefore, altered the preſcriptions, and myſelf adminiſtered the medicines; but all would not do, my opinion was verified, and he died even before the next morning."—’Adeline, who had been compelled to liſten to this long ſtory, ſighed at the concluſion of it. ‘"I don't wonder that you are affected, Madam"’ ſaid the ſurgeon, ‘"the inſtance I have rela⯑ted is certainly a very affecting one. It diſ⯑treſſed me ſo much, that it was ſome time before I could think, or even ſpeak concern⯑ing it. But you muſt allow, Madam,"’ continued he, lowering his voice and bowing with a look of ſelf congratulation, ‘"that this was a ſtriking inſtance of the infallibility of my judgment."’

Adeline ſhuddered at the infallibility of his judgment, and made no reply. ‘"It was a ſhock⯑ing thing for the poor man,"’ reſumed the ſurgeon.—‘"It was, indeed, very ſhocking,"’ ſaid Adeline.—‘"It affected me a good deal when it happened,"’ continued he.—‘"Un⯑doubtedly, Sir,"’ ſaid Adeline.

[25] ‘"But time wears away the moſt painful impreſſions."’

‘"I think you mentioned it was about a fortnight ſince this happened."’

‘"Somewhere thereabouts,"’ replied the ſurgeon, without ſeeming to underſtand the obſervation.—‘"And will you permit me, Sir, to aſk the name of the phyſician, who ſo ignorantly oppoſed you?"’

‘"Certainly, Madam, it is Lafance."’

‘"He lives in the obſcurity he deſerves, no doubt"’ ſaid Adeline.

‘"Why no, Madam, he lives in a town of ſome note, at about the diſtance of four leagues from hence, and affords one inſtance, among many others, that the public opinion is generally erroneous. You will hardly believe it, but I aſſure you it is a fact, that this man comes into a great deal of practice, while I am ſuffered to remain here, ne⯑glected, and, indeed, very little known."’

During his narrative, Adeline had been con⯑ſidering by what means ſhe could diſcover the name of the phyſician, for the inſtance that had been produced to prove his ignorance, and the infallibility of his opponent, had complete⯑ly ſettled her opinion concerning them both. She now, more than ever, wiſhed to deliver Theodore from the hands of the ſurgeon, and was muſing on the poſſibility, when he, with ſo much ſelf-ſecurity, developed the means.

[26] She aſked him a few more queſtions con⯑cerning the ſtate of Theodore's wound, and was told it was much as it had been, but that ſome degree of fever had come on. ‘"But I have ordered a fire to be made in the room,"’ continued the ſurgeon, ‘"and ſome additional blankets to be laid on the bed; theſe, I doubt not, will have a proper ef⯑fect. In the mean time they muſt be careful to keep from him every kind of li⯑quid, except ſome cordial draughts, which I ſhall ſend. He will naturally aſk for drink, but it muſt, on no ac⯑count, be given to him."’

‘"You do not approve, then, of the method, which I have ſomewhere heard of,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"of attending to nature in theſe caſes."’

‘"Nature, Madam!"’ purſued he, ‘"Nature is the moſt improper guide in the world. I always adopt a method directly contrary to what ſhe would ſuggeſt; for what can be the uſe of Art, if ſhe is only to follow Nature? This was my firſt opinion on ſetting out in life, and I have ever ſince ſtrict⯑ly adhered to it. From what I have ſaid, indeed, Madam, you may, per⯑haps, perceive that my opinions may be depended on; what they once are they always are, for my mind is not of [27] that frivolous kind to be affected by circum⯑ſtances."’

Adeline was fatigued by this diſcourſe, and impatient to impart to Theodore her diſcovery of a phyſician, but the ſurgeon ſeemed by no means diſpoſed to leave her, and was expatiating upon various topics, with new inſtances of his ſurpriſing ſagacity, when the waiter brought a meſſage that ſome perſon deſired to ſee him. He was, howe⯑ver engaged upon too agreeable a topic to be eaſily prevailed upon to quit it, and it was not till after a ſecond meſſage was brought that he made his bow to Adeline and left the room. The moment he was gone ſhe ſent a note to Theodore, entreating his permiſſion to call in the aſſiſtance of the phyſician.

The conceited manners of the ſurgeon had by this time given Theodore a very unfa⯑vourable opinion of his talents, and the laſt preſcription had ſo fully confirmed it, that he now readily conſented to have other advice.

Adeline immediately inquired for a meſ⯑ſenger, but recollecting that the reſidence of the phyſician was ſtill a ſecret, ſhe applied to the hoſteſs, who being really ignorant of it, or pretending to be ſo, gave her no in⯑formation. What farther inquiries ſhe made were equally ineffectual, and ſhe paſſed ſome hours in extreme diſtreſs, while the diſorder of Theodore rather increaſed than abated.

[28] When ſupper appeared, ſhe aſked the boy who waited, if he knew a phyſician of the name of Lafance, in the neighbour⯑hood. ‘"Not in the neighbourhood, Madam, but I know Doctor Lafance of Chancy, for I come from the town."—’Ade⯑line inquired farther, and received very ſatis⯑factory anſwers. But the town was at ſome leagues diſtance, and the delay this circum⯑ſtance muſt oceaſion again alarmed her; ſhe, however, ordered a meſſenger to be immedi⯑ately diſpatched, and, having ſent again to inquire concerning Theodore, retired to her chamber for the night.

The continued fatigue ſhe had ſuffered for the laſt fourteen hours overcame anxiety, and her harraſſed ſpirits ſunk to repoſe. She ſlept till late in the morning, and was then awakened by the landlady, who came to in⯑form her that Theodore was much worſe, and to inquire what ſhould be done. Adeline, find⯑ing that the phyſician was not arrived, im⯑mediately aroſe, and haſtened to inquire far⯑ther concerning Theodore. The hoſteſs in⯑formed her, that he had paſſed a very diſturb⯑ed night; that he had complained of being very hot, and deſired that the fire in his room might be extinguiſhed; but that the nurſe knew her duty too well to obey him, and had ſtrictly followed the doctor's orders.

She added, that he had taken the cordial draughts regularly, but had, not withſtanding, [29] continued to grow worſe, and at laſt became light-headed. In the mean time the boy, who had been ſent for the phyſician, was ſtill abſent:—‘"And no wonder,"’ continued the hoſteſs; ‘"why only conſider, it's eight leagues off, and the lad had to find the road, bad as it is, in the dark. But, indeed, Ma'amſelle, you might as well have truſted our doctor, for we never want any body elſe, not we, in the town here; and if I might ſpeak my mind, Jacques had better have been ſent off for the young gentleman's friends than for this ſtrange doctor that no body knows."’

After aſking ſome farther queſtions concern⯑ing Theodore, the anſwers to which rather increaſed than diminiſhed her alarm, Adeline endeavoured to compoſe her ſpirits, and await in patience the arrival of the phyſician. She was now more ſenſible than ever of the forlornneſs of her own condition, and of the danger of Theodore's, and earneſtly wiſhed that his friends could be informed of his ſitua⯑tion; a wiſh which could not be gratified, for Theodore, who alone could acquaint her with their place of reſidence, was deprived of recollection.

When the ſurgeon arrived and perceived the ſituation of his patient, he expreſſed no [...]urprize; but having aſked ſome queſtions, and given a few general directions, he went [30] down to Adeline. After paying her his uſual compliments, he ſuddenly aſſumed an air of importance, ‘"I am ſorry, Madam,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that it is my office to communicate diſa⯑greeable intelligence, but I wiſh you to be prepared for the event, which, I fear, is approaching."’ Adeline comprehended his meaning, and though ſhe had hitherto given little faith to his judgment, ſhe could not hear him hint at the immediate danger of Theo⯑dore without yielding to the influence of fear.

She entreated him to acquaint her with all he apprehended; and he then proceeded to ſay, that Theodore was, as he had foreſeen, much worſe this morning than he had been the pre⯑ceding night; and the diſorder having now affected his head, there was every reaſon to fear it would prove fatal in a few hours. ‘"The worſt conſequences may enſue,"’ continued he; ‘"if the wound becomes inflamed, there will be very little chance of his recovery."’

Adeline liſtened to this ſentence with a dreadful calmneſs, and gave no utterance to grief, either by words or tears. ‘"The gentleman, I ſuppoſe, Madam, has friends, and the ſooner you inform them of his condition the better. If they reſide at any diſtance, it is indeed too late; but there are other neceſſary—you are ill, Madam."’

[31] Adedeline made an effort to ſpeak, but in vain, and the ſurgeon now called loudly for a glaſs of water; ſhe drank it, and a deep ſigh that ſhe uttered, ſeemed ſomewhat to relieve her oppreſſed heart: tears ſucceeded. In the mean time, the ſurgeon perceiving ſhe was better, though not well enough to liſten to his converſation, took his leave, and promiſed to return in an hour. The phyſi⯑cian was not yet arrived, and Adeline await⯑ed his appearance with a mixture of fear and anxious hope.

About noon he came, and having been informed of the accident by which the fever was produced, and of the treatment which the ſurgeon had given it, he aſcended to Theodore's chamber: in a quarter of an hour he returned to the room where Adeline expect⯑ed him. ‘"The gentleman is ſtill delirious,"’ ſaid he, ‘"but I have ordered him a com⯑poſing draught."—’ ‘"Is there any hope, Sir?"’ inquired Adeline. ‘"Yes, Madam, certainly there is hope; the caſe at preſent is ſomewhat doubtful, but a few hours may enable me to judge with more certainty. In the mean time, I have directed that he ſhall be kept quiet, and be allowed to drink freely of ſome diluting liquids."’

He had ſcarcely, at Adeline's requeſt, re⯑commended a ſurgeon, inſtead of the one at preſent employed, when the latter gentle⯑man [32] entered the room, and perceiving the phyſician, threw a glance of mingled ſur⯑prize and anger at Adeline, who retired with him to another apartment, where ſhe diſ⯑miſſed him with a politeneſs, which he did not deign to return, and which he certainly did not deſerve.

Early the following morning the ſurgeon arrived, but either the medicines, or the criſis of the diſorder, had thrown Theodore into a deep ſleep, in which he remained for ſeveral hours. The phyſician now gave Adeline reaſon to hope for a fevourable iſſue, and every pre⯑caution was taken to prevent his being diſ⯑turbed. He awoke perfectly ſenſible and free from fever, and his firſt words inquired for Adeline, who ſoon learned that he was out of danger.

In a few days he was ſufficiently recover⯑ed to be removed from his chamber to a room adjoining, where Adeline met him with a joy, which ſhe found it impoſſible to repreſs; and the obſervance of this lighted up his countenance with pleaſure: indeed Adeline, ſenſible to the attachment he had ſo nobly teſtified, and ſoftned by the danger he had encountered, no longer attempted to diſguiſe the tenderneſs of her eſteem, and was at length brought to confeſs the intereſt his firſt appearance had impreſſed upon her heart.

[33] After an hour of affecting converſation, in which the happineſs of a young and mu⯑tual attachment occupied all their minds, and excluded every idea not in uniſon with delight, they returned to a ſenſe of their preſent embarraſſments: Adeline recollect⯑ed that Theodore was arreſted for diſobe⯑dience of orders, and deſerting his poſt; and Theodore, that he muſt ſhortly be torn away from Adeline, who would be left expo⯑ſed to all the evils from which he had ſo lately reſcued her. This thought overwhelmed his heart with anguiſh; and, after a long pauſe, he ventured to propoſe, what his wiſh⯑es had often ſuggeſted, a marriage with Adeline before he departed from the village: this was the only means of preveting, per⯑haps, an eternal ſaparation; and though he ſaw the many dangerous inconveniences to which ſhe would be expoſed, by a marriage with a man circumſtanced like himſelf, yet theſe appeared ſo unequal to thoſe ſhe would otherwiſe he left to encounter alone, that his reaſon could no longer ſcruple to adopt what his affection had ſuggeſted.

Adeline was, for ſome time, too much agitated to reply; and though ſhe had little to oppoſe to the arguments and pleadings of Theodore; though ſhe had no friends to control, and no contrariety of intereſts to per⯑plex, [34] her ſhe could not bring herſelf to conſent thus haſtily to a marriage with a man, of whom ſhe had little knowledge, and to whoſe fa⯑mily and connections ſhe had no ſort of intro⯑duction. At length, ſhe entreated he would drop the ſubject, and the converſation for the remainder of the day was more general, yet ſtill intereſting.

That ſimilarity of taſte and opinion, which had at firſt attracted them, every moment now more fully diſcloſed. Their diſcourſe was enriched by elegant litera⯑ture, and endeared by mutual regard: Adeline had enjoyed few opportunities of reading, but the books to which ſhe had acceſs, operating upon a mind eager for knowledge, and upon a taſte pecu⯑liarly ſenſible of the beautiful and the ele⯑gant, had impreſſed all their excellencies upon her underſtanding. Theodore had re⯑ceived from nature many of the qualities of genius, and from education all that it could beſtow; to theſe were added, a noble inde⯑pendency of ſpirit, a feeling heart, and man⯑ners, which partook of a happy mixture of dignity and ſweetneſs.

In the evening, one of the officers, who, upon the repreſentation of the ſerjeant, was ſent by the perſons employed to proſecute military criminals, arrived at the village, [35] and entering the apartment of Theodore, from which Adeline immediately withdrew, informed him, with an air of infinite impor⯑tance, that he ſhould ſet out on the following day for head-quarters. Theodore anſwered, that he was not able to bear the journey, and referred him to his phyſician; but the officer replied that he ſhould take no ſuch trouble, it being certain that the phyſician might be inſtructed what to ſay, and that he ſhould begin his journey on the morrow. ‘"Here has been delay enough,"’ ſaid he, ‘"already, and you will have ſufficient bu⯑ſineſs on your hands when you reach head-quarters; for the ſerjeant, whom you have ſeverely wounded, intends to appear againſt you; and this, with the offence you have committed by deſerting your poſt."’

Theodore's eyes flaſhed fire, ‘"Deſert⯑ing!"’ ſaid he, riſing from his ſeat, and darting a look of menace at his ac⯑cuſer, ‘"who dares to brand me with the name of deſerter?"’ But inſtantly re⯑collecting how much his conduct had ap⯑peared to juſtify the accuſation, he en⯑deavoured to ſtifle his emotions, and, with a firm voice and compoſed manner, ſaid, that when he reached head-quarters, he ſhould beready to anſwer whatever might be brought againſt him, but that till then he [36] ſhould be ſilent. The boldneſs of the officer was repreſſed by the ſpirit and dignity with which Theodore ſpoke theſe words, and mut⯑tering a reply, that was ſcarcely audible, he left the room.

Theodore ſat muſing on the danger of his ſituation: he knew that he had much to apprehend from the peculiar circum⯑ſtances attending his abrupt departure from his regiment, it having been ſtationed in a garriſon town upon the Spaniſh fron⯑tiers; where the diſcipline was very ſevere, and from the power of his colonel, the Marquis de Montalt, whom pride and diſap⯑pointment would now rouſe to vengeance, and, probably, render indefatigable in the accompliſhment of his deſtruction. But his thoughts ſoon fled from his own danger to that of Adeline, and, in the conſideration of this, all his fortitude forſook him: he could not ſupport the idea of leaving her ex⯑poſed to the evils he foreboded, nor, indeed, of a ſeparation ſo ſudden as that which now threatened him; and when ſhe again en⯑tered the room, he renewed his ſolicitati⯑ons for a ſpeedy marriage, with all the arguments that tenderneſs and ingenuity could ſuggeſt.

Adeline, when ſhe learned that he was to depart on the morrow, felt as if bereaved of her laſt comfort. All the horrors of his [37] ſituation aroſe to her mind, and ſhe turned from him in unutterable anguiſh. Conſider⯑ing her ſilence as a favourable preſage, he repeated his entreaties that ſhe would conſent to be his, and thus give him a ſurety that their ſeparation ſhould not be eternal. Ade⯑line ſighed deeply to theſe words: ‘"And who can know that our ſeparation will not be eternal,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"even if I could conſent to the marriage you pro⯑poſe? But while you hear my deter⯑mination, forbear to accuſe me of in⯑difference, for indifference towards you would, indeed, be a crime, after the ſervices you have rendered me."’

‘"And is a cold ſentiment of gratitude all that I muſt expect from you?"’ ſaid Theodore. ‘"I know that you are going to diſtreſs me with a proof of your in⯑difference, which you miſtake for the ſuggeſtions of prudence; and that I ſhall be compelled to look, without reluctance, upon the evils that may ſhortly await me. Ah, Adeline! if you mean to reject this, perhaps, the laſt propoſal which I can ever make to you, ceaſe, at leaſt, to deceive yourſelf with an idea that you love me; that delirium is fading even from my mind."’

‘"Can you then ſo ſoon forg t our con⯑verſation of this morning?"’ replied [38] Adeline; ‘"and can you think ſo lightly of me as to believe I would profeſs a re⯑gard, which I do not feel? If, indeed, you can believe this, I ſhall do well to for⯑get that I ever made ſuch an acknowledge⯑ment, and you, that you heard it."’

‘"Forgive me, Adeline, forgive the doubts and inconſiſtencies I have be⯑trayed: let the anxieties of love, and the emergency of my circumſtances, plead for me."’ Adeline, ſmiling faintly through her tears, held out her hand, which he ſeized and preſſed to his lips. ‘"Yet do not drive me to deſpair by a rejection of my ſuit,"’ continued Theodore; ‘"think what I muſt ſuffer to leave you here deſtitute of friends and protection."’

‘"I am thinking how I may avoid a ſitua⯑tion ſo deplorable,"’ ſaid Adeline. ‘"They ſay there is a convent, which receives boarders, within a few miles, and thither I wiſh to go."’

‘"A convent!"’ rejoined Theodore, ‘"would you go to a convent? Do you know the perſecutions you would be liable to; and that if the Marquis ſhould diſcover you, there is little probability the ſuperior would reſiſt his authority, or, at leaſt, his bribes?"’

‘"All this I have conſidered,"’ ſaid [39] Adeline, ‘"and am prepared to encounter it, rather than enter into an engagement, which, at this time, can be productive only of miſery to us both."’

Adeline, who had long ſtrove to ſupport her ſpirits in his preſence, while ſhe adhered to a reolution which reaſon ſuggeſted, but which the pleadings of her heart powerfully oppoſed, was unable longer to command her diſtreſs, and burſt into tears. Theodore was in the ſame moment convinced of his error, and ſhocked at the grief he had occa⯑ſioned. He drew his chair towards her, and, taking her hand, again entreated her pardon, and endeavoured in the tendereſt accents to ſoothe and comfort her.—‘"What a wretch was I to cauſe you this diſtreſs, by queſ⯑tioning that with regard which I can no longer doubt you honour me! Forgive me, [40] Adeline; ſay but you forgive me, and, whatever may be the pain of this ſepara⯑tion, I will no longer oppoſe it."’

‘"You have given me ſome pain,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"but you have not offended me."—’She then mentioned ſome farther par⯑ticulars concerning the convent. Theodore endeavoured to conceal the diſtreſs which the approaching ſeparation occaſioned him, and to conſult with her on theſe plans with compoſure. His judgment by degrees pre⯑vailed over his paſſions, and he now per⯑ceived that the plan ſhe ſuggeſted would afford her beſt chance of ſecurity. He con⯑ſidered, what in the firſt agitation of his mind had eſcaped him, that he might be condemned upon the charges brought againſt him, and that his death, ſhould they have been married, would not only deprive her of her protector, but leave her more immediate⯑ly expoſed to the deſigns of the Marquis, who would, doubtleſs, attend his trial. Aſtoniſhed that he had not noticed this be⯑fore, and ſhocked at the unwarineſs by which he might have betrayed her into ſo dangerous a ſituation, he became at once reconciled to the idea of leaving her in a convent. He could have wiſhed to place her in the aſylum of his own family, but the circumſtances under which ſhe muſt be introduced were ſo awkward and painful, [41] and, above all, the diſtance at which they reſided, would render a journey ſo highly dangerous for her, that he forbore to pro⯑poſe it. He entreated only that ſhe would allow him to write to her; but recollecting that his letters might be a means of betray⯑ing the place of her reſidence to the Mar⯑quis, he checked himſelf: ‘"I muſt deny myſelf even this melancholy pleaſure,"’ ſaid he, ‘"leſt my letters ſhould diſcover your abode; yet how ſhall I be able to endure the impatience and uncertainty to which prudence condemns me! If you are in danger, I ſhall be ignorant of it; though, indeed, did I know it,"’ ſaid he with a look of deſpair, ‘"I could not fly to ſave you. O exquiſite miſery! 'tis now only I perceive all the horrors of con⯑finement—'tis now only that I under⯑ſtand all the value of liberty!"’

His utterance was interrupted by the violent agitation of his mind; he roſe from his chair, and walked with quick paces about the room. Adeline ſat, overcome by the deſcription which Theodore had given of his approaching ſituation, and by the conſideration that ſhe might remain in the moſt terrible ſuſpenſe concerning his fate. She ſaw him in a pri⯑ſon—pale—emaciated, and in chains:—ſhe ſaw all the vengeance of the Marquis deſ⯑cending upon him; and this for his noble [42] exertions in her cauſe. Theodore, alarmed by the placid deſpair expreſſed in her counte⯑nance, threw himſelf into a chair by her's, and, taking her hand, attempted to ſpeak comfort to her, but the words faltered on his lips, and he could only bathe her hand with tears.

This mournful ſilence was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage at the inn, and Theodore, ariſing, went to the window that opened into the yard. The darkneſs of the night prevented his diſtinguiſhing the objects without, but a light now brought from the houſe ſhewed him a carriage and four, attended by ſeveral ſervants. Preſently he ſaw a gen⯑tleman, wrapped up in a roquelaure, alight and enter the inn, and in the next moment he heard the voice of the Marquis.

He had ſlown to ſupport Adeline, who was ſinking with terror, when the door opened, and the Marquis, followed by the officers and ſeveral ſervants, entered. Fury flaſhed from his eyes, as they glanced upon Theodore, who hung over Adeline with a look of fearful ſoli⯑citude—‘"Seize that traitor,"’ ſaid he, tur⯑ning to the officers; ‘"why have you ſuffered him to remain here ſo long?"’

‘"I am no traitor,"’ ſaid Theodore, with a firm voice, and the dignity of conſcious worth, ‘"but a defender of innocence, of [43] one whom the treacherous Marquis de Montalt would deſtroy."’

‘"Obey your orders,"’ ſaid the Marquis to the officers. Adeline ſhrieked, held faſter by Theodore's arm, and entreated the men not to part them. ‘"Force only can effect it,"’ ſaid Theodore, as he looked round for ſome inſtrument of defence, but he could ſee none, and in the ſame moment they ſurrounded and ſeized him. ‘"Dread every thing from my vengeance,"’ ſaid the Marquis to Theo⯑dore, as he caught the hand of Adeline, who had loſt all power of reſiſtance, and was ſcarcely ſenſible of what paſſed; ‘"dread every thing from my vengeance; you know you have deſerved it."’

‘"I defy your vengeance,"’ cried Theo⯑dore, ‘"and dread only the pangs of conſcience, which your power cannot inflict upon me, though your vices con⯑demn you to its tortures."’

‘"Take him inſtantly from the room, and ſee that he is ſtrongly fettered,"’ ſaid the Marquis; ‘"he ſhall ſoon know what a criminal, who adds inſolence to guilt, may ſuffer."—’Theodore exclaiming. ‘"Oh Adeline! farewell!"’ was now forced out of the room; while Adeline, whoſe tor⯑pid ſenſes were rouſed by his voice and his laſt looks, fell at the feet of the Marquis, and with tears of agony implored compaſſion for [44] Theodore: but her pleadings for his rival ſerved only to irritate the pride and exaſpe⯑rate the hatred of the Marquis. He de⯑nounced vengeance on his head, and im⯑precations too dreadful for the ſpirits of Ade⯑line, whom he compelled to riſe; and then, endeavouring to ſtifle the emotlons of rage, which the preſence of Theodore had excit⯑ed, he began to addreſs her with his uſual expreſſions of admiration.

The wretched Adeline, who, regardleſs of what he ſaid, ſtill continued to plead for her unhappy lover, was at length alarm⯑ed by the returning rage which the counte⯑nance of the Marquis expreſſed, and, ex⯑erting all her remaining ſtrength, ſhe ſprung from his graſp towards the door of the room; but he ſeized her hand before ſhe could reach it, and, regardleſs of her ſhrieks, bring⯑ing her back to her chair, was going to ſpeak, when voices were heard in the paſ⯑ſage, and immediately the landlord and his wife, whom Adeline's cries had alarmed, entered the apartment. The Marquis, turn⯑ing furiouſly to them, demanded what they wanted; but not waiting for their an⯑ſwer, he bade them attend him, and quit⯑ting the room, ſhe heard the door locked upon her.

Adeline now ran to the windows, which were unfaſtened, and opened into the inn-[45] yard. All was dark and ſilent. She call⯑ed aloud for help, but no perſon appeared; and the windows were ſo high, that it was impoſſible to eſcape unaſſiſted. She walked about the room in an agony of terror and diſtreſs, now ſtopping to liſten, and fancy⯑ing ſhe heard voices diſputing below, and now quickening her ſteps, as ſuſpenſe in⯑creaſed the agitation of her mind.

She had continued in this ſtate for near half an hour, when ſhe ſuddenly heard a violent noiſe in the lower part of the houſe, which increaſed till all was uproar and con⯑fuſion. People paſſed quickly through the paſſages, and doors were frequently opened and ſhut. She called, but received no an⯑ſwer. It immediately occurred to her, that Theodore, having heard her ſcreams, had attempted to come to her aſſiſtance, and that the buſtle had been occaſioned by the oppoſition of the officers. Knowing their fierceneſs and cruelty, ſhe was ſeized with dreadful apprehenſions for the life of Theo⯑dore.

A confuſed uproar of voices now ſounded from below, and the ſcreams of women convinced her there was fighting; ſhe even thought ſhe heard the claſhing of ſwords; the image of Theodore, dying by the hands of the Marquis, now roſe to her imagina⯑tion, and the terrors of ſuſpenſe became [46] almoſt inſupportable. She made a deſperate effort to force the door, and again called for help, but her trembling hands were powerleſs, and every perſon in the houſe ſeemed to be too much engaged even to hear her. A loud ſhriek now pierced her ears, and, amidſt the tumult that followed, ſhe clearly diſtinguiſhed deep groans. This confirmation of her fears deprived her of all her remaining ſpirits, and growing faint, ſhe ſunk almoſt lifeleſs into a chair near the door. The uproar gradually ſubſided till all was ſtill, but nobody returned to her. Soon after ſhe heard voices in the yard, but ſhe had no power to walk acroſs the room, even to aſk the queſtions ſhe wiſhed, yet ſeared, to have anſwered.

About a quarter of an hour elapſed, when the door was unlocked, and the hoſteſs appeared with a countenanee as pale as death. ‘"For God's ſake,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"tell me what has happened? Is he wounded? Is he killed?"’

‘"He is not dead, Ma'amſelle, but—’

‘"He is dying then?—tell me where he is—let me go."’

‘"Stop, Ma'amſelle,"’ cried the hoſteſs, ‘"you are to ſtay here, I only want the hartſhorn out of that cupboard there."’ Adeline tried to eſcape by the door, but [47] the hoſteſs, puſhing her aſide, locked it, and went down ſtairs.

Adeline's diſtreſs now entirely overcame her, and ſhe ſat motionleſs, and ſcarcely conſcious that ſhe exiſted, till rouſed by a ſound of footſteps near the door, which was again opened, and three men, whom ſhe knew to be the Marquis's ſervants, entered. She had ſufficient recollection to repeat the queſtions ſhe had aſked the land⯑lady, but they anſwered only that ſhe muſt come with them, and that a chaiſe was wait⯑ing for her at the door. Still ſhe urged her queſtions. ‘"Tell me if he lives,"’ cried ſhe.—‘"Yes, Ma'amſelle, he is alive, but he is terribly wounded, and the ſurgeon is juſt come to him."’ As they ſpoke they hurried her along the paſſage, and without noticing her entreaties and ſupplications to know whither ſhe was going, they had reached the foot of the ſtairs, when her cries brought ſeveral people to the door. To theſe the hoſteſs related, that the lady was the wife of a gentleman juſt arrived, who had overtaken her in her ſlight with a gallant; and account which the Marquis's ſervants corroborated. ‘"'Tis the gentleman who has juſt fought the duel,"’ added the hoſteſs, ‘"and it was on her ac⯑count."’

[48] Adeline, partly diſdaining to take any notice of this artful ſtory, and partly from her deſire to know the particulars of what had happened, contented herſelf with repeat⯑ing her inquiries; to which one of the ſpectators at laſt replied, that the gentleman was deſperately wounded. The Marquis's people would now have hurried her into the chaiſe, but ſhe ſunk lifeleſs in their arms, and her condition ſo intereſted the humanity of the ſpectators, that, notwith⯑ſtanding their belief of what had been ſaid, they oppoſed the effort made to carry her, ſenſeleſs as ſhe was, into the carriage.

She was at length taken into a room, and, by proper applications, reſtored to her ſenſes. There ſhe ſo earneſtly beſought an explanation of what had happened, that the hoſteſs acquainted her with ſome par⯑ticulars of the late rencounter. ‘"When the gentleman that was ill heard your ſcreams, Madam,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"he became quite outrageous, as they tell me, and nothing could pacify him. The Marquis, for they ſay he is a Marquis, but you know beſt, was then in the room with my huſband and I, and when he heard the uproar, he went down to ſee what was the matter; and when he came into the room where the Captain was, he found him ſtruggling with the ſer⯑jeant. [49] Then the Captain was more outrageous than ever; and notwith⯑ſtanding he had one leg chained, and no ſword, he contrived to get the ſer⯑jeant's cutlaſs out of the ſcabbard, and immediately flew at the Marquis, and wounded him deſperately; upon which he was ſecured."—’ ‘"It is the Marquis then who is wounded,"’ ſaid Adeline; ‘"the other gentleman is not hurt?"’

‘"No, not he,"’ replied the hoſteſs; ‘"but he will ſmart for it by and bye, for the Marquis ſwears he will do for him."’ Adeline, for a moment, forgot all her miſ⯑fortunes and all her danger in thankfulneſs for the immediate eſcape of Theodore; and ſhe was proceeding to make ſome farther inquiries concerning him, when the Mar⯑quis's ſervants entered the room, and declar⯑ed they could wait no longer. Adeline, now awakened to a ſenſe of the evils with which ſhe was threatened, endea⯑voured to win the pity of the hoſteſs, who, however, was, or affected to be, convinced of the truth of the Marquis's ſtory, and, therefore, inſenſible to all ſhe could urge. Again ſhe addreſſed his ſervants, but in vain; they would nei⯑ther ſuffer her to remain longer at the inn, or inform her whither ſhe was going; but, in the preſence of ſeveral perſons, [50] already prejudiced by the injurious aſ⯑ſertions of the hoſteſs, Adeline was hur⯑ried into the chaiſe, and her conductors mounting their horſes, the whole party was very ſoon beyond the village.

Thus ended Adeline's ſhare of an ad⯑venture, begun with a proſpect not only of ſecurity, but of happineſs; an ad⯑venture, which had attached her more cloſely to Theodore, and ſhewn him to be more worthy of her love; but which, at the ſame time, had diſtreſſed her by new diſappointment, produced the im⯑priſonment of her generous and now⯑adored lover, and delivered both him⯑ſelf and her into the power of a rival, irritated by delay, contempt, and oppo⯑ſition.

CHAPTER XII.

THE ſurgeon of the place, having examin⯑ed the Marquis's wound, gave him an immediate opinion upon it, and ordered [51] that he ſhould be put to bed: but the Mar⯑quis, ill as he was, had ſcarcely any other apprehenſion than that of loſing Adeline, and declared he ſhould be able to begin his journey in a few hours. With this in⯑tention, he had began to give orders for keeping horſes in readineſs, when the ſurgeon perſiſting moſt ſeriouſly, and even paſſionately to exclaim, that his life would be the ſacrifice of his raſhneſs, he was carried to a bed-chamber, where his valet alone was permitted to attend him.

This man, the convenient confidant of all his intrigues, had been the chief inſtrument in aſſiſting his deſigns con⯑cerning Adeline, and was indeed the very perſon who had brought her to the Marquis's villa on the borders of the foreſt. To him the Marquis gave his farther directions concerning her; and, foreſeeing the inconvenience, as well as the danger of detaining her at the inn, he had ordered him, with ſeveral other ſervants, to carry her away immediately in a hired carriage. The valet having gone to execute his orders, the Marquis was left to his own reflections, and to the violence of contending paſſions.

The reproaches and continued oppo⯑ſition of Theodore, the favoured lover of Adeline, exaſperated his pride, and [52] rouſed all his malice. He could not for a moment conſider this oppoſition, which was in ſome reſpects ſucceſsful, without feeling an exceſs of indignation and inveteracy, ſuch as the proſpect of a ſpeedy revenge could alone enable him to ſupport.

When he had diſcovered Adeline's eſcape from the villa, his ſurprize at firſt equalled his diſappointment; and, after exhauſting the paroxyſms of his rage upon his domeſtics, he diſpatched them all different ways in purſuit of her, going himſelf to the abbey, in the faint hope, that, deſtitute as ſhe was of other ſuccour, ſhe might have fled thither. La Motte, however, being as much ſurprized as himſelf, and as ignorant of rhe route which Adeline had taken, he returned to the villa, impa⯑tient of intelligence, and found ſome of his ſervants arrived, without any news of Adeline, and thoſe who came afterwards were as ſucceſsleſs as the firſt.

A few days after, a letter from the Lieutenant Colonel of the regiment in⯑formed him, that Theodore had quitted his company, and had been for ſome time abſent, nobody knew where. This in⯑formation, confirming a ſuſpicion which [...]ad frequently occurred to him, that Theodore, had been by ſome means, or [53] other, inſtrumental in the eſcape of Adeline, all his other paſſions became for a time ſubſervient to his revenge, and he gave or⯑ders for the immediate purſuit and appre⯑henſion of Theodore [...] but Theodore, in the mean time, had been overtaken and ſecured.

It was in conſequence of having formerly obſerved the growing partiality between him and Adeline, and of intelligence received from La Motte, who had noticed their in⯑terview in the foreſt, that the Marquis had reſolved to remove a rival ſo dangerous to his love, and ſo likely to be informed of his deſigns. He had therefore told Theodore, in a manner as plauſible as he could, that it would be neceſſary for him to join the re⯑giment; a notice which affected him only as it related to Adeline, and which ſeemed the leſs extraordinary, as he had already been at the villa a much longer time than was uſual with the officers invited by the Marquis. Theodore, indeed, very well knew the character of the Marquis, and had accepted his invitation rather from an un⯑willingneſs to ſhew any diſreſpect to his Colonel by a refuſal, than from a ſanguine expectation of pleaſure.

From the men who had apprehended Theo⯑dore, the Marquis received the information, which had enabled him to purſue and [54] recover Adeline; but, though he had now ef⯑fected this, he was internally a prey to the corroſive effects of diſappointed paſſion and exaſperated pride. The anguiſh of his wound was almoſt forgotten in that of his mind, and every pang he felt ſeemed to encreaſe his thirſt of revenge, and to recoil with new tor⯑ture upon his heart. While he was in this ſtate, he heard the voice of the innocent Adeline imploring protection; but her cries excited in him neither pity or remorſe; and when, ſoon after, the carriage drove away, and he was certain both that ſhe was ſecured and Theodore was wretched, he ſeemed to feel ſome ceſſation of mental pain.

Theodore, indeed, did ſuffer all that a vir⯑tuous mind, labouring under oppreſſion ſo ſevere, could feel; but he was, at leaſt, free from thoſe inveterate and malignant paſſions which tore the boſom of the Marquis, and which inflict upon the poſſeſſor a puniſh⯑ment more ſevere than any they can prompt him to imagine for another. What indig⯑nation he might feel towards the Marquis, was at this time ſecondary to his anxiety for Adeline. His captivity was painful, as it pre⯑vented his ſeeking a juſt and honourable re⯑venge; but it was dreadful, as it withheld him from attempting the reſcue of her whom he loved more than life.

When he heard the wheels of the carriage [55] that contained her drive off, he felt an agony of deſpair which almoſt overcame his reaſon. Even the ſtern hearts of the ſoldiers who at⯑tended him were not wholly inſenſible to his wretchedneſs, and by venturing to blame the conduct of the Marquis, they endea⯑voured to conſole their priſoner. The phy⯑ſician, who was juſt arrived, entered the room during this paroxyſm of his diſtreſs, and, both feeling and expreſſing much con⯑cern at his condition, inquired with ſtrong ſurprize why he had been thus precipitately removed to a room ſo very unfit for his re⯑ception?

Theodore explained to him the reaſon of this, of the diſtreſs he ſuffered, and of the chains by which he was diſgraced; and per⯑ceiving the phyſician liſtened to him with attention and compaſſion, he became deſi⯑rous of acquainting him with ſome farther particulars, for which purpoſe he deſired the ſoldiers to leave the room. The men, com⯑plying with his requeſt, ſtationed themſelves on the outſide of the door.

He then related all the particulars of the late tranſaction, and of his connection with the Marquis. The phyſician attended to his narrative with deep concern, and his countenance frequently expreſſed ſtrong agita⯑tion. When Theodore concluded, he remained for ſome time ſilent and loſt in thought; at [56] length, awaking from his reverie, he ſaid, ‘"I fear your ſituation is deſperate. The character of the Marquis is too well known to ſuffer him either to be loved or reſpected; from ſuch a man you have nothing to hope, for he has ſcarcely any thing to fear. I wiſh it was in my power to ſerve you, but I ſee no poſſibility of it."’

‘"Alas!"’ ſaid Theodore, ‘"my ſitu⯑ation is indeed deſperate, and—for that ſuffering angel"—’deep ſobs in⯑terrupted his voice, and the violence of his agitation would not allow him to proceed. The phyſician could only expreſs the ſym⯑pathy he felt for his diſtreſs, and entreat him to be more calm, when a ſervant en⯑tered the room from the Marquis, who de⯑ſired to ſee the phyſician immediately. After ſome time he ſaid he would attend the Marquis, and having endeavoured to attain a degree of compoſure, which he found it difficult to aſſume, he wrung the hand of Theodore and quitted the room, pro⯑miſing to return before he left the houſe.

He found the Marquis much agitated both in body and mind, and rather more ap⯑prehenſive for the conſequences of the wound than he had expected. His anxi⯑ety for Theodore now ſuggeſted a plan, by the execution of which he hoped he might be able to ſerve him. Having felt his pa⯑tient's [57] pulſe, and aſked ſome queſtions, he aſſumed a very ſerious look, when the Marquis, who watched every turn of his countenance, deſired he would without he⯑ſitation, ſpeak his opinion.

‘"I am ſorry to alarm you, my Lord, but here is ſome reaſon for apprehenſion: how long is it ſince you received the wound?"’

‘"Good God! there is danger then!"’ cried the Marquis, adding ſome bitter execrations againſt Theodore.—‘"There certainly is danger;"’ replied the phyſi⯑cian, ‘"a few hours may enable me to de⯑termine its degree."’

‘"A few hours, Sir!"’ interrupted the Marquis; ‘"a few hours!"’ The phyſician entreated him to be more calm. ‘"Confuſion!"’ cried the Marquis, ‘"A man in health may, with great compoſure, entreat a dying man to be calm. Theodore will be broke upon the wheel for it, however."’

‘"You miſtake me, Sir,"’ ſaid the phy⯑ſician, ‘"if I believe you a dying man, or, indeed, very near death, I ſhould not have ſpoken as I did. But it is of conſequence I ſhould know how long the wound has been inflicted."’ The Marquis's terror now began to ſubſide, and he gave a circumſtantial account of the affray with Theodore, repreſenting [58] that he had been baſely uſed in an affair, where his own conduct had been perfectly juſt and humane. The phyſician heard this relation with great coolneſs, and when it concluded, without making any comment upon it, told the Marquis he would preſcribe a medicine, which he wiſhed him to take im⯑mediately.

The Marquis, again alarmed by the gra⯑vity of his manner, entreated he would de⯑clare moſt ſeriouſly, whether he thought him in immediate danger. The phyſician heſitated, and the anxiety of the Marquis increaſed: ‘"It is of conſequence,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that I ſhould know my exact ſitua⯑tion."’ The phyſician then ſaid, that if he had any worldly affairs to ſettle, it would be as well to attend to them, for that it was impoſſible to ſay what might be the event.

He then turned the diſcourſe and ſaid, he had juſt been with the young officer under arreſt, who, he hoped, would not be removed at preſent, as ſuch a procedure muſt endanger his life. The Marquis uttered a dreadful oath, and, curſing Theodore for having brought him to his preſent condition, ſaid, he ſhould depart with the guard that very night. Againſt the cruelty of this ſen⯑tence, the phyſician ventured to expoſtulate; and endeavouring to awaken the Marquis to a ſenſe of humanity, pleaded earneſtly for [59] Theodore. But theſe entreaties and argu⯑ments ſeemed, by diſplaying to the Marquis a part of his own character, to rouſe his re⯑ſentment, and re-kindle all the violence of his paſſions.

The phyſician at length withdrew in deſ⯑pondency, after promiſing, at the Marquis's requeſt, not to leave the inn. He had hoped, by aggravating his danger, to obtain ſome advantages, both for Adeline and Theodore, but the plan had quite a contrary effect; for the apprehenſion of death, ſo dreadful to the guilty mind of the Marquis, inſtead of awaken⯑ing penitence, increaſed his deſire of ven⯑geance againſt the man, who had brought him to ſuch a ſituation. He determined to have Adeline conveyed, where Theo⯑dore, ſhould he by any accident eſcape, could never obtain her; and thus to ſe⯑cure to himſelf, at leaſt, ſome means of revenge. He knew, however, that when Theodore was once ſafely conveyed to his regiment, his deſtruction was certain, for ſhould he even be acquitted of the inten⯑tention of deſerting, he would be con⯑demned for having aſſaulted his ſuperior officer.

The phyſician returned to the room where Theodore was confined. The violence of his diſtreſs was now ſubſided into a ſtern deſ⯑pair, more dreadful than the vehemence [60] which had lately poſſeſſed him. The guard, in compliance with his requeſt, having left the room, the phy [...]ician repeated to him ſome part of his converſation with the Mar⯑quis. Theodore, after expreſſing his thanks, ſaid, he had nothing more to hope. For himſelf he felt little; it was for his family, and for Adeline he ſuffered. He enquired what route ſhe had taken, and though he had no proſpect of deriving advantage from the information, deſired the phyſician to aſſiſt him in obtaining it; but the landlord and his wife either were, or affected to be, ignorant of the matter, and it was in vain to apply to any other perſon.

The ſerjeant now entered with orders from the Marquis for the immediate departure of Theodore, who heard the meſſage with com⯑poſure, though the phyſician could not help expreſſing his indignation at this precipitate removal, and his dread of the conſequences that might attend it. Theodore had ſcarcely time to declare his gratitude for the kindneſs of this valuable friend, before the ſoldiers entered the room to conduct him to the car⯑riage in waiting. As he bade him farewell, Theodore ſlipped his purſe into his hand, and turning abruptly away, told the ſoldiers to lead on; but the phyſician ſtopped him, and refuſed the preſent with ſuch ſerious warmth, that he was compelled to reſume [61] it: he wrung the hand of his new friend, and, being unable to ſpeak, hurried away. The whole party immediately ſet off, and the unhappy Theodore was left to the remem⯑brance of his paſt hopes and ſufferings, to his anxiety for the fate of Adeline, the contem⯑plation of his preſent wretchedneſs, and the apprehenſion of what might be reſerved for him in future. For himſelf, indeed, he ſaw nothing but deſtruction, and was only re⯑lieved from total deſpair, by a feeble hope that ſhe, whom he loved better than himſelf, might one time enjoy that happineſs, of which he did not venture to look for a parti⯑cipation.

CHAPTER XIII.

MEANWHILE the perſecuted Adeline continued to travel, with little interruption, all night. Her mind ſuffered ſuch a tumult of grief, regret, deſpair, and terror, that ſhe could not be ſaid to think. The Marquis's valet, who had placed himſelf in the chaiſe with her, at firſt ſeemed inclined to talk, but her inattention ſoon ſilenced him, and left her to the indulgence of her own mi⯑ſery.

They ſeemed to travel through obſcure lanes and bye-ways, along which the car⯑riage drove as furiouſly as the darkneſs would [63] permit: when the dawn appeared, ſhe per⯑ceived herſelf on the borders of a foreſt, and renewed her entreaties to know whither ſhe was going. The man replied, he had no orders to tell, but ſhe would ſoon ſee. Adeline, who had hitherto ſuppoſed they were carrying her to the villa, now began to doubt it; and as every place appeared leſs terrible to her imagination than that, her deſpair began to abate, and ſhe thought only of the devoted Theodore, whom ſhe knew to be the victim of malice and revenge.

They now entered upon the foreſt, and it occurred to her that ſhe was going to the abbey; for though ſhe had no remembrance of the ſcenery, through which ſhe paſſed, it was not the leſs probable that this was the foreſt of Fontangville, whoſe boundaries were by much too extenſive to have come within the circle of her former walks. This con⯑jecture revived a terror, little inferior to that occaſioned by the idea of going to the villa, for at the abbey ſhe would be equal⯑ly in the power of the Marquis, and alſo in that of her cruel enemy, La Motte. Her mind revolted at the picture her fancy drew, and as the carriage moved under the ſhades, ſhe threw from the window a look of eager inquiry for ſome object which might con⯑firm, or deſtroy her preſent ſurmiſe: ſhe did not long look, before an opening in the [64] foreſt ſhewed her the diſtant towers of the abbey—‘"I am, indeed loſt then!"’ ſaid ſhe, burſting into tears.

They were ſoon at the foot of the lawn, and Peter was ſeen running to open the gate, at which the carriage ſtopped. When he ſaw Adeline, he looked ſurprized and made an effort to ſpeak, but the chaiſe now drove up to the abbey, where, at the door of the hall, La Motte himſelf appeared. As he advanced to take her from the carriage, an univerſal trembling ſeized her; it was with the utmoſt difficulty ſhe ſupported her⯑ſelf, and for ſome moments ſhe neither ob⯑ſerved his countenance, nor heard his voice. He offered his arm to aſſiſt her into the abbey, which ſhe at firſt refuſed, but having totter⯑ed a few paces, was obliged to accept; they then entered the vaulted room, where, ſinking into a chair, a flood of tears came to her relief. La Motte did not interrupt the ſilence, which continued for ſome time, but paced the room in ſeeming agitation. When Adeline was ſufficiently recovered to notice external objects, ſhe obſerved his counte⯑nance, and there read the tumult of his ſoul, while he was ſtruggling to aſſume a firmneſs, which his better feelings oppoſed.

La Motte now took her hand, and would have led her from the room, but ſhe ſtopped, and, with a kind of deſperate courage, made [65] an effort to engage him to pity, and to ſave her. He interrupted her; ‘"It is not in my power,"’ ſaid he, in a voice of emotion; ‘"I am not maſter of myſelf, or my conduct; inquire no farther—it is ſufficient for you to know that I pity you; more I cannot do."’ He gave her no time to re⯑ply, but, taking her hand, led her to the ſtairs of the tower, and from thence to the chamber ſhe had formerly occupied.

‘"Here you muſt remain for the pre⯑ſent,"’ ſaid he, ‘"in a confinement, which is, perhaps, almoſt as involun⯑tary on my part as it can be on yours. I am willing to render it as eaſy as poſ⯑ble, and have, therefore, ordered ſome books to be brought you."’

Adeline made an effort to ſpeak, but he hurried from the room, ſeemingly aſhamed of the part he had undertaken, and unwil⯑ling to truſt himſelf with her tears. She heard the door of the chamber locked, and then, looking towards the windows, per⯑ceived they were ſecured: the door that led to the other apartments was alſo faſtened. Such preparation for ſecurity ſhocked her, and, hopeleſs as ſhe had long believed her⯑ſelf, ſhe now perceived her mind to ſink deeper in deſpair. When the tears ſhe ſhed had ſomewhat relieved her, and her thoughts could turn from the ſubjects of [66] her immediate concern, ſhe was thankful for the total ſecluſion allotted her, ſince it would ſpare her the pain ſhe muſt feel in the preſence of Monſieur and Madame La Motte, and allow the unreſtrained indul⯑gence of her own ſorrow and reflection; reflection which, however diſtreſſing, was preſerable to the agony inflicted on the mind, when agitated by care and fear, it is ob⯑liged to aſſume an appearance of tranquil⯑lity.

In about a quarter of an hour, her cham⯑ber door was unlocked, and Annette appear⯑ed with refreſhments and books: ſhe ex⯑preſſed ſatisfaction at ſeeing Adeline again, but ſeemed fearful of ſpeaking, knowing, probably, that it was contrary to the orders of La Motte, who, ſhe ſaid, was waiting at the bottom of the ſtairs. When Annette was gone, Adeline took ſome refreſhment, which was indeed neceſſary; for ſhe had taſted nothing ſince ſhe left the inn. She was pleaſed, but not ſurprized, that Ma⯑dame La Motte did not appear, who, it was evident, ſhunned her from a conſciouſneſs of her own ungenerous conduct, a conſciouſ⯑neſs, which offered ſome preſumption, that ſhe was ſtill not wholly unfriendly to her. She reflected upon the words of La Motte, ‘"I am not maſter of myſelf, or my conduct,"’ and though they afforded her no hope, ſhe [67] derived ſome comfort, poor as it was, from the belief that he pitied her. After ſome time ſpent in miſerable reflection and various conjectures, her long-agitated ſpirits ſeem⯑ed to demand repoſe, and ſhe laid down to ſleep.

Adeline ſlept quietly for ſeveral hours, and awoke with a mind refreſhed and tran⯑quillized. To prolong this temporary peace, and to prevent, therefore, the intruſion of her own thoughts, ſhe examined the books La Motte had ſent her: among theſe ſhe found ſome that in happier times had elevated her mind and intereſted her heart; their effect was now weakened, they were ſtill, however, able to ſoften for a time the ſenſe of her miſfortunes.

But this Lethean medicine to a wound⯑ed mind was but a temporary bleſſing, the entrance of La Motte diſſolved the illuſions of the page, and awakened her to a ſenſe of her own ſituation. He came with food, and having placed it on the table, left the room without ſpeaking. Again ſhe endea⯑voured to read, but his appearance had bro⯑ken the enchantment—bitter reflection re⯑turned to her mind, and brought with it the image of Theodore—of Theodore loſt to her for ever!

La Motte, mean while, experienced all the terrors that could be inflicted by a con⯑ſcience [68] not wholly hardened to guilt. He had been led on by paſſion to diſſipation—and from diſſipation to vice; but having once touched the borders of infamy, the progreſ⯑ſive ſteps followed each other faſt, and he now ſaw himſelf the pander of a villain, and the betrayer of an innocent girl, whom every plea of juſtice and humanity called upon him to protect. He contemplated his picture—he ſhrunk from it, but he could change its deformity only by an effort too nobly daring for a mind already effeminated by vice. He viewed the dangerous labyrinth into which he was led, and perceived, as if for the firſt time, the progreſſion of his guilt; from this labyrinth he weakly imagined far⯑ther guilt could alone extricate him. In⯑ſtead of employing his mind upon the means of ſaving Adeline from deſtruction, and him⯑ſelf from being inſtrumental to it, he endea⯑voured only to lull the pangs of conſcience and to perſuade himſelf into a belief that he muſt proceed in the courſe he had begun. He knew himſelf to be in the power of the Marquis, and he dreaded that power more than the ſure, though diſtant puniſhment that awaits upon guilt. The honour of Ade⯑line and the quiet of his own conſcience he conſented to barter for a few years of exiſ⯑tence.

He was ignorant of the preſent illneſs of [69] the Marquis, or he would have perceived that there was a chance of eſcaping the threa⯑tened puniſhment at a price leſs enormous than infamy, and he would, perhaps, have endeavoured to ſave Adeline and himſelf by flight. But the Marquis, foreſeeing the poſ⯑ſibility of this, had ordered his ſervants carefully to conceal the circumſtance which detained him, and to acquaint La Motte that he ſhould be at the abbey in a few days, at the ſame time directing his valet to await him there. Adeline, as he expected, had neither inclination nor opportunity to men⯑tion it, and thus La Motte remained igno⯑rant of the circumſtance, which might have preſerved him from farther guilt and Adeline from miſery.

Moſt unwillingly had La Motte made his wife acquainted with the action, which had made him abſolutely dependent upon the will of the Marquis, but the perturbation of his mind partly betrayed him: frequently in his ſleep he muttered incoherent ſentences, and frequently would ſtart from his ſlumber, and call, in paſſionate exclamation, upon Adeline. Theſe inſtances of a diſturbed mind had alarmed and terrified Madame La Motte, who watched while he ſlept and ſoon gathered from his words a confuſed idea of the Marquis's deſigns.

She hinted her ſuſpicions to La Motte, [70] who reproved her for having entertained them, but his manner, inſtead of repreſ⯑ſing, increaſed her fears for Adeline; fears, which the conduct of the Marquis ſoon confirmed. On the night that he ſlept at the abbey, it had occurred to her, that whatever ſcheme was in agitation would now moſt probably be diſcuſſed, and anxiety for Adeline made her ſtoop to a meanneſs, which, in other circumſtances, would have been deſpicable. She quitted her room, and, concealing herſelf in an apartment ad⯑joining that in which ſhe had left the Marquis and her huſband, liſtened to their diſcourſe. It turned upon the ſubject ſhe had expected, and diſcloſed to her the full extent of their deſigns. Terrified for Adeline, and ſhocked at the guilty weakneſs of La Motte, ſhe was for ſome time incapable of thinking, or de⯑termining how to proceed. She knew her huſband to be under great obligation to the Marquis, whoſe territory thus afforded him a ſhelter from the world, and that it was in the power of the former to betray him into the hands of his enemies. She believed alſo that the Marquis would do this, if provoked, yet ſhe thought, upon ſuch an occaſion, La Motte might find ſome way ofappeaſing the Marquis, without ſubjecting himſelf to diſ⯑honour. After ſome farther reflection, her mind became more compoſed, and ſhe re⯑turned [71] to her chamber, where La Motte ſoon followed. Her ſpirits, however, were not now in a ſtate to encounter either his diſpleaſure, or his oppoſition, which ſhe had too much reaſon to expect, whenever ſhe ſhould mention the ſubject of her con⯑cern, and ſhe, therefore, reſolved not to notice it till the morrow.

On the morrow, ſhe told La Motte all he had uttered in his dreams, and mention⯑ed other circumſtances, which convinced him it was in vain any longer to deny the truth of her apprehenſions. His wife then repreſented to him how poſſible it was to avoid the infamy, into which he was about to plunge, by quitting the territories of the Marquis, and pleaded ſo warmly for Adeline, that La Motte, in ſullen ſilence, appeared to meditate upon the plan His thoughts were, however, very differently engaged. He was conſcious of having de⯑ſerved from the Marquis a dreadful puniſh⯑ment, and knew that if he exaſperated him by refuſing to acquieſce with his wiſhes, he had little to expect from flight, for the eye of juſtice and revenge would purſue him with indefatigable reſearch.

La Motte meditated how to break this to his wife, for he perceived that there was no other method of counteracting her vir⯑tuous compaſſion for Adeline, and the dan⯑gerous [72] conſequences to be expected from it, than by oppoſing it with terror for his ſafe⯑ty, and this could be done only by ſhew⯑ing her the full extent of the evils that muſt attend the reſentment of the Marquis. Vice had not yet ſo entirely darkened his con⯑ſcience, but that the bluſh of ſhame ſtained his cheek, and his tongue faltered when he would have told his guilt. At length, find⯑ing it impoſſible to mention particulars, he told her that, on account of an affair, which no entreaties ſhould ever induce him to explain, his life was in the power of the Marquis. ‘"You ſee the alternative,"’ ſaid he, ‘"take your choice of evils, and, if you can, tell Adeline of her danger, and ſacrifice my life to ſave her from a ſitu⯑ation, which many would be ambitious to obtain."—’Madame La Motte, con⯑demned to the horrible alternative of per⯑mitting the ſeduction of innocence, or of dooming her huſband to deſtruction, ſuffer⯑ed a diſtraction of thought, which defied all controul. Perceiving, however, that an oppoſition to the deſigns of the Marquis would ruin La Motte and avail Adeline little, ſhe determined to yield and endure in ſilence.

At the time when Adeline was planning her eſcape from the abbey, the ſignificant looks of Peter had led La Motte to ſuſpect [73] the truth and to obſerve them more cloſe⯑ly. He had ſeen them ſeparate in the hall in apparent confuſion, and had afterwards obſerved them converſing together in the cloiſters. Circumſtances ſo unuſual left him not a doubt that Adeline had diſcovered her danger, and was concerting with Peter ſome means of eſcape. Affecting, there⯑fore, to be informed of the whole affair, he charged Peter with treachery towards himſelf, and threatened him with the ven⯑geance of the Marquis if he did not diſcloſe all he knew. The menace intimidated Pe⯑ter, and, ſuppoſing that all chance of aſ⯑ſiſting Adeline was gone, he made a cir⯑cumſtantial confeſſion, and promiſed to for⯑bear acquainting Adeline with the diſcovery of the ſcheme. In this promiſe he was ſe⯑conded by inclination, for he feared to meet the diſpleaſure, which Adeline, believing he had betrayed her, might expreſs.

On the evening of the day, on which Adeline's intended eſcape was diſcovered, the Marquis deſigned to come to the abbey, and it had been agreed that he ſhould then take Adeline to his villa. La Motte had immediately perceived the advantage of per⯑mitting Adeline to repair, in the belief of being undiſcovered, to the tomb. It would prevent much diſturbance and oppoſition, and ſpare himſelf the pain he muſt feel in [74] her preſence, when ſhe ſhould know that he had betrayed her. A ſervant of the Mar⯑quis might go, at the appointed hour, to the tomb, and wrapt in the diſguiſe of night, might take her quietly thence in the character of Peter. Thus, without reſiſ⯑tance, ſhe would be carried to the villa, nor diſcover her miſtake till it was too late to prevent its conſequence.

When the Marquis did arrive, La Motte, who was not ſo much intoxicated by the wine he had drank, as to forget his pru⯑dence, informed him of what had happen⯑ed and what he had planned, and the Mar⯑quis approving it, his ſervant was made ac⯑quainted with the ſignal, which afterwards betrayed Adeline to his power.

A deep conſciouſneſs of the unworthy neutrality ſhe had obſerved in Adeline's con⯑cerns, made Madame La Motte anxiouſly avoid ſeeing her now that ſhe was again in the abbey. Adeline underſtood this conduct, and ſhe rejoiced that ſhe was ſpared the an⯑guiſh of meeting her as an enemy, whom ſhe had once conſidered as a friend. Several days now paſſed in ſolitude, in miſerable retroſpection, and dreadful expectation. The perilous ſituation of Theodore was al⯑moſt the conſtant ſubject of her thoughts. Often did ſhe breathe an agonizing wiſh for his ſafety, and often look round the ſphere [75] of poſſibility in ſearch of hope: but hope had almoſt left the horizon of her proſpect, and when it did appear, it ſprung only from the death of the Marquis, whoſe vengeance threatened moſt certain deſtruction.

The Marquis, mean while, lay at the inn at Baux, in a ſtate of very doubtful re⯑covery. The phyſician and ſurgeon, nei⯑ther of whom he would diſmiſs, nor ſuffer to leave the village, proceeded upon con⯑trary principles, and the good effect of what the one preſcribed, was frequently counter⯑acted by the injudicious treatment of the other. Humanity alone prevailed on the phyſician to continue his attendance. The malady of the Marquis was alſo heightened by the impatience of his temper, the ter⯑rors of death, and the irritation of his paſ⯑ſions. One moment he believed himſelf dy⯑ing, another he could ſcarcely be prevented from attempting to follow Adeline to the abbey. So various were the fluctuations of his mind, and ſo rapid the ſchemes that ſuc⯑ceeded each other, that his paſſions were in a continual ſtate of conflict. The phy⯑ſician attempted to perſuade him, that his recovery greatly depended upon tranquillity, and to prevail upon him to attempt, at leaſt, ſome command of his feelings, but he was ſoon ſilenced, in hopeleſs diſguſt, by the impatient anſwers of the Marquis.

[76] At length the ſervant, who had carried off Adeline, returned, and the Marquis having ordered him into his chamber, aſked ſo many queſtions in a breath, that the man knew not which to anſwer. At length he pulled a folded paper from his pocket, which he ſaid had been dropped in the chaiſe by Mademoiſelle Adeline, and as he thought his lordſhip would like to ſee it, he had ta⯑ken care of it. The Marquis ſtretched forth his hand with eagerneſs and received a note addreſſed to Theodore. On perceiving the ſuperſcription, the agitation of jealous rage for a moment overcame him, and he held it in his hand unable to open it.

He, however, broke the ſeal, and found it to be a note of inquiry, written by Adeline to Theodore during his illneſs, and which, from ſome accident ſhe had been prevented from ſending him. The tender ſolicitude it expreſſed for his recovery ſtung the ſoul of the Marquis, and drew from him a com⯑pariſon of her feelings on the illneſs of his rival and that of himſelf. ‘"She could be ſolicitous for his recovery,"’ ſaid he, ‘"but for mine, ſhe only dreads it."’ As if willing to prolong the pain this little billet had excited, he then read it again. Again he curſed his fate and execrated his rival, giving himſelf up, as uſual, to the tran⯑ſports of his paſſion. He was going to [77] throw it from him, when his eyes caught the ſeal, and he looked earneſtly at it. His anger ſeemed now to have ſubſided, he de⯑poſited the note carefully in his pocket book, and was, for ſome time, loſt in thought.

After many days of hopes and fears, the ſtrength of his conſtitution overcame his ill⯑neſs, and he was well enough to write ſe⯑veral letters, one of which he immediately ſent off to prepare La Motte for his recep⯑tion. The ſame policy, which had prompt⯑ed him to conceal his illneſs from La Motte, now urged him to ſay, what he knew would not happen, that he ſhould reach the abbey on the day after his ſervant. He repeated this injunction, that Adeline ſhould be ſtrictly guarded, and renewed his pro⯑miſes of reward for the future ſervices of La Motte.

La Motte, to whom each ſucceeding day had brought new ſurprize and perplexity concerning the abſence of the Marquis, re⯑ceived this notice with uneaſineſs, for he had begun to hope that the Marquis had altered his intentions concerning Adeline, being either engaged in ſome new adven⯑ture, or obliged to viſit his eſtates in ſome diſtant province: he would have been wil⯑ling thus to have got rid of an affair, which was to reflect ſo much diſhonour on him⯑ſelf.

[78] This hope was now vaniſhed, and he directed Madame to prepare for the re⯑ception of the Marquis. Adeline paſſed theſe days in a ſtate of ſuſpenſe, which was now cheered by hope, and now darken⯑ed by deſpair. This delay ſo much ex⯑ceeding her expectation, ſeemed to prove that the illneſs of the Marquis was danger⯑rous; and when ſhe looked forward to the conſequences of his recovery, ſhe could not be ſorry that it was ſo. So odious was the idea of him to her mind, that ſhe would not ſuffer her lips to pronounce his name, nor make the inquiry of Annette, which was of ſuch conſequence to her peace.

It was about a week after the receipt of the Marquis's letter, that Adeline one day ſaw from her window a party of horſemen enter the avenue, and knew them to be the Marquis and his attendants. She re⯑tired from the window in a ſtate of mind not to be deſcribed, and, ſinking into a chair, was for ſome time ſcarcely conſcious of the objects around her. When ſhe had recovered from the firſt terror, which his appearance excited, ſhe again tottered to the window; the party was not in ſight, but ſhe heard the trampling of horſes, and knew that the Marquis had wound round to the great gate of the abbey. She ad⯑dreſſed herſelf to Heaven for ſupport and [79] protection, and her mind being now ſome⯑what compoſed, ſat down to wait the event.

La Motte received the Marquis with ex⯑preſſions of ſurprize at his long abſence, and the latter, merely ſaying he had been de⯑tained by illneſs, proceeded to enquire for Adeline. He was told ſhe was in her cham⯑ber, from whence ſhe might be ſummoned if he wiſhed to ſee her. The Marquis he⯑ſitated, and at length excuſed himſelf, but deſired ſhe might be ſtrictly watched. ‘"Per⯑haps, my Lord,"’ ſaid La Motte ſm [...]ling, ‘"Adeline's obſtinacy has been too powerful for your paſſion; you ſeem leſs intereſted concerning her than formerly."’

‘"Oh! by no means,"’ replied the Mar⯑quis; ‘"ſhe intereſts me if poſſible more than ever; ſo much, indeed, that I cannot have her too cloſely guarded; and I, therefore, beg La Motte, that you will ſuffer nobody to attend her, but when you can obſerve them yourſelf. Is the room where ſhe is confined ſufficiently ſecure?"’ La Motte aſſured him it was; but at the ſame time expreſſed his wiſh that ſhe was removed to the villa. ‘"If by any means,"’ ſaid he, ‘"ſhe ſhould contrive to eſcape, I know what I muſt expect from your diſpleaſure; and this reflection keeps my mind in continual anxiety."’

‘"This removal cannot be at preſent,"’ [80] ſaid the Marquis; ‘"ſhe is ſafer here, and you do wrong to diſturb yourſelf with any apprehenſion of her eſcape, if her chamber is really ſo ſecure, as you re⯑preſent it."’

‘"I can have no motive for deceiving you, my Lord, in this point."’

‘"I do n [...]t ſuſpect you of any,"’ ſaid the Marquis; ‘"guard her carefully and truſt me, ſhe will not eſcape. I can rely upon my valet, and if you wiſh it, he ſhall re⯑main here."’ La Motte thought there could be no occaſion for him, and it was agreed that the man ſhould go home.

The Marquis after remaining about half an hour in converſation with La Motte, left the abbey, and Adeline ſaw him depart with a mixture of ſurprize and thankfulneſs that almoſt overcame her. She had waited in mo⯑mentary expectation of being ſummoned to appear, and had been endeavouring to arm herſelf with reſolution to ſupport his preſence. She had liſtened to every voice that ſounded from below, and at every ſtep that croſſed the paſſage, her heart had palpitated with dread, left it ſhould be La Motte coming to lead her to the Marquis. This ſtate of ſuffering had been prolonged almoſt beyond her power of enduring it, when ſhe heard voices under her window, and riſing, ſaw the Marquis ride away. After giving [81] way to the joy and thankfulneſs that ſwelled her heart, ſhe endeavoured to account for this circumſtance, which, conſidering what had paſſed, was certainly very ſtrange. It appeared, indeed, wholly inexplicable, and, after much fruitleſs inquiry, ſhe quitted the ſubject, endeavouring to perſuade herſelf that it could only portend good.

The time of La Motte's uſual viſitation now drew near, and Adeline expected it in the trembling hope of hearing that the Marquis had ceaſed his perſecution; but he was, as uſual, ſullen and ſilent, and it was not till he was about to quit the room, that Adeline had the courage to inquire, when the Mar⯑quis was expected again? La Motte, opening the door to depart, replied, ‘"On the following day,"’ and Adeline, whom fear and delicacy embarraſſed, ſaw ſhe could obtain no intelligence of Theodore but by a direct queſtion; ſhe looked earneſtly as if ſhe would have ſpoke, and he ſtopped, but ſhe bluſhed and was ſtill ſilent, till upon his again attempting to leave the room, ſhe faintly called him back.

‘"I would aſk,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"after that un⯑fortunate chevalier who has incurred the reſentment of the Marquis by endea⯑vouring to ſerve me. Has the Marquis mentioned him?"’

‘"He has,"’ replied La Motte; ‘"and [82] your indifference towards the Marquis is now fully explained."’

‘"Since I muſt feel reſentment towards thoſe who injure me,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"I may ſurely be allowed to be grateful to⯑wards thoſe who ſerve me. Had the Marquis deſerved my eſteem, he would, probably, have poſſeſſed it."’

‘"Well, well,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"this young hero, who, it ſeems, has been brave enough to lift his arm againſt his Co⯑lonel, is taken care of, and, I doubt not, will ſoon be ſenſible of the value of his quix⯑otiſm."’ Indignation, grief, and fear, ſtruggled in the boſom of Adeline; ſhe diſ⯑dained to give La Motte an opportunity of again pronouncing the name of Theodore; yet the uncertainty under which ſhe laboured, urged her to inquire, whether the Marquis had heard of him ſince he left Caux? ‘"Yes,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"he has been ſafely carried to his regimen, where he is con⯑fined till the Marquis can attend to appear againſt him."’

Adeline had neither power nor inclination to inquire farther, and La Motte quitting the chamber, ſhe was left to the miſery he had renewed. Though this information contained no new circumſtance of misfor⯑tune, (for ſhe now heard confirmed what ſhe had always expected) a weight of new [83] ſorrow ſeemed to fall upon her heart, and ſhe perceived that ſhe had unconſciouſly cheriſhed a latent hope of Theodore's eſ⯑cape before he reached the place of his deſti⯑nation. All hope was now, however, gone; he was ſuffering the miſeries of a priſon, and the tortures of apprehenſion both for his own life and her ſafety. She pictured to herſelf the dark damp dungeon where he lay, loaded with chains, and pale with ſick⯑neſs and grief; ſhe heard him, in a voice that thrilled her heart, call upon her name, and raiſe his eyes to Heaven in ſilent ſuppli⯑cation: ſhe ſaw the anguiſh of his counte⯑nance, the tears that fell ſlowly on his cheek, and remembering, at the ſame time, the generous conduct that had brought him to this abyſs of miſery, and that it was for her ſake he ſuffered, grieſ reſolved itſelf into deſpair, her tears ceaſed to ſlow, and ſhe ſunk ſilently into a ſtate of dreadful torpor.

On the morrow the Marquis arrived, and departed as before. Several days then elapſed, and he did not appear, till one evening, as La Motte and his wife were in their uſual ſitting-room, he entered, and converſed for ſometime upon general ſubjects, from which, however, he by degrees fell into a reverie, and, after a pauſe of ſilence, he roſe and drew La Motte to the window. ‘"I would ſpeak with you alone,"’ ſaid he, [84] ‘"if you are at leiſure; if not, another time will do."’ La Motte, aſſuring him he was perfectly ſo, would have conducted him to another room, but the Marquis pro⯑poſed a walk in the foreſt. They went out together, and when they had reached a ſo⯑litary glade, where the ſpreading branches of the beech and oak deepened the ſhades of twilight, and threw a ſolemn obſcurity around, the Marquis turned to La Motte, and addreſſed him:

‘"Your condition, La Motte, is un⯑happy; this abbey is a melancholy reſidence for a man like you fond of ſociety, and like you alſo qualified to adorn it."’ La Motte bowed ‘"I wiſh it was in my power to reſtore you to the world,"’ continued the Marquis; ‘"perhaps, if I knew the particulars of the affair which has driven you from it, I might perceive that my intereſt could ef⯑fectually ſerve you. I think I have heard you hint it was an affair of honour."’ La Motte was ſilent. ‘"I mean not to diſtreſs you, however; nor is it common curio⯑ſity that prompts this inquiry, but a ſin⯑cere deſire to befriend you. You have already informed me of ſome particulars of your misfortunes. I think the liberality of your temper led you into expences which you afterwards endeavoured to retrieve by gaming."’

[85] ‘"Yes, my Lord,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"'tis true that I diſſipated the greater part of an affluent fortune in luxurious indulgen⯑ces, and that I afterwards took unworthy means to recover it: but I wiſh to be ſpared upon this ſubject. I would, if poſ⯑ſible, loſe the remembrance of a tranſac⯑tion which muſt for ever ſtain my charac⯑ter, and the rigorous effect of which, I fear, it is not in your power, my Lord, to ſoften"’

‘"You may be miſtaken on this point,"’ replied the Marquis; ‘"my intereſt at Court is by no means inconſiderable. Fear not from me any ſeverity of cenſure; I am not at all inclined to judge harſhly of the faults of others. I well know how to allow for the emergency of circumſtances; and, I think, La Motte, you have hi⯑therto found me your friend."’

‘"I have, my Lord."’

‘"And when you recollect, that I have forgiven a certain tranſaction of late date—"’

‘"It is true, my Lord; and allow me to ſay, I have a juſt ſenſe of your generoſity. The tranſaction you allude to is by far the worſt of my life; and what I have to relate cannot, therefore, lower me in your opinion. When I had diſſipated the greateſt part of my property in habits of [86] voluptuous pleaſure, I had recourſe to gaming to ſupply the means of continuing them. A run of good luck, for ſome time, enabled me to do this, and encourag⯑ing my moſt ſanguine expectations, I conti⯑nued in the ſame career of ſucceſs.’

‘"Soon after this a ſudden turn of fortune deſtroyed my hopes, and reduced me to the moſt deſperate extremity. In one night my money was lowered to the ſum of two hundred louis. Theſe I reſolv⯑ed to ſtake alſo, and with them my life; for it was my reſolution not to ſurvive their loſs. Never ſhall I forget the hor⯑rors of that moment on which hung my fate, nor the deadly anguiſh that ſeized my heart when my laſt ſtake was gone. I ſtood for ſome time in a ſtate of ſtupe⯑faction, till rouſed to a ſenſe of my miſ⯑fortune, my paſſion made me pour forth execrations on my more fortunate rivals, and act all the frenzy of deſpair. Dur⯑ing this paroxyſm of madneſs, a gentle⯑man, who had been a ſilent obſerver of all that paſſed, approached me.—You are unfortunate, Sir, ſaid he.—I need not be informed of that, Sir, I replied.’

‘"You have, perhaps, been ill uſed, re⯑ſumed he.—Yes, Sir, I am ruined, and, therefore, it may be ſaid, I am ill uſed.’

[87] ‘"Do you know the people you have played with?’

‘"No; but I have met them in the firſt circles.’

‘"Then I am, probably, miſtaken, ſaid he, and walked away. His laſt words rouſed me, and raiſed a hope that my mo⯑ney had not been fairly loſt. Wiſhing for farther information, I went in ſearch of the gentleman, but he had left the rooms; I, however, ſtifled my tranſports, return⯑ed to the table where I had loſt my money, placed myſelf behind the chair of one of the perſons who had won it, and cloſely watched the game. For ſome time I ſaw nothing that could confirm my ſuſpicions, but was at length convinced they were juſt.’

‘"When the game was ended I called one of my adverſaries out of the room, and telling him what I had obſerved, threatened inſtantly to expoſe him if he did not reſtore my property. The man was, for ſome time, as poſitive as myſelf; and, aſſuming the bully, threatened me with chaſtiſement for my ſcandalous aſſertions. I was not, however, in a ſtate of mind to be frightened, and his manner ſerved only to exaſperate my temper, already ſufficiently inflamed by misſortune. After retorting his threats, I was about to re⯑turn [88] to the apartment we had left, and expoſe what had paſſed, when, with an inſidious ſmile and a ſoftened voice, he begged I would favour him with a few moments attention, and allow him to ſpeak with the gentleman his partner. To the latter part of his requeſt I heſitated, but, in the mean time, the gentleman himſelf entered the room. His partner related to him, in few words, what had paſſed between us, and the terror that appeared in his countenance ſufficiently declared his conſciouſneſs of guilt.’

‘"They then drew aſide, and remained a few minutes in converſation together, after which they approached me with an offer, as they phraſed it, of a compromiſe. I declared, however, againſt any thing of this kind, and ſwore, nothing leſs than the whole ſum I had loſt ſhould content me.—Is it not poſſible, Monſieur, that you may be offered ſomething as advan⯑tageous as the whole?—I did not under⯑ſtand their meaning, but, after they had continued for ſome time to give diſtant hints of the ſame ſort, they proceeded to explain.’

‘"Perceiving their characters wholly in my power, they wiſhed to ſecure my intereſt to their party, and, therefore, informing me, that they belonged to an aſſociation [89] of perſons, who lived upon the folly and inexperience of others, they offered me a ſhare in their concern. My fortunes were deſperate, and the propoſal now made me would not only produce an immediate ſup⯑ply, but enable me to return to thoſe ſcenes of diſſipated pleaſure, to which paſſion had at firſt, and long habit after⯑wards, attached me. I cloſed with the offer, and thus ſunk from diſſipation into infamy."’

La Motte pauſed, as if the recollection of theſe times filled him with remorſe. The Marquis underſtood his feelings. ‘"You judge too rigorouſly of yourſelf,"’ ſaid he; ‘"there are few perſons, let their appear⯑ance of honeſty be what it may, who, in ſuch circumſtances, would have acted better than you have done. Had I been in your ſituation, I know not how I might have acted. That rigid virtue which ſhall condemn you, may dignify itſelf with the appel ation of wiſdom, but I wiſh not to poſſeſs it; let it ſtill reſide, where it generally is to be found, in the cold boſoms of thoſe, who, wanting feel⯑ing to be men, dignify themſelves with the title of philoſophers. But pray pro⯑ceed."’

‘"Our ſucceſs was for ſome time unli⯑mited, for we held the wheel of fortune, [90] and truſted not to her caprice. Thought⯑leſs and voluptuous by nature, my ex⯑pences fully kept pace with my income. An unlucky diſcovery of the practices of our party was at length made by a young no⯑bleman, which obliged us to act for ſome time with the utmoſt circumſpection. It would be tedious to relate the particu⯑lars, which made us at length ſo ſuſpected, that the diſtant civility and cold reſerve of our acquaintance rendered the frequenting public aſſemblies both painful and unprofi⯑table. We turned our thoughts to other modes o obtaining money, and a ſwindling tranſaction, in which I engaged, to a very large amount, ſoon compelled me to leave Paris. You know the reſt, my Lord."’

La Motte was now ſilent, and the Marquis continued for ſome time muſing. ‘"You p [...]rceive, my Lord,"’ at length reſumed La Motte, ‘"you perceive that my caſe is hopeleſs."’

‘"It is bad, indeed, but not entirely hope⯑leſs. From my ſoul I p [...]y you. Yet, if you ſhould return to the world, and in⯑cur the danger of proſecution, I think my intereſt with the Miniſter might ſave you from any ſevere puniſhment. You ſeem, however, to have loſt your reliſh [91] for ſociety, and, perhaps, do not wiſh to return to it."’

‘"Oh! my Lord, can you doubt this?—But I am overcome with the exceſs of your goodneſs; would to Heaven it were in my power to prove the gratitude it inſpires."’

‘"Talk not of goodneſs,"’ ſaid the Marquis; ‘"I will not pretend that my deſire of ſerving you is unalloyed by any degree of ſelf⯑intereſt. I will not affect to be more than man, and truſt me thoſe who do are leſs. It is in your power to teſtify your gratitude, and bind me to your intereſt for ever."’ He pauſed. ‘"Name but the means,"’ cried La Motte, ‘"name but the means, and if they are within the compaſs of poſſibility they ſhall be execu⯑ted."’ The Marquis was ſtill ſilent. ‘"Do you doubt my ſincerity, my Lord, that you are yet ſilent? Do you fear to repoſe a confidence in the man whom you have already loaded with obligation? who lives by your mercy, and almoſt by your means."’ The Marquis looked earneſtly at him, but did not ſpeak. ‘"I have not deſerved this of you, my Lord; ſpeak, I entreat you."’

‘"There are certain prejudices attached to the human mind,"’ ſaid the Marquis in a ſlow and ſolemn voice, ‘"which it re⯑quires [92] all our wiſdom to keep from interfer⯑ing with our happineſs; certain ſet notions, acquired in infancy, and cheriſhed invo⯑luntarily by age, which grow up and aſſume a gloſs ſo plauſible, that few minds, in what is called a civilized country, can afterwards overcome them. Truth is often perverted by education. While the refined Europeans boaſt a ſtandard of honour, and a ſublimity of virtue, which often leads them from pleaſure to miſery, and from nature to error, the ſimple, uninformed An erican follows the impulſe of his heart, and obeys the inſpiration of wiſdom."’ The Marquis pauſed, and La Motte continued to liſten in eager expectation.

‘"Nature, uncontaminated by falſe re⯑finement,"’ reſumed the Marquis, ‘"every where acts alike in the great occurrences of life. The Indian diſcovers his friend to be perfidious, and he kills him; the wild Aſiatic does the ſame; the Turk, when ambition fires, or revenge provokes, gratifies his paſſion at the expence of life, and does not call it murder. Even the poliſhed Italian, diſtracted by jealouſy, or tempted by a ſtrong circumſtance of advantage, draws his ſtilletto, and ac⯑compliſhes his purpoſe. It is the firſt [93] proof of a ſuperior mind to libe ate itſelf from prejudices of country, or of education. You are ſilent, La Motte; are you not of my opinion?"’

‘"I am attending, my Lord, to your reaſoning."’

‘"There are, I repeat it,"’ ſaid the Marquis, ‘"people of minds ſo weak, as to ſhrink from acts they have been accuſtomed to hold wrong, however advantageous. They never ſuffer them⯑ſelves to be guided by circumſtances, but fix for life upon a certain ſtandard, from which they will, on no account, depart. Self preſervation is the great law of nature; when a reptile hurts us, or an animal of prey threatens us, we think no farther, but endeavour to annihilate it. When my life, or what may be eſſential to my life, requires the ſacrifice of another, or even if ſome paſſion, wholly unconquera⯑ble, requires it, I ſhould be a mad⯑man to heſitaate. La Motte, I think I may confide in you—there are ways of doing certain things—you under⯑ſtand me There are times, and cir⯑cumſtances, and opportuni [...]ies—you com⯑prehend my meaning."’

‘"Explain yourſelf, my Lord."’

[94] ‘"Kind ſervices that—in ſhort there are ſervices, which excite all our gratitude, and which we can never think repaid. It is in your power to place me in ſuch a ſituation."’

‘"Indeed! my Lord, name the means."’

‘"I have already named them. This abbey well ſuits the purpoſe; it is ſhut up from the eye of obſervation; any tranſaction may be concealed within its walls; the hour of midnight may witneſs the deed, and the morn ſhall not dawn to diſcloſe it; theſe woods tell no tales. Ah! La Motte, am I right in truſting this buſineſs with you; may I believe you are deſirous of ſerving me, and of preſerving yourſelf?"’ The Marquis pauſed, and looked ſtedfaſtly at La Motte, whoſe countenance was almoſt concealed by the gloom of evening.

‘"My Lord, you may truſt me in any thing; explain yourſelf more fully."’

‘"What ſecurity will you give me for your faithfulneſs?"’

‘"My life, my Lord; is it not already in your power?"’ The Marquis heſitated, and then ſaid, ‘"To-morrow, about this time, I ſhall return to the abbey, and will then explain my meaning, if, indeed, you ſhall not already have underſtood it. You, in the mean time, will conſider [95] your own powers of reſolution, and be prepared either to adopt the purpoſe I ſhall ſuggeſt, or to declare you will not."’ La Motte made ſome confuſed reply. ‘"Fare⯑wel till to-morrow,"’ ſaid the Marquis; ‘"remember that freedom and affluence are now before you."’ He moved towards the abbey, and, mounting his horſe, rode off with his attendants. La Motte walked ſlowly, home, muſing on the late converſa⯑tion.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE Marquis was punctual to the hour. La Morte received him at the gate, but he declined entering, and ſaid he prefer⯑red a walk in the foreſt. Thither, there⯑fore, La Motte attended him. After ſome general converſation, ‘"Well,"’ ſaid the [96] Marquis, ‘"have you conſidered 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 reſo⯑lution."’ The Marquis appeared diſſatis⯑fied, and was a moment ſilent. ‘"Is it then poſſible,"’ he at length reſumed, ‘"that you do not underſtand? This igno⯑rance is ſurely affected. La Motte, I expect ſincerity Tell me, herefore, is it neceſſary I ſhould ſay more?"’

‘"It is, my Lord,"’ ſaid La Motte immediately. ‘"Iſ you fear to confide in me freely, how can I fully accompliſh your purpoſe?"’

‘"Before I proceed farther,"’ ſaid the Marquis, ‘"let me adminiſter ſome oath which ſhall bind you to ſecrecy. But this is ſcarcely neceſſary; for, could I even doubt your word of honour, the remembrance of a certain tranſaction would point out to you the neceſſity 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 con⯑fuſion. ‘"I think, La Motte,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I have given you ſufficient proof that I can be grateful: the ſervices you have already rendered me with reſpect to Adeline have not been unrewarded."’

[97] ‘"True, my Lord, I am ever willing to acknowledge this, and am ſorry it has not been in my power to ſerve you more effectually. Your farther views reſpecting her I am ready to aſſiſt."’

‘"I thank you—Adeline"—’the Marquis heſitated—‘"Adeline,"’ rejoined La Motte, eager to anticipate his wiſhes, ‘"has beauty worthy of your purſuit. She has inſpired a paſſion of which ſhe ought to be proud, and, at any rate, ſhe ſhall ſoon be yours. Her charms are worthy of"—’

‘"Yes yes,"’ interrupted the Marquis; ‘"but"—’he pauſed.—‘"But they have given you too much trouble in the purſuit,"’ ſaid La Motte; ‘"and to be ſure, my Lord, it muſt be confeſſed they have; but this trouble is all over—you may now conſider her as your own."’

‘"I would do ſo,"’ ſaid the Marquis, fixing an eye of earneſt regard upon La Motte—‘"I would do ſo."’

‘"Name your hour, my Lord; you ſhall not be interrupted.—Beauty ſuch as Adeline's"—’

‘"Watch her cloſely,"’ interrupted the Marquis, ‘"and on no account ſuffer her to leave her apartment. Where is ſhe now?"’

‘"Confined in her chamber."’

[98] ‘"Very well. But I am impatient."’

‘"Name your time, my Lord—to-morrow night."’

‘"To-morrow night,"’ ſaid the Marquis—‘"to-morrow night. Do you underſtand me now?"’

‘"Yes, my Lord, this night, if you wiſh it ſo. But had you not better diſmiſs your ſervants, and remain yourſelf in the foreſt. You know the door that opens upon the woods from the weſt tower. Come thither about twelve—I will be there to conduct you to her chamber. Remem⯑ber, then, my Lord, that to right"—’

‘"Adeline dies!"’ interrupted the Mar⯑quis, in a low voice ſcarcely human. ‘"Do you underſtand me now?"—’La Motte ſhrunk aghaſt—‘"My Lord!"’

‘"La Motte!"’ ſaid the Marquis.—There was ſilence of ſeveral minutes, in which La Motte endeavoured to recover himſelf.—‘"Let me aſk, my Lord, the meaning of this?"’ ſaid he, when he had breath to ſpeak. ‘"Why ſhould you wiſh the death of Adeline—of Adeline whom ſo lately you loved?"’

‘"Make no inquiries for my motive,"’ ſaid the Marquis; ‘"but it is as certain as that I live that ſhe you name muſt die. This is ſufficient."’ The ſurpriſe of La Motte equalled his horror. ‘"The [99] means are various,"’ reſumed the Marquis. ‘"I could have wiſhed that no blood might be ſpilt; and there are drugs ſure and ſpeedy in their effect, but they cannot be ſoon or ſafely procured. I alſo wiſh it over—it muſt be done quickly—this night."’

‘"This night, my Lord!"’

‘"Aye, this night, La Motte; if it is to be, why not ſoon. Have you no con⯑venient drug at hand?"’

‘"None, my Lord."’

‘"I feared to truſt a third perſon, or I ſhould have been provided,"’ ſaid the Marquis. ‘"As it is, take this poignard; uſe it as occaſion offers, but be reſolute"’ La Motte received the poignard with a trembling hand, and continued to gaze upon it for ſome time, ſcarcely knowing what he did. ‘"Put it up,"’ ſaid the Marquis, ‘"and endeavour to recollect yourſelf."’ La Motte obeyed, but continued to muſe in ſilence.

He ſaw himſelf entangled in the web which his own crimes had woven. Being in the power of the Marquis, he knew he muſt either conſent to the commiſſion of a deed, from the enormity of which, depraved as he was, he ſhrunk in horror, or ſacrifice fortune, freedom, probably life itſelf, to the refuſal. Had had been led on by [100] gradations from folly to vice, till he now ſaw before him an abyſs of guilt which ſtartled even the conſcience that ſo long had ſlumber⯑ed. The means of retreating were deſperate—to proceed was equally ſo.

When he conſidered the innocence and the helpleſſneſs of Adeline, her orphan ſtate, her former affectionate conduct, and her confidence in his protection, his heart melted with compaſſion for the diſtreſs he had al⯑ready occaſioned her, and ſhrunk in terror from the deed he was urged to commit. But when, on the other hand, he contempla⯑ted the deſtruction that threatened him from the vengeance of the Marquis, and then con⯑ſidered the advantages that were offered him of favour, freedom, and probably fortune, terror and temptation contributed to over⯑come the pleadings of humanity, and ſilence the voice of conſcience. In this ſtate of tu⯑multuous uncertainty he continued for ſome time ſilent, until the voice of the Marquis rouſed him to a conviction of the neceſſity of at leaſt appearing to acquieſce in his deſigns.

‘"Do you heſitate?"’ ſaid the Marquis.—‘"No, my Lord, my reſolution is fixed—I will obey you. But methinks it would be better to avoid bloodſhed. Strange ſecrets have been revealed by"—’

[101] ‘"Aye, but how avoid it?"’ interrupted the Marquis.—‘"Poiſon I will not venture to procure. I have given you one ſure inſtrument of death. You alſo may find it dangerous to inquire for a drug."’ La Motte perceived that he could not purchaſe poiſon without incurring a diſcovery much greater than that he wiſhed to avoid. ‘"You are right, my Lord, and I will follow your orders implicitly"’ The Marquis now proceeded, in broken ſentences, to give far⯑ther directions concerning this dreadful ſcheme.

‘"In her ſleep,"’ ſaid he, ‘"at midnight; the family will then be at reſt."’ Afterwards they planned a ſtory, which was to account for her diſappearance, and by which it was to ſeem that ſhe had ſought an eſcape in con⯑ſequence of her averſion to the addreſſes of the Marquis. The doors of her chamber and of the weſt tower were to be left open to corroborate this account, and many other circumſtances were to be contrived to con⯑firm the ſuſpicion. They farther conſulted how the Marquis was to be informed of the event; and it was agreed that he ſhould come as uſual to the Abbey on the following day. ‘"To-night, then,"’ ſaid the Marquis, ‘"I may rely upon your reſolution."’

‘"You may, my Lord."’

[102] ‘"Farewell, then, When we meet a⯑gain"—’

‘"When we meet again,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"it will be done."’ He followed the Marquis to the Abbey, and having ſeen him mount his horſe and wiſhed him a good night, he retired to his chamber, where he ſhut him⯑ſelf up.

Adeline, mean while, in the ſolitude of her priſon, gave way to the deſpair which her condition inſpired. She tried to arrange her thoughts, and to argue herſelf into ſome degree of reſignation; but reflection, by repreſenting the paſt, and reaſon, by anti⯑cipating the future, brought before her mind the full picture of her misfortunes, and ſhe ſunk in deſpondency. Of Theodore, who, by a conduct ſo noble, had teſtified his at⯑tachment and involved himſelf in ruin, ſhe thought with a degree of anguiſh infinitely ſuperior to any ſhe had felt upon any other occaſion.

That the very exertions which had de⯑ſerved all her gratitude, and awakened all her tenderneſs, ſhould be the cauſe of his deſtruction, was a circumſtance ſo much beyond the ordinary bounds of miſery, that her fortitude ſunk at once before it. The idea of Theodore ſuffering—Theodore dying—was for ever preſent to her imagination, and frequently excluding the ſenſe of her [103] own danger, made her conſcious only of his. Sometimes the hope he had given her of be⯑ing able to vindicate his conduct, or at leaſt to obtain a pardon, would return; but it was like the faint beam of an April morn, tranſient and cheerleſs. She knew that the Marquis, ſtung with jealouſy, and exaſ⯑perated to revenge, would purſue him with unrelenting malice.

Againſt ſuch an enemy what could Theo⯑dore oppoſe? Conſcious rectitude would not avail him to ward off the blow which diſ⯑appointed paſſion and powerful pride directed. Her diſtreſs was conſiderably heightened by reflecting that no intelligence of him could reach her at the Abbey, and that ſhe muſt remain ſhe knew not how long in the moſt dreadful ſuſpence concerning his fate. From the Abbey ſhe ſaw no poſſibility of eſcaping. She was a priſoner in a chamber incloſed at every avenue: ſhe had no opportunity of converſing with any perſon who could afford her even a chance of relief; and ſhe ſaw herſelf condemned to await in paſſive ſilence the impending deſtiny, infinitely more dreadful to her immagination than death itſelf.

Thus circumſtanced, ſhe yielded to the preſſure of her misfortunes, and would ſit for hours motionleſs and given up to thought. ‘"Theodore!"’ ſhe would frequently exclaim, [104] ‘"you cannot hear my voice, you cannot fly to help me; yourſelf a priſoner and in chains."’ The picture was too horrid. The ſwelling anguiſh of her heart would ſubdue her utterance—tears bathed her checks—and ſhe became inſenſible to every thing but the miſery of Theodore.

On this evening her mind had been remarkably tranquil; and as ſhe watched from her window, with a ſtill and melan⯑choly pleaſure, the ſetting ſun, the fading ſplendour of the weſtern horizon, and the gardual approach of twilight, her thoughts bore her back to the time when, in happier circumſtances, ſhe had watched the ſame appearances. She recollected alſo the evening of her temporary eſcape from the Abbey, when from this ſame window ſhe had viewed the declining ſun—how anxiouſly ſhe had awaited the fall of twilight—how much ſhe had endeavoured to anticipate the events of her future life—with what trembling fear ſhe had deſcended from the tower and ven⯑tured into the foreſt. Theſe reflections pro⯑duced others that filled her heart with anguiſh and her eyes with tears.

While ſhe was loſt in her melancholy reverie ſhe ſaw the Marquis mount his horſe and depart from the gates. The ſight of him revived, in all its force, a ſenſe of the mi⯑ſery he inflicted on her beloved Theodore, [105] and a conſciouſneſs of the evils which more immediately threatened herſelf. She with⯑drew from the window in an agony of tears, which continuing for a conſiderable time, her frame was at length, quite exhauſted, and ſhe retired early to reſt.

La Motte remained in his chamber till ſupper obliged him to deſcend. At table his wild and haggard countenance, which, in ſpite of all his endeavours, betrayed the diſorder of his mind, and his long and fre⯑quent fits of abſtraction ſurpriſed as well as alarmed Madame La Motte. When Peter left the room ſhe tenderly inquired what had diſturbed him, and he with a diſtorted ſmile tried to be gay, but the effort was be⯑yond his art, and he quickly relapſed into ſilence; or when Madame La Motte ſpoke, and he ſtrove to conceal the abſence of his thoughts, he anſwered ſo intirely from the purpoſe, that his abſtraction became ſtill more apparent. Obſerving this, Madame La Motte appeared to take no notice of his preſent temper; and they continued to ſit in uninterrupted ſilence till the hour of reſt, when they retired to their chamber.

La Motte lay in a ſtate of diſturbed watch⯑fulneſs for ſome time, and his frequent ſtarts awoke Madame, who, however, being pacified by ſome trifling excuſe, ſoon went to ſleep again. This agitation continued [106] till near midnight, when, recollecting that the time was now paſſing in idle reflection which ought to be devoted to action, he ſtole ſilently from his bed, wrapped him⯑ſelf in his night gown, and, taking the lamp which burned nightly in his cham⯑ber, paſſed up the ſpiral ſtaircaſe. As he went he frequently looked back, and often ſtarted and liſtened to the hollow ſighings of the blaſt.

His hand ſhook ſo violently, when he at⯑tempted to unlock the door of Adeline's chamber, that he was obliged to ſet the lamp on the ground, and apply both his hands. The noiſe he made with the key induced him to ſuppoſe he muſt have awakened her; but when he opened the door, and perceived the ſtillneſs that reigned within, he was convinced ſhe was aſleep. When he approached the bed he heard her gently breathe, and ſoon after ſigh—and he ſtopped; but ſilence returning, he again ad⯑vanced, and then heard her ſing in her ſleep. As he liſtened he diſtinguiſhed ſome notes of a melancholy little air which, in her happier days, ſhe had often ſung to him. The low and mournful accent in which ſhe now uttered them expreſſed too well the tone of her mind.

La Motte now ſtepped haſtily towards the bed, when, breathing a deep ſigh, ſhe was [107] again ſilent. He undrew the curtain, and ſaw her lying in a profound ſleep, her cheek yet wet with tears, reſting upon her arm. He ſtood a moment looking at her; and as he viewed her innocent and lovely countenance, pale in grief, the light of the lamp, which ſhone ſtrong upon her eyes, awoke her, and, perceiving a man, ſhe uttered a ſcream. Her recol⯑lection returning, ſhe knew him to be La Motte, and it inſtantly recurring to her that the Marquis was at hand, ſhe raiſed herſelf in bed, and implored pity and pro⯑tection. La Motte ſtood looking eagerly at her, but without replying.

The wildneſs of his looks and the gloomy ſilence he preſerved increaſed her alarm, and with tears of terror ſhe renewed her ſupplication. ‘"You once ſaved me from deſtruction,"’ cried ſhe; ‘"O ſave me now! Have pity upon me—I have no protector but you."’

‘"What is it you fear?"’ ſaid La Motte in a tone ſcarcely articulate.—‘"O ſave me—ſave me from the Marquis!"’

‘"Riſe then,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and dreſs yourſelf quickly—I ſhall be back again in a few minutes."’ He lighted a candle that ſtood on the table, and left the cham⯑ber. Adeline immediately aroſe and en⯑deavoured to dreſs, but her thoughts were [108] ſo bewildered that ſhe ſcarcely knew what ſhe did, and her whole frame ſo violently agitated that it was with the utmoſt dif⯑ficulty ſhe preſerved herſelf from faint⯑ing. She threw her clothes haſtily on, and then ſat down to await the return of La Motte. A conſiderable time elapſed, yet he did not appear, and, having in vain endeavoured to compoſe her ſpirits, the pain of ſuſpence at length became ſo inſup⯑portable, that ſhe opened the door of her chamber, and went to the top of the ſtair⯑caſe to liſten. She thought ſhe heard voi⯑ces below; but, conſidering that if the Marquis was there her appearance could only increaſe her danger, ſhe checked the ſtep ſhe had almoſt involuntarily taken to deſcend. Still ſhe liſtened, and ſtill thought ſhe diſtinguiſhed voices. Soon after ſhe heard a door ſhut, and then footſteps, and ſhe haſtened back to her chamber.

Near a quarter of an hour elapſed and La Motte did not appear. When again ſhe thought ſhe heard a murmur of voices below, and alſo paſſing ſteps, and at length her anxiety not ſuffering her to remain in her room, ſhe mooved through the paſſage that com⯑municated with the ſpiral ſtaircaſe; but all was now ſtill. In a few moments, however, a light flaſhed acroſs the hall, and La Motte appeared at the door of the vaulted room. [109] He looked up, and ſeeing Adeline in the gallery, beckoned her to deſcend.

She heſitated and looked towards her chamber; but La Motte now approached the ſtairs, and, with faultering ſteps, ſhe went to meet him. ‘"I fear the Marquis may ſee me,"’ ſaid ſhe, whiſpering; ‘"where is he?"’ La Motte took her hand, and led her on, aſſuring her ſhe had no⯑thing to fear from the Marquis. The wild⯑neſs of his looks, however, and the tremb⯑ling of his hand, ſeemed to contradict this aſſurance, and ſhe inquired whither he was leading her. ‘"To the foreſt,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"that you may eſcape from the Abbey—a horſe waits for you without. I can ſave you by no other means."’ New terror ſeized her. She could ſcarcely believe that La Motte, who had hitherto con⯑ſpired with the Marquis, and had ſo cloſely confined her, ſhould now himſelf undertake her eſcape, and ſhe at this moment felt a dreadful preſentiment, which it was im⯑poſſible to account for, that he was lead⯑ding her out to murder her in the foreſt. Again ſhrinking back, ſhe ſupplicated his mercy. He aſſured her he meant only to protect her, and deſired ſhe would not waſte time.

There was ſomething in his manner that ſpoke ſincerity, and ſhe ſuffered him [110] to conduct her to a ſide door that opened into the foreſt, where ſhe could juſt diſ⯑tinguiſh through the gloom a man on horſe⯑back. This brought to her remembrance the night in which ſhe had quutted the tomb, when truſting to the perſon who appeared ſhe had been carried to the Marquis's villa, La Motte called, and was anſwered by Peter, whoſe voice ſomewhat re-aſſured Ade⯑line.

He then told her that the Marquis would return to the Abbey on the following morn⯑ing, and that this could be her only oppor⯑tunity of eſcaping his deſigns; that ſhe might rely upon his (La Motte's) word, that Peter had orders to carry her wherever ſhe choſe; but as he knew the Marquis would be indefa⯑tigable in ſearch of her, he adviſed her by all means to leave the kingdom, which ſhe might do with Peter, who was a native of Savoy, and would convey her to the houſe of his ſiſter. There ſhe might remain till La Motte himſelf, who did not now think it would be ſafe to continue much longer in France, ſhould join her. He intreat⯑ed her whatever might happen, never to mention the events which had paſſed at the Abbey. ‘"To ſave you, Adeline, I have riſked my life; do not encreaſe my danger and your own by any un⯑neceſſary diſcoveries. We may never meet [111] again, but I hope you will be happy; and remember, when you think of me, that I am not quite ſo bad as I have been tempted to be."’

Having ſaid this, he gave her ſome money, which he told her would be neceſſary to de⯑fray the expences of her journey. Adeline could no longer doubt his ſincerity, and her tranſports of joy and gratitude would ſcarcely permit her to thank him. She wiſhed to have bid Madame La Motte farewell, and indeed earneſtly requeſted it; but he again told her ſhe had no time to loſe, and, having wrapped her in a large cloak, he lifted her upon the horſe. She bade him adieu with tears of gratitude, and Peter ſet off as faſt as the darkneſs would permit.

When they were got ſome way, ‘"I am glad with all my heart, Ma'amſelle,"’ ſaid he, ‘"to ſee you again. Who would have thought, after all, that my maſter him⯑ſelf would have bid me take you away!—Well, to be ſure, ſtrange things come to paſs; but I hope we ſhall have better luck this time."’ Adeline, not chuſing to re⯑proach him with the treachery of which ſhe feared he had been formerly guilty, thanked him for his good wiſhes, and ſaid ſhe hoped they ſhould be more fortunate; but Peter, in his uſual ſtrain of eloquence, proceeded to undeceive her in this point, and to acquaint [112] her with every circumſtance which his me⯑mory, and it was naturally a ſtrong one, could furniſh:

Peter expreſſed ſuch an artleſs intereſt in her welfare, and ſuch a concern for her diſappointment, that ſhe could no longer doubt his faithfulneſs; and this conviction not only ſtrengthened her confidence in the preſent undertaking, but made her liſten to his converſation with kindneſs and pleaſure. ‘"I ſhould never have ſtaid at the Abbey till this time,"’ ſaid he, ‘"if I could have got away; but my maſter frighted me ſo about the Marquis, and I had not money enough to carry me into my own country, ſo that I was forced to ſtay. It's well we have got ſome ſolid louis-d'ors now; for I queſtion, Ma'am [...]elle, whether the peo⯑ple on the road would have taken thoſe trinkets you formerly talked of for money."’

‘"Poſſibly not,"’ ſaid Adeline; ‘"I am thankful to Monſieur La Motte that we have more certain means of procuring con⯑veniences. What route ſhall you take when we leave the foreſt, Peter?"—’Peter mentioned very correctly a great part of the road to Lyons: ‘"and then,"’ ſaid he, ‘"we can eaſily get to Savoy, and that will be nothing. My ſiſter, God bleſs her! I hope is living; I have not ſeen her many year; but if ſhe is not, all the people [113] will be glad to ſee me, and you will eaſily get a lodging, Ma'amſelle, and every thing you want."’

Adeline reſolved to go with him to Savoy. La Motte, who knew the character and de⯑ſigns of the Marquis, had adviſed her to leave the kingdom, and had told her, what her fears would have ſuggeſted, that the Mar⯑quis would be indefatigable in ſearch of her. His motive for this advice muſt be a deſire of ſerving her; why elſe, when ſhe was already in his power, ſhould he remove her to ano⯑ther place, and even furniſh her with money for the expences of a journey?

At Leloncourt, where Peter ſaid he was well known, ſhe would be moſt likely to meet with protection and comfort, even ſhould his ſiſter be dead; and its diſtance and ſolitary ſituation were circumſtances that pleaſed her. Theſe reflections would have pointed out to her the prudence of pro⯑ceeding to Savoy, had ſhe been leſs deſtitute of reſources in France; in her preſent ſitua⯑tion they proved it to be neceſſary.

She enquired farther concerning the route they were to take, and whether Peter was ſufficiently acquainted with the road.—‘"When once I get to Thiers, I know it well enough,"’ ſaid Peter, ‘"for I have gone it many a time in my younger days, and any body will tell us the way there."’ They [114] travelled for ſeveral hours in darkneſs and ſi⯑lence, and it was not till they emerged from the foreſt that Adeline ſaw the morning light ſtreak the eaſtern clouds. The ſight cheered and revived her; and as ſhe travell⯑ed ſilently along, her mind revolved the events of the paſt night, and meditated plans for the future. The preſent kindneſs of La Motte appeared ſo very different from his former conduct, that it aſtoniſhed and per⯑plexed her, and ſhe could only account for it by attributing it to one of thoſe ſudden im⯑pulſes of humanity which ſometimes ope⯑rate even upon the moſt depraved hearts.

But when ſhe recollected his former words, ‘"that he was not maſter of himſelf,"’ ſhe could ſcarcely believe that mere pity could induce him to break the bonds which had hi⯑therto ſo ſtrongly held him, and then, conſi⯑dering the altered conduct of the Marquis, ſhe was inclined to think that ſhe owed her liberty to ſome change in his ſentiments to⯑wards her; yet the advice La Motte had given her o quit the kingdom, and the money with which he had ſupplied her for that purpoſe, ſeemed to contradict this opinion, and involved her again in doubt.

Peter now got directions to Thiers, which place they reached without any accident, and there ſtopped to refreſh themſelves. As ſoon as Peter thought the horſe ſufficiently [115] reſted, they again ſet forward, and from the rich plains of the Lyonnois Adeline, for the firſt time, caught a view of the diſtant alps, whoſe majeſtic heads, ſeeming to prop the vault of heaven, filled her mind with ſublime emotions.

In a few hours they reached the vale, in which ſtands the city of Lyons, whoſe beau⯑tiful environs, ſtudded with villas, and rich with cultivation, withdrew Adeline from the melancholy contemplation of her own cir⯑cumſtances, and her more painful anxiety for Theodore.

When they reached that buſy city, her firſt care was to enquire concerning the paſ⯑ſage of the Rhone; but ſhe forbore to make theſe inquiries of the people of the inn, conſi⯑dering that if the Marquis ſhould trace her thither they might enable him to purſue her route. She, therefore, ſent Peter to the quays to hire a boat, while ſhe herſelf took a ſlight repaſt, it being her intention to embark immediately. Peter preſently returned, hav⯑ing engaged a boat and men to take them up the Rhone to the neareſt part of Savoy, from whence they were to proceed by land to the village of Leloncourt.

Having taken ſome refreſhment, ſhe or⯑dered him to conduct her to the veſſel. A new and ſtriking ſeene preſented itſelf to Ade⯑line, who looked with ſurpriſe upon the river [116] gay with veſſels, and the quay crowded with buſy faces, and felt the contraſt which the cheerful objects around bore to herſelf—to her an orphan, deſolate, helpleſs, and flying from perſecution and her country. She ſpoke with the maſter of the boat, and having ſent Peter back to the inn for the horſe, (La Motte's gift to Peter in lieu of ſome arrears of wages) they embarked.

As they ſlowly paſſed up the Rhone, whoſe ſteep banks, crowned with mountains, ex⯑hibited the moſt various, wild, and roman⯑tic ſcenery, Adeline ſat in penſive reverie. The novelty of the ſcene through which ſhe floated, now frowning with ſavage grandeur, and now ſmiling in fertility, and gay with towns and villages, ſoothed her mind, and her ſorrow gradually ſoftened into a gentle and not unpleaſing melancholy. She had ſeated herſelf at the head of the boat, where ſhe watched its ſides cleave the ſwift ſtream, and liſtened to the daſhing of the waters.

The boat, ſlowly oppoſing the current, paſſed along for ſome hours, and at length the veil of evening was ſtretched over the landſcape. The weather was fine, and Ade⯑line, regardleſs of the dews that now fell, remained in the open air, obſerving the ob⯑jects darken round her, the gay tints of the horizon fade away, and the ſtars gradually appear, trembling upon the lucid mirror [117] of the waters. The ſcene was now ſunk in deep ſhadow, and the ſilence of the hour was broken only by the meaſured daſhing of the oars, and now and then by the voice of Peter ſpeaking to the boatmen. Adeline ſat loſt in thought: the forlornneſs of her cir⯑cumſtances came heightened to her imagi⯑nation.

She ſaw herſelf ſurrounded by the darkneſs and ſtillneſs of night, in a ſtrange place, far diſtant from any friends, going ſhe ſcarce⯑ly knew whither, under the guidance of ſtrangers, and purſued, perhaps, by an in⯑veterate enemy. She pictured to herſelf the rage of the Marquis now that he had diſco⯑vered her flight, and though ſhe knew it very unlikely he ſhould follow her by water, for which reaſon ſhe had choſen that manner of travelling, ſhe trembled at the portrait her fancy drew. Her thoughts then wander⯑ed to the plan ſhe ſhould adopt after reaching Savoy; and much as her experience had pre⯑judiced her againſt the manners of a convent, ſhe ſaw no place more likely to afford her a proper aſylum. At length ſhe retired to the little cabin for a few hours repoſe.

She awoke with the dawn, and her mind being too much diſturbed to ſleep again, ſhe roſe and watched the gradual ap⯑proach of day. As ſhe muſed, ſhe expreſ⯑ſed the feelings of the moment in the fol⯑lowing.

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 ſound was loſt in diſtance; he then turned into the hall with a lightneſs of heart to which he had long been a ſtranger. The ſatisfaction of having thus preſerved her, as he hoped, from the deſigns of the Marquis, overcame for a while all ſenſe of the danger in which this ſtep muſt involve him. But when he returned intirely to his own ſituati⯑on, the terrors of the Marquis's reſentment ſtruck their full force upon his mind, and he conſidered how he might beſt eſcape it.

It was now paſt midnight—the Marquis [119] was expected early on the following day; and in this interval it at firſt appeared pro⯑bable to him that he might quit the foreſt. There was only one horſe; but he conſider⯑ed whether it would be beſt to ſet off im⯑mediately for Auboine, where a carriage might be procured to convey his family and his moveables from the Abbey, or quietly to await the arrival of the Marquis, and endea⯑vour to impoſe upon him by a forged ſtory of Adeline's eſcape.

The time which muſt clapſe before a car⯑riage could 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 pro⯑bably be at a loſs for ſubſiſtance, ſhould he not before then be detected. By remaining at the Abbey it would appear that he was un⯑conſcious of deſerving the Marquis's reſent⯑ment, and though he could not expect 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 probable from Peter's having been formerly detected in a ſimilar ſcheme. He believed alſo that if the Marquis ſhould threat⯑en to deliver him into the hands of juſtice, he might ſave himſelf by a menace of diſ⯑cloſing [120] the crime he had commiſſioned him to perpetrate.

Thus arguing La Motte reſolved to remain at the Abbey and await the event of the Mar⯑quis's diſappointment.

When the Marquis did arrive, and was informed of Adeline's flight, the ſtrong workings of his ſoul, which appeared in his countenance, for a while alarmed and terrified La Motte. He curſed himſelf and her in terms of ſuch coarſeneſs and vehe⯑mence as La Motte was aſtoniſhed to hear from a man whoſe manners were generally amiable, whatever might be the violence and criminality of his paſſions. To invent and expreſs theſe terms ſeemed to give him not only relief, but delight; yet he appeared more ſhocked at the circumſtance of her eſ⯑cape than exaſperated at the careleſſneſs of La Motte and recollecting at length that he waſted time, he left the Abbey, and diſ⯑patched ſeveral of his ſervants in purſuit of her.

When he was gnoe, La Motte, believing 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 continuance. In a few hours the Marquis returned, accompanied by the officers of juſtice. The affrighted La Motte, [121] perceiving 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 conceal⯑ment, I will diſmiſs the officers, and, if you wiſh it, aſſiſt you to leave the kingdom. You have no time to heſitate, and may know that I will not be trifled with."’ La Motte attempted to appeaſe the Marquis, and affirmed that Adeline was really fled he knew not whither. ‘"You will remember, my Lord, that your charac⯑ter is alſo in my power; and that, if you proceed to extremities, you will compel 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 baniſhed you from ſociety will be no teſtimony of your veracity, and that with which I now charge you will bring with it a ſufficient preſumption that your accuſation is malicious. Officers, do your duty."’

[122] They entered the room and ſeized La Motte, whom terror now deprived of all power of reſiſtance, could reſiſtance have availed him, and in the perturbation of his mind he informed the Marquis that Adeline had taken the road to Lyons. This diſcovery, however, was made too late to ſerve 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 conſideration 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 ta⯑ken, ſent forward his faithful valet to trace her to her place of concealment, and re⯑turn immediately with intelligence to the villa.

Abandoned to deſpair, La Motte and his wife quitted the foreſt of Fontangville, which had for ſo many months afforded them an aſylum, and embarked once more upon [123] the tumultuous world, where juſtice would meet La Motte in the form of deſtruction. They had entered the foreſt as a refuge, ren⯑dered neceſſary by the former crimes of La Motte, and for ſome time found in it the ſe⯑curity 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 cannot enter."’

CHAPTER XV.

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 walk⯑ed beſide her. When he came within ſight of his native mountains, his extravagant joy burſt forth into frequent exclamations, and he would often aſk Adeline if ſhe had ever ſeen ſuch hills in France. ‘"No, no,"’ ſaid he, ‘"the hills there are very well for French hills, but they are not to be named on the ſame day with ours."’ Adeline, loſt [124] in admiration of the aſtoniſhing and tremen⯑dous ſcenery around her, aſſented very warmly to the truth of Peter's aſſertion, which encouraged him to expatiate 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 happineſs and content of the inhabi⯑tants.

His native village, indeed, was an excep⯑tion to the general character of the coun⯑try, and to the uſual effects of an arbitrary government; it was flouriſhing, healthy, and happy; and theſe advantages 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 wiſh⯑ed to arrive at the end of her journey, and inquired impatiently of Peter concerning it. Her ſpirits, thus weakened, the gloomy grandeur of the ſcenes which had ſo lately awakened emotions of delightful ſublimity, now awed her into terror; ſhe trembled at the ſound of the torrents rolling among the clifts and thundering in the vale below, and ſhrunk from the view of the precipices, which ſometimes overhung the road, and at others appeared beneath it. Fatigued as [125] ſhe was, ſhe frequently diſmounted to climb on foot the ſteep flinty road, which ſhe feared to travel on horſeback.

The day was cloſing when they drew near a ſmall village at the foot of the Savoy Alps, and the ſun, in all his evening ſplendour, now ſinking behind their ſummits, threw a farewell gleam athwart the landſcape, ſo ſoft and glowing as drew from Adeline, languid as ſhe was, an exclamation of rap⯑ture.

The romantic ſituation of the village next attracted her notice. It ſtood at the foot of ſeveral ſtupendous mountains, which formed a chain round a lake at ſome little diſtance, and the woods that ſwept from their ſummits almoſt emboſomed the village. The lake, unruffled by the lighteſt air, re⯑flected the vermeil tints of the horizon with the ſublime ſcenery on its borders, darken⯑ing every inſtant with the falling twilight.

When Peter perceived the village, he burſt into a ſhout of joy. ‘"Thank God,"’ ſaid he, ‘"we are near home; there is my dear native place. It looks juſt as it did twenty years ago; and there are the ſame old trees growing round our cottage yonder, and the huge rock that riſes above it. My poor father died there, Ma'amſelle. Pray heaven my ſiſter be alive; it is a long while ſince I ſaw her."’ [126] Adeline liſtened with a melancholy plea⯑ſure to theſe artleſs expreſſions of Peter, who, in retracing the ſcenes of his former days, ſeemed to live them over again. As they approached the village, he continued to point out various objects of his remembrance. ‘"And there too is the good paſtor's chateau; look, Ma'amſelle, that white houſe, with the ſmoke curling, that ſtands on the edge of the lake yonder. I wonder whe⯑ther he is alive yet. He was not old when I left the place, and as much be⯑loved 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 in⯑quired for his ſiſter, and was told ſhe was alive and well. As they paſſed on, ſo many of his old friends flocked round him, that Adeline became quite weary of the delay. Many whom he had left in the vigour of life were now tottering under the infirmities of age, whiletheir ſons and daughters, whom he had known only in the playfulneſs of in⯑fancy, were grown from his remembrance, and in the pride of youth. At length they [127] approached the cottage, and were met by his ſiſter, who, having heard of his ar⯑rival, came and welcomed him with unfeign⯑ed joy.

On ſeeing Adeline, ſhe ſeemed ſurprized, but aſſiſted her to alight, and conducting her into a ſmall but neat cottage, received her with a warmth of ready kindneſs which would have graced a better ſituation. Ade⯑line deſired to ſpeak with her alone, for the room was now crowded with Peter's friends, and then acquainting her with ſuch particulars of her circumſtances as it was neceſſary to communicate, deſired to know if ſhe could be accommodated with lodging in the cottage. ‘"Yes, Ma'amſelle,"’ ſaid the good woman, ‘"ſuch as it is, you are hear⯑tily welcome. I am only ſorry it is not better. But you ſeem ill, Ma'amſelle; what ſhall I get you?"’

Adeline, who had been long ſtruggling with 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 pre⯑pared. The good woman went out to obey her, and ſoon returning, ſhewed her to a little cabin, where ſhe retired to a bed, whoſe cleanlineſs was its only recommen⯑dation.

[128] 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 imper⯑fect viſions 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 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 ſafety, but for their future advantage, and preventing them even from injuring themſelves. But dur⯑ing my whole life I have never known a friend; have been in general ſurrounded by enemies, and very ſeldom exempt from ſome circumſtance either of danger or calamity. Yet ſurely 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 deſ⯑perate 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 ſlept little, and was much worſe than on the preceding night. The uneaſineſs of her mind contributed to heighten the feveriſh ſypmtoms that attended [129] her, and in the courſe of the day her diſ⯑order began to aſſume a ſerious aſpect. She obſerved its progreſs with compoſure, re⯑ſigning herſelf to the will of God, and feel⯑ing little to regret in life. Her kind hoſteſs did every thing in her power to relieve her, and there was neither phyſician nor apo⯑thecary in the village, ſo that nature was deprived of none of her advantages. Not⯑withſtanding this, the diſorder rapidly in⯑creaſed, and on the third day from its firſt attack ſhe became delirious; after which ſhe ſunk into a ſtate of ſtupefaction.

How long ſhe remained in this deplorable condition ſhe knew not; but, on recovering her ſenſes, ſhe found herſelf in an apart⯑ment very different from any ſhe remember⯑ed. It was ſpacious and almoſt beautiful, the bed and every thing around being in one ſtile of elegant ſimplicity. For ſome mi⯑nutes ſhe lay in a trance of ſurpriſe, endea⯑vouring to recollect her ſcattered ideas of the paſt, and almoſt fearing 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 ſpeak⯑ing near her, and the bed curtain on one ſide was gently undrawn by a beautiful girl. As ſhe leaned forward over the bed, and with a ſmile of mingled tenderneſs and joy inquired of her patient how ſhe did, Ade⯑line [130] gazed in ſilent admiration upon the moſt intereſting female countenance ſhe had ever ſeen, in which the expreſſion of ſweet⯑neſs, united with lively ſenſe and refine⯑ment, was chaſtened by ſimplicity.

Adeline at length recollected herſelf ſuf⯑ficiently to thank her kind inquirer, and begged to know to whom ſhe was obliged, and where ſhe was? The lovely girl preſſ⯑ed her hand, ‘"'Tis we who are obliged,"’ ſaid ſhe. ‘"Oh! how I rejoice to find that you have recovered your recollection."’ She ſaid no more, but flew to the door of the apartment, and diſappeared. In a few minutes ſhe returned with an elderly lady, who, approaching the bed with an air of tender intereſt, aſked concerning the ſtate of Adeline; to which the latter replied, as well as the agitation of her ſpirits would per⯑mit, and repeated her deſire of knowing to whom ſhe was ſo greatly obliged. ‘"You ſhall know that hereafter,"’ ſaid the lady; ‘"at preſent be aſſured that you are with thoſe who will think their care much over⯑paid by your recovery; ſubmit, there⯑fore, to every thing that may conduce to it, and conſent to be kept as quiet as poſ⯑ſible."’

Adeline gratefully ſmiled, and bowed her head in ſilent aſſent. The lady now quitted the room for a medicine; having given [131] which to Adeline, the curtain was cloſed, and ſhe was left to repoſe. But her thoughts were too buſy to ſuffer her to profit by the opportunity. She contemplated the paſt, and viewed the preſent, and, when ſhe compared them, the contraſt ſtruck her with aſtoniſhment. The whole appeared like one of thoſe ſudden tranſitions ſo frequent in dreams, in which we paſs from grief and deſpair, we know not how, to comfort and delight.

Yet ſhe looked forward to the future with a trembling anxiety, that threatened to re⯑tard her recovery, and which, when ſhe remembered the words of her generous be⯑nefactreſs, ſhe endeavoured to ſuppreſs. Had ſhe better known the diſpoſition of the per⯑ſons in whoſe houſe ſhe now was, her anxi⯑ety, as far as it regarded herſelf, muſt in a great meaſure have been done away; for La Luc, its owner, was one of thoſe rare characters to whom misfortune ſeldom looks in vain, and whoſe native goodneſs, con⯑firmed by principle, is uniform and unaſ⯑ſuming in its acts. The following little pic⯑ture of his domeſtic life, his family and his manners, will more fully illuſtrate his cha⯑racter. It was drawn from the life, and its exactneſs will, it is hoped, compenſate for its length.

In the village of Leloncourt, celebrated for its pictureſque ſituation at the foot of the Savoy Alps, lived Arnaud La Luc, a clergyman, deſcended from an ancient fa⯑mily of France, whoſe decayed fortunes occaſioned them to ſeek a retreat in Swit⯑zerland, in an age when the violence of civil commotion ſeldom ſpared the conquer⯑ed. He was miniſter of the village, and equally loved for the piety and benevolence of the Chriſtian as reſpected for the dignity and elevation of the philoſopher. His was the philoſophy of nature, directed by com⯑mon ſenſe. He deſpiſed the jargon o the modern ſchools and the brilliant abſurdities of ſyſtems, which have dazzled without en⯑lightening, [133] and guided without convincing their diſciples.

His mind was penetrating; his views ex⯑tenſive; and his ſyſtems, like his religion, were ſimple, rational, and ſublime. The people of his pariſh looked up to him as to a father; for while his precepts directed their minds, his example touched their hearts.

In early youth La Luc loſt a wife, whom he tenderly loved. This event threw a tincture of ſoft and intereſting melancholy over his character, which remained when time had mellowed the remembrance that occaſioned it. Philoſophy had ſtrengthened, not hardened, his heart; it enabled him to reſiſt the preſſure of affliction, rather than to overcome it.

Calamity taught him to feel with peculiar ſympathy the diſtreſſes of others. His income from the pariſh was ſmall, and what remain⯑ed from the divided and reduced eſtates of his anceſtors did not much increaſe it; but though he could not always relieve the neceſſities of the indigent, his tender pity and holy converſation ſeldom failed in adminiſtering conſolation to the mental ſufferer. On theſe occaſions the ſweet and exquiſite emotions of his heart have often induced him to ſay, that could the voluptuary be once ſenſible of theſe feelings, he would never after forego [134] ‘"the luxury of doing good."—’ ‘"Igno⯑rance of true pleaſure,"’ he would ſay, ‘"more frequently than temptation to that which is falſe, leads to vice."’

La Luc had one ſon and a daughter, who were too young, when their mother died, to lament their loſs. He loved them with peculiar tenderneſs, as the children of her whom he never ceaſed to deplore; and it was for ſome time his ſole amuſement to obſerve the gradual unfolding of their infant minds, and to bend them to virtue. His was the deep and ſilent ſorrow of the heart; his complaints he never obtruded upon others, and very ſeldom did he even men⯑tion his wife. His grief was too ſacred for the eye of the vulgar. Often he retired to the deep ſolitude of the mountains, and amid their ſolemn and tremendous ſcenery would brood over the remembrance of times paſt, and reſign himſelf to the luxury of grief. On his return from theſe little ex⯑curſions he was always more placid and con⯑tented. A ſweet tranquillity, which aroſe almoſt to happineſs, was diffuſed over his mind, and his manners were more than uſually benevolent. As he gazed on his children, and fondly kiſſed them, a tear would ſometimes ſteal into his eye, but it was a tear of tender regret, unmingled with [135] the darker qualities of ſorrow, and was moſt precious to his heart.

On the death of his wife he received into his houſe a maiden ſiſter, a ſenſible worthy woman, who was deeply intereſted in the happineſs of her brother. Her affec⯑tionate attention and judicious conduct an⯑ticipated the effect of time in ſoftening the poignancy of his diſtreſs, and her unremit⯑ted care of his children, while it proved the goodneſs of her own heart, attracted her more cloſely to his.

It was with inexpreſſible pleaſure that he traced in the infant features of Clara the re⯑ſemblance of her mother. The ſame gen⯑tleneſs of manner and the ſame ſweetneſs of diſpoſition ſoon diſplayed themſelves, and as ſhe grew up, her actions frequently re⯑minded him ſo ſtrongly of his loſt wife as to fix him in reveries, which abſorbed all his ſoul.

Engaged in the duties of his pariſh, the education of his children, and in philoſophic reſearch, his years paſſed in tranquillity. The tender melancholy with which afflic⯑tion had tinctured his mind was, by long indulgence, become dear to him, and he would not have relinquiſhed it for the bright⯑eſt dream of airy happineſs. When any paſſing incident diſturbed him, he retired for conſolation to the idea of her he ſo faith⯑fully [136] loved, and yielding to a gentle, and what the world would call a romantic, ſad⯑neſs, gradually reaſſumed his compoſure. This was the ſecret luxury to which he withdrew from temporary diſappointment—the ſolitary enjoyment which diſſipated the cloud of care, and blunted the ſting of vex⯑ation—which elevated his mind above this world, and opened to his view the ſublimi⯑ty of another.

The ſpot he now inhabited, the ſurround⯑ing ſcenery, the romantic beauties of the neighbouring walks, were dear to La Luc, for they had once been loved by Clara; they had been the ſcenes of her tenderneſs, and of his happineſs.

His chateau ſtood on 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 intermingled with bold projections of rock, ſometimes barren, and ſometimes covered 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 ap⯑pearance was continually changing as the [137] rays of light were variouſly reflected on their ſurface, and whoſe ſummits were often wrapt in impenetrable miſts. Some cottages and hamlets, ſcattered on the margin of the lake, or ſeated in pictureſque points of view on the rocks above, were the only objects that reminded the beholder of humanity.

On the ſide of the lake, nearly oppoſite to the chateau, the mountains receded, and a long chain of alps was ſeen ſtretching in perſpective. Their innumerable tints and ſhades, ſome veiled in blue miſts, ſome tinged with rich purple, and others glit⯑tering in partial light, gave luxurious and magical colouring to the ſcene.

The chateau was not large, but it was convenient, and was characteriſed by an air of elegant ſimplicity and good order. The entrance was a ſmall hall, which opening by a glaſs door into the garden, afforded a view of the lake, with the magnificent ſcenery exhibited on its bor⯑ders. On the left of the hall was La Luc's ſtudy, where he uſually paſſed his mornings; and adjoining was a ſmall room fitted up with chymical apparatus, aſtronomical inſtruments, and other im⯑plements of ſcience. On the right was the family parlour, and behind it a room which belonged excluſively to Madame [138] La Luc. Here were depoſited various me⯑dicines and botanical diſtillations, together with the apparatus for preparing them. From this room the whole village was liberally ſupplied with phyſical comfort; for it was the pride of Madame to believe herſelf ſkilful in relieving the diſorders of her neighbours.

Behind the chateau roſe a tuft of pines, and in front a gentle declivity, covered with verdure and flowers, extended to the lake, whoſe waters flowed even with the graſs, and gave freſhneſs to the acacias that waved over its ſurface. Flowering ſhrubs, intermingled with mountain aſh, cypreſs, and ever-green oak, marked the boundary of the garden.

At the return of ſpring it was Clara's care to direct the young ſhoots of the plants, to nurſe the budding flowers, and to ſhelter them with the luxuriant branches of the ſhrubs from the cold blaſts that deſcended from the mountains. In ſummer ſhe uſually roſe with the ſun, and viſited her favourite flowers while the dew yet hung glittering on their leaves. The freſhneſs of early day, with the glowing colouring which then touched the ſcenery, gave a pure and exquiſite delight to her innocent heart. Born amid ſcenes of grandeur and ſublimity, ſhe had quickly imbibed a taſte for their charms, which taſte was heightened by the influence [139] of a warm imagination. To view the ſun riſing above the alps, tinging their ſnowy heads with light, and ſuddenly darting his rays over the whole face of nature—to fee the fiery ſplendour of the clouds reflected in the laek below, and the roſeate tints firſt ſteal upon the rocks above—were among the earlieſt pleaſures of which Clara was ſuſceptible. From being delighted with the obſervance of nature, ſhe grew pleaſed with ſeeing her finely imitated, and ſoon diſplayed a taſte for poetry and painting. When ſhe was about ſixteen ſhe often ſelected from her father's library thoſe of the Italian poets moſt celebrated for pictureſque beauty, and would ſpend the firſt hours of morning in reading them under the ſhade of the acacias that bordered the lake. Here too ſhe would often attempt rude ſketches of the ſurrounding ſcenery, and at length by repeated efforts, aſſiſted by ſome inſtruction from her brother, ſhe ſucceeded ſo well as to produce twelve drawings in crayon, which were judged worthy of decorating the parlour of the chateau.

Young La Luc played the flute, and ſhe liſtened to him with exquiſite delight, particularly when he ſtood on the margin of the lake, under her beloved acacias. Her voice was ſweet and flexible, thought not ſtrong, and ſhe ſoon learned to modulate [140] it to the inſtrument. She knew nothing of the intricacies of execution; her airs were ſimple, and her ſtyle equally ſo, but ſhe ſoon gave them a touching expreſſion, inſpired by the ſenſibility of her heart, which ſeldom left thoſe of her hearers unaffected.

It was the happineſs of La Luc to ſee his children happy, and in one of his excurſions to Geneva, whither he went to viſit ſome relations of his late wife, he bought Clara a lute. She received it with more gratitude than ſhe could expreſs; and having learned one air, ſhe haſtened to her favourite acacias, and played it again and again till ſhe forgot every thing beſides. Her little domeſtic duties, her books, her drawing, even the hour which her father dedicated to her improvement, when ſhe met her brother in the library, and with him partook of knowledge, even this hour paſſed unheeded by. La Luc ſuffered it to paſs. Madame was diſpleaſed that her niece neglected her domeſtic duties, and wiſhed to reprove her, but La Luc begged ſhe would be ſilent. ‘"Let expe⯑rience teach her her error,"’ ſaid he; ‘"precept ſeldom brings conviction to young minds."’

Madame objected that experience was a ſlow teacher. ‘"It is a ſure one,"’ replied La Luc, ‘"and is not unfrequently the quickeſt of all teachers: when it can⯑not [141] lead us into ſerious evil, it is well to truſt to it."’

The ſecond day paſſed with Clara as the firſt, and the third as the ſecond. She could now play ſeveral tunes; ſhe came to her father and repeated what ſhe had learnt.

At ſupper the cream was not dreſſed, and there was no fruit on the table. La Luc inquired the reaſon; Clara recollected it, and bluſhed. She obſerved that her brother was abſent, but nothing was ſaid. Toward the concluſion of the repaſt he appeared; his countenance expreſſed unuſual ſatisfaction, but he ſeated himſelf in ſilence. Clara inqui⯑red what had detained him from ſupper, and learnt that he had been to a ſick family in the neighbourhood with the weekly allow⯑ance which her father gave them. La Luc had entruſted the care of this family to his daughter, and it was her duty to have carried them their little allowance on the preceding day, but ſhe had forgot every thing but muſic.

‘"How did you find the woman?"’ ſaid La Luc to his ſon. ‘"Worſe, Sir,"’ he replied, ‘"for her medicines had not been regularly given, and the children had had little or no food to-day."’

Clara was ſhocked. ‘"No food to-day!"’ ſaid ſhe to herſelf, ‘"and I have been playing all day on my lute, under the aca⯑cias by the lake!"’ Her father did not [142] ſeem to obſerve her emotion, but turned to his ſon. ‘"I left her better,"’ ſaid the latter; ‘"the medicines I carried eaſed her pain, and I had the pleaſure to ſee her children make a joyful [...]pper."’

Clara, perhaps for the firſt time in her life, envied him his pleaſure; her heart was full, and ſhe ſat ſilent. ‘"No food to day!"’ thought ſhe.

She retired penſively to her chamber. The ſweet ſerenity with which ſhe uſually went to reſt was vaniſhed, for ſhe could no longer reflect on the paſt day with ſatisfaction.

‘"What a pity,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"that what is ſo pleaſing ſhould be the cauſe of ſo much pain! This lute is my delight, and my torment!"’ This reflection occaſioned her much internal debate; but before ſhe could come to any reſolution upon the point in queſtion, ſhe fell aſleep.

She awoke very early the next morning, and impatiently watched the progreſs of the dawn. The ſun at lenth appearing, ſhe aroſe, and, determined to make all the a⯑tonement in her power for her former neg⯑lect, haſtened to the cottage.

Here ſhe remained a conſiderable time, and when ſhe returned to the chateau her countenance had recovered all its uſual ſere⯑nity. She reſolved, however, not to touch her lute that day.

[143] Till the hour of breakfaſt ſhe buſied herſelf in binding up the flowers, and pruning the ſhoots that were too luxuriant, and ſhe at length found herſelf, ſhe ſcarcely knew how, beneath her beloved acacias by the ſide of the lake. ‘"Ah!"’ ſaid ſhe, with a ſigh, ‘"how ſweetly would the ſong I learned yeſterday, ſound now over the waters!"’ But ſhe remembered her determination, and checked the ſtep ſhe was involuntarily tak⯑ing towards the chateau.

She attended her father in the library at the uſual hour, and learned, from his diſcourſe with her brother on what had been read the two preceding days, that ſhe had loſt much entertaining knowledge. She requeſt⯑ed her father would inform her to what this converſation alluded; but he calmly re⯑plied, that ſhe had preferred another amuſe⯑ment at the time when the ſubject was diſ⯑cuſſed, and muſt therefore content herſelf with ignorance. ‘"You would reap the rewards of ſtudy from the amuſements of idle⯑neſs,"’ ſaid he; ‘"learn to be reaſonable—d not expect to unite inconſiſtencies."’

Clara felt the juſtneſs of this rebuke, and remembered her lute. ‘"What miſchief has it occaſioned!"’ ſighed ſhe. ‘"Yes, I am determined not to touch it at all this day. I will prove that I am able to controul my inclinations when I ſee it [144] is neceſſary ſo to do."’ Thus reſolving, ſhe applied herſelf to ſtudy with more than uſual aſſiduity.

She adhered to her reſolution, and to⯑wards the cloſe of day went into the garden to amuſe herſelf. The evening was ſtill and uncommonly beautiful. Nothing was heard but the faint [...]ing of the leaves, which returned but a [...] [...]ervals, making ſilence more ſolenm, [...] diſtant murmurs of the torrents that [...]ed among the cliffs. As ſhe ſtood by the lake, and watched the ſun ſlowly ſinking below the alps, whoſe ſummits were tinged with gold and purple; as ſhe ſaw the laſt rays of light gleam upon the waters whoſe ſurface was not curled by the lighteſt air, ſhe ſighed, ‘"Oh! how enchanting would be the ſound of my lute at this moment, on this ſpot, and when every thing is ſo ſtill around me!"’

The temptation was too powerful for the reſolution of Clara: ſhe ran to the chateau, returned with the inſtrument to her dear acacias, and beneath their ſhade continued to play till the ſurrounding objects faded in in darkneſs from her ſight. But the moon aroſe, and, ſhedding a trembling luſtre on the lake, made the ſcene more captivating than ever.

It was impoſſible to quit ſo delightful a ſpot; Clara repeated her favourite airs again [145] and again. The beauty of the hour awaken⯑ed all her genius; ſhe never played with ſuch expreſſion before, and ſhe liſtened with in⯑creaſing rapture to the tones as they languiſh⯑ed over the waters and died away on the diſ⯑tant air. She was perfectly enchanted ‘"No! nothing was ever ſo delightful as to play on the lute beneath her acacias, on the margin of the lake, by moon⯑light!"’

When ſhe returned to the chateau, ſupper was over. La Luc had obſerved Clara, and would not ſuffer her to be interrupt⯑ed.

When the enthuſiaſm of the hour was paſſed ſhe recollected that ſhe had broken her reſolution, and the reflection gave her pain. ‘"I prided myſelf on controling my incli⯑nations,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"and I have weakly yielded to their direction. But what evil have I incurred by indulging them this evening? I have neglected no duty, for I had none to perform. Of what then have I to accuſe myſelf? It would have been abſurd to have kept my reſolution, and denied myſelf a pleaſure when there ap⯑peared no reaſon for this ſelf-denial."’

She pauſed, not quite ſatisfied with this reaſoning. Suddenly reſuming her enquiry, ‘"But how,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"am I certain that I ſhould have reſiſted my inclinations if [146] there had been a reaſon for oppoſing them? If the poor family whom I neglected yeſ⯑terday had been unſupplied to day, I fear I ſhould again have forgotten them while I played on my lute on the banks of the lake."’

She then recollected all that her father had at different times ſaid on the ſub⯑ject of ſelf-command, and ſhe felt ſome pain.

‘"No,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"if I do not conſider that to preſerve a reſolution, which I have once ſolemnly formed, is a ſufficient rea⯑ſon to control my inclinations, I fear no other motive would long reſtrain me. I ſeriouſly determined not to touch my lute this whole day, and I have broken my reſolution. To-morrow perhaps I may be tempted to neglect ſome duty, for I have diſcovered that I cannot rely on my own prudence. Since I cannot conquer temp⯑tation, I will fly from it."’

On the following morning ſhe brought her lute to La Luc, and begged he would re⯑ceive it again, and at leaſt keep it till ſhe had taught her inclinations to ſubmit to con⯑trol.

The heart of La Luc ſwelled as ſhe ſpoke. ‘"No, Clara,"’ ſaid he, ‘"it is unneceſſary that I ſhould receive your lute; the ſa⯑crifice you would make proves you wor⯑thy [147] of my confidence. Take back the inſtrument; ſince you have ſufficient reſo⯑lution to reſign it when it leads you from duty, I doubt not that you will be able to control its influence now that it is reſtored to you."’

Clara felt a degree of pleaſure and pride at theſe words, ſuch as ſhe had never before experienced; but ſhe thought, that to de⯑ſerve the commendation they beſtowed, it was neceſſary to complete the ſacrifice ſhe had begun. In the virtuous enthuſiaſm of the moment the delights of muſic were forgotten in thoſe of aſpiring to well-earned praiſe, and when ſhe refuſed the lute thus offered, ſhe was conſcious only of exquiſite ſenſations. ‘"Dear Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe, tears of pleaſure ſwelling in her eyes, ‘"allow me to deſerve the praiſes you beſtow, and then I ſhall indeed be happy."’

La Luc thought ſhe had never reſembled her mother ſo much as at this inſtant, and, tenderly kiſſing her, he for ſome moments wept in ſilence. When he was able to ſpeak, ‘"You do already deſerve my praiſes,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and I reſtore your lute as a reward for the conduct which excites them."’ This ſcene called back recollections too tender for the heart of La Luc, and giving Clara the inſt ument, he abruptly quitted the room.

[148] La Luc's ſon, a youth of much promiſe, was deſigned by his father for the church, and had received from him an excellent edu⯑cation, which, however, it was thought neceſſary he ſhould finiſh at an univerſity. That of Geneva was fixed upon by La Luc. His ſcheme had been to make his ſon not a ſcholar only; he was ambitious that he ſhould alſo be enviable as a man. From early infancy he had accuſtomed him to hardihood and endurance, and, as he ad⯑vanced in youth, he encouraged him in manly exerciſes, and acquainted him with the uſeful arts as well as with abſtract ſci⯑ence.

He was high ſpirited and ardent in his temper, but his heart was generous and af⯑fectionate. He looked forward to Geneva, and to the new world it would diſcloſe, with the ſanguine expectations of youth; and in the delight of theſe expectations was abſorbed the regret he would otherwiſe have felt at a ſeparation from his family.

A brother of the late Madame La Luc, who was by birth an Engliſh woman, re⯑ſided at Geneva with his family. To have been related to his wife was a ſufficient claim upon the heart of La Luc, and he had, therefore, always kept up an intercourſe with Mr. Audley, though the difference in their characters and manner of thinking would [149] never permit this aſſociation to advance into friendſhip. La Luc now wrote to him, ſig⯑nifying an intention of ſending his ſon to Geneva, and recommending him to his care; to this letter Mr. Audley returned a friendly anſwer, and a ſhort time after an acquain⯑tance of La Luc's being called to Geneva, he determined that his ſon ſhould accompany him. The ſeparation was painful to La Luc, and almoſt inſupportable to Clara. Madame was grieved, and took care that he ſhould have a ſufficient quantity of medicines put up in his travelling trunk; ſhe was alſo at ſome pains to point out their virtues, and the different complaints for which they were requiſite; but ſhe was careful to deli⯑ver her lecture during the abſence of her brother.

La Luc, with his daughter, accompanied his ſon on horſeback to the next town, which was about eight miles from Leloncourt, and there again enforcing all the advice he had formerly given him reſpecting his conduct and purſuits, and again yielding to the ten⯑der weakneſs of the father, he bade him farewell. Clara wept, and felt more ſorrow at this parting than the occaſion could juſti⯑fy; but this was almoſt the firſt time ſhe had known grief, and ſhe artleſsly yielded to its influence.

La Luc and Clara travelled penſively [150] back, and the day was cloſing when they came within view of the lake, and ſoon after of the chateau. Never had it appeared gloomy till now; but now Clara wandered forlornly through every deſerted apartment where ſhe had been accuſtomed to ſee her brother, and recollected a thouſand little circumſtances, 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 melancholy aſpect, and it was long ere they reſumed their natural character and Clara re⯑covered her vivacity.

Near four years had elapſed ſince this ſeparation when one evening, as Madame 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. ‘"Here is a ſad accident happened at our houſe, Madame,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"I am ſure my heart aches for the poor young creature."—’Madame La Luc deſired ſhe would explain herſelf, and the woman proceeded to ſay, that her brother Peter, whom ſhe had not ſeen for ſo many years, was arrived, and had brought a young lady to her cottage, who ſhe verily believed was dying. She deſcribed her diſ⯑order, and acquainted Madame with what [151] particulars of her mournful ſtory Peter had related, failing not to exaggerate ſuch as her compaſſion for the unhappy ſtranger and her love of the marvellous prompted.

The account appeared a very extraor⯑dinary one to Madame; but pity for the forlorn condition of the young ſufferer induced her to inquire farther into the af⯑fair. ‘"Do let me go to her, Madam,"’ ſaid Clara, who had been liſtening with ready compaſſion to the poor woman's narrative: ‘"do ſuffer me to go—ſhe muſt want comforts, and I wiſh much to ſee how ſhe is."’ Madame aſked ſome farther queſtions concerning her diſorder, and then, taking off her ſpectacles, ſhe roſe from her chair and ſaid ſhe would go herſelf. Clara deſired to accompany her. They put on their hats and followed the good woman to the cottage, where, in a very ſmall, cloſe room, on a miſerable bed, lay Adeline, pale, emaciated, and uncon⯑ſcious of all around her. Madame turned to the woman, and aſked how long ſhe had been in this way, while Clara went up to the bed, and taking the almoſt lifeleſs hand that lay on the quilt, looked anxiouſly in her face. ‘"She obſerves nothing,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"poor creature! I wiſh ſhe was at the chateau, ſhe would be better accom⯑modated, and I could nurſe her there,"’ [152] The woman told Madame La Luc, that the young lady had lain in that ſtate for ſeveral hours. Madame examined her pulſe, and ſhook her head. ‘"This room is very cloſe,"’ ſaid ſhe.—‘"Very cloſe indeed,"’ cried Clara, eagerly; ‘"ſurely ſhe would be better at the chateau, if ſhe could be moved."’

‘"We will ſee you about that,"’ ſaid her aunt. ‘"In the mean time let me ſpeak to Peter; it is ſome years ſince I ſaw him."’ She went to the outer room, and the woman ran out of the cottage to look for him. When ſhe was gone, ‘"This is a miſerable habitation for the poor ſtranger,"’ ſaid Clara; ‘"ſhe will never be well here: do, Madam, let her be carried to our houſe; I am ſure my father would wiſh it. Beſides, there is ſomething in her features, even inanimate as they now are, that prejudices me in her favour."’

‘"Shall I never perſuade you to give up that romantic notion of judging people by their faces,"’ ſaid her aunt. ‘"What ſort of a face ſhe has, is of very little conſequence—her condition is lamentable, and I am deſirous of al⯑tering it; but I wiſh firſt to aſk Peter a few queſtions concerning her."’

‘"Thank you, my dear aunt,"’ ſaid Clara; ‘"ſhe will be removed then."’ Ma⯑dame [153] La Luc was going to reply; but Peter now entered, and, expreſſing great joy at ſeeing her again, inquired how Monſieur La Luc and Clara did. Clara immediately wel⯑comed honeſt Peter to his native place, and he returned her ſalutation with many expreſ⯑ſions of ſurpriſe at finding her ſo much grown. ‘"Though I have ſo often dandled you in my arms, Ma'amſelle, I ſhould never have known you again. Young twigs ſhoot faſt, as they ſay."’

Madame La Luc now inquired into the particulars of Adeline's ſtory, and heard as much as Peter knew of it, being only that his late maſter found her in a very diſtreſſed ſituation, and that he had himſelf brought her from the Abbey to ſave her from a French Marquis. The ſimplicity of Peter's manner would not ſuffer her to queſtion his veracity, though ſome of the circumſtances he re⯑lated excited all her ſurpriſe, and awaken⯑ed all her pity. Tears frequently ſtood in Clara's eyes during the courſe of his narra⯑tive, and when he concluded, ſhe ſaid, ‘"Dear Madam, I am ſure when my father learns the hiſtory of this unhappy young woman, he will not refuſe to be a parent to her, and I will be her ſiſter."’

‘"She deſerves it all,"’ ſaid Peter, ‘"for ſhe is very good indeed."’ He then proceeded in a ſtrain of praiſe, which was very unuſual [154] with him.—‘"I will go home and conſult with my brother about her,"’ ſaid Madame La Luc, riſing: ‘"ſhe certainly ought to be removed to a more airy room. The chateau is ſo near, that I think ſhe may be carried thither without much riſk."’

‘"Heaven bleſs you! Madam,"’ cried Pe⯑ter, rubbing his hands, ‘"for your goodneſs to my poor young lady."’

La Luc had juſt returned from his evening walk when they reached the chateau. Ma⯑dame told him where ſhe had been, and re⯑lated the hiſtory of Adeline and her preſent condition. ‘"By all means have her re⯑moved hither,"’ ſaid La Luc, whoſe eyes bore teſtimony to the tenderneſs of his heart. ‘"She can be better attended to here than in Suſan's cottage."’

‘"I knew you would ſay ſo, my dear father,"’ ſaid Clara: ‘"I will go and order the green bed to be prepared for her."’

‘"Be patient, niece,"’ ſaid Madame La Luc: ‘"there is no occaſion for ſuch haſte: ſome things are to be conſidered firſt; but you are young and romantic."—’La Luc ſmiled.—‘"The evening is now cloſed,"’ reſumed Madame; ‘"it will, therefore, be dangerous to remove her before morning. Early to-morrow a room ſhall be got rea⯑dy, and ſhe ſhall be brought here; in the mean time I will go and make up a medi⯑cine, [155] which I hope may be of ſervice to her."—’Clara reluctantly aſſented to this delay, and Madame La Luc retired to her cloſet.

On the following morning Adeline, wrapped in blankets, and ſheltered as much as poſſible from the air, was brought to the chateau, where the good La Luc deſired ſhe might have every attention paid her, and where Clara watched over her with unceaſing anxiety and tenderneſs. She remained in a ſtate of torpor during the greater part of the day, but towards evening ſhe breathed more freely; and Clara, who ſtill watched by her bed, had at length the pleaſure of perceiving that her ſenſes were reſtored. It was at this moment that ſhe found herſelf in the ſituation from which we have digreſſed to give this ac⯑count of the venerable La Luc and his family. The reader will find that his virtues and his friendſhip to Adeline deſerved this notice.

CHAPTER XVI.

ADELINE, aſſiſted by a fine conſti⯑tution, and the kind at [...]entions of her new friends, was in a little more than a week ſo much recovered as to leave her chamber. She was introduced to La Luc, whom ſhe met with tears of gratitude, and thanked for his goodneſs in a manner ſo warm, yet ſo artleſs, as intereſted him ſtill more in her favour. During the progreſs of her recovery, the ſweetneſs of her behaviour had entirely won the heart of Clara, and greatly intereſted that of her aunt, whoſe re⯑ports of Adeline, together with the praiſes beſtowed by Clara, had excited both eſteem and curioſity in the breaſt of La Luc; and he now met her with an expreſſion of benig⯑nity which ſpoke peace and comfort to her heart. She had acquainted Madame La Luc with ſuch particulars of her ſtory as Peter, either through ignorance or inattention, had not communicated, ſuppreſſing only, through a falſe delicacy, perhaps, an ac⯑knowledgement of her attachment to Theo⯑dore. [157] Theſe circumſtances were repeated to La Luc, who, ever ſenſible to the ſufferings of others, was particularly intereſted by the ſingular misfortunes of Adeline.

Near a fortnight had elapſed ſince her removal to the chateau, when one morning La Luc deſired to ſpeak with her alone. She followed him into his ſtudy, and then in a manner the moſt delicate he told her, that, as he found ſhe was ſo unfortunate in her father, he deſired ſhe would henceforth con⯑ſider him as her parent, and his houſe as her home. ‘"You and Clara ſhall be equally my daughters,"’ continued he; ‘"I am rich in having ſuch children."’ The ſtrong emotions of ſurpriſe and gratitude for ſome time kept Adeline ſilent. ‘"Do not thank me,"’ ſaid La Luc; ‘"I know all you would ſay, and I know alſo that I am but doing my duty. I thank God that my duty and my pleaſures are generally in uniſon."’ Adeline wiped away the tears which his goodneſs had excited, and was going to ſpeak; but La Luc preſſed her hand, and, turning away to conceal his emotion, walked out of the room.

Adeline was now conſidered as a part of the family, and in the parental kindneſs of La Luc, the ſiſterly affection of Clara, and the ſteady and uniform regard of Ma⯑dame, ſhe would have been happy as ſhe was [158] thankful, had not unceaſing anxiety for the fate of Theodore, of whom in this ſolitude ſhe was leſs likely than ever to hear, corroded her heart, and embittered every moment of reflection. Even when ſleep obliterated for a while the memory of the paſt, his image frequently aroſe to her fancy, accompanied by all the exaggerations of terror. She ſaw him in chains, and ſtruggling in the graſp of ruffians, or ſaw him led, amidſt the dread⯑ful preparations for execution, into the field: ſhe ſaw the agony of his look, and heard him repeat her name in frantic accents till the horrors of the ſcene overcame her, and ſhe awoke.

A ſimilarity of taſte and character at⯑tached her to Clara, yet the miſery that preyed upon her heart was of a nature too delicate to be ſpoken of, and ſhe never mentioned Theodore even to her friend. Her illneſs had yet left her weak and languid, and the perpetual anxiety of her mind contributed to prolong this ſtate. She endeavoured, by ſtrong and almoſt continual efforts, to abſtract her thoughts from their mournful ſubject, and was often ſucceſsful. La Luc had an excellant library, and the inſtruction it offered at once gratified her love of knowledge, and withdrew her mind from painful recollections. His con⯑verſation [159] too afforded her another refuge from miſery.

But her chief amuſement was to wander among the ſublime ſcenery of the adjacent country, ſometimes with Clara, though often with no other companion than a book. There were indeed times when the conver⯑ſation of her friend impoſed a painful re⯑ſtraint, and, when given up to reflection ſhe would ramble alone through ſcenes, whoſe ſolitary grandeur aſſiſted and ſoothed the melancholy of her heart. Here ſhe would retrace all the conduct of her beloved Theo⯑dore, and endeavour to recollect his exact countenance, his air, and manner. Now ſhe would weep at the remembrance and then, ſuddenly conſidering that he had per⯑haps already ſuffered an ignominious death for her ſake, even in conſequence of the very action which had proved his love, a dreadful deſpair would ſeize her, and, arreſting her tears, would threaten to bear down every barrier that fortitude and reaſon could oppoſe.

Fearing longer to truſt her own thoughts, ſhe would hurry home, and by a deſperate effort would try to loſe, in the converſa⯑tion of La Luc, the remembrance of the paſt. Her melancholy, when he obſerved it, La Luc attributed to a ſenſe of the cruel treatment ſhe had received from her [160] father; a circumſtance which, by exciting his compaſſion, endeared her more ſtrongly to his heart; while that love of rational converſation, which in her calmer hours ſo frequently appeared, opened to him a new ſource of amuſement in the cultivation of a mind eager for knowledge, and, ſuſceptible of all the energies of genius. She found a melancholy pleaſure in liſtening to the ſoft tones of Clara's lute, and would often ſoothe her mind by attempting to repeat the airs ſhe heard.

The gentleneſs of her manners, partaking ſo much of that penſive character which marked La Luc's, was ſoothing to his heart, and tinctured his behaviour with a degree of tenderneſs that imparted comfort to her, and gradually won her entire confidence and affection. She ſaw with extreme concern the declining ſtate of his health, and united her efforts with thoſe of the family to amuſe and revive him.

The pleaſing ſociety of which ſhe partook, and the quietneſs of the country, at length reſtored her mind to a ſtate of to⯑lerable compoſure. She was now acquainted with all the wild walks of the neighbouring mountains, and, never tired of viewing their aſtoniſhing ſcenery, ſhe often indulged herſelf in traverſing alone their unfrequented paths, where now and then a peaſant from a neigh⯑bouring [161] village was all that interrupted the profound ſolitude. She generally took with her a book, that if ſhe perceived her thoughts inclined to fix on the one object of her grief, ſhe might force them to a ſubject leſs danger⯑ous to her peace. She had become a tolerable proficient in Engliſh while at the convent where ſhe received her education, and the inſtruction of La Luc, who was well ac⯑quainted with the language, now ſerved to her. He was partial to the Engliſh; he admired their character, and the conſti⯑tution of their laws, and his library contained a collection of their beſt authors, particularly of their philoſophers and poets. Adeline found that no ſpecies of writing had power ſo effectually to withdraw her mind from the contemplation of its own miſery, as the higher kinds of poetry, and in theſe her taſte ſoon taught her to diſtinguiſh the ſupe⯑riority of the Engliſh from that of the French. The genius of the language, more perhaps than the genius of the people, if indeed the diſtinction may be allowed, occaſioned this.

She frequently took a volume of Shake⯑ſpear or Milton, and, having gained ſome wild eminence, would ſeat herſelf benea [...]h the pines, whoſe low murmurs ſoothed her heart, and conſpired with the viſions of the poet to lull her to forgetfulneſs of grief.

[162] One evening, when Clara was en⯑gaged at home, Adeline wandered alone to a favourite ſpot among the rocks that bordered the lake. It was an eminence which commanded an entire view of the lake, and of the ſtupendous mountains that environed it. A few ragged thorns grew from the precipice beneath, which deſcended perpendicularly to the water's edge; and above roſe a thick wood of larch, pine, and fir, intermingled with ſome cheſnut and mountain aſh. The evening was fine, and the air ſo ſtill, that it ſcarcely waved the light leaves of the trees around, or rimpled the broad expanſe of the waters below. Adeline gazed on the ſcene with a kind of ſtill rapture, and watched the ſun ſinking amid a crimſon glow, which tinted the boſom of the lake and the ſnowy heads of the diſtant alps. The delight which the ſcenery inſpired,

was now heightened by the tones of a French horn, and, looking on the lake, ſhe perceived at ſome diſtance a pleaſure boat. As it was a ſpectacle rather un⯑common in this ſolitude, ſhe concluded [163] the boat contained a party of foreigners come to view the wonderful ſcenery of the country, or perhaps of Genevois who choſe to amuſe themſelves on a lake as grand, though much leſs extenſive than their own; and the latter conjecture was probably juſt.

As ſhe liſtened to the mellow and en⯑chanting tones of the horn, which gra⯑dually ſunk away in diſtance, the ſcene appeared more lovely than before, and finding it impoſſible to forbear attempt⯑ing to paint in language what was ſo beautiful in reality, ſhe compoſed the following

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 was circumſcribed. 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, nor Adeline, were equal. She had not been accuſtomed to ride [165] 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 offered her.

The following day was fixed for this excurſion. La Luc and his party aroſe at an early hour, and having taken a ſlight 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 enthuſiaſm of Adeline, the more com⯑placent pleaſure of La Luc, and the tranſ⯑ports of Clara, as the ſcenes of this romantic country ſhifted to their eyes. Now frowning in dark and gloomy grandeur, it exhibited only tremendous rocks, and cataracts rolling from the heights into ſome deep and narrow valley, along which their united waters roared and foamed, and burſt away to regions inacceſſible to mortal foot: and now the ſcene aroſe leſs fiercely wild;

were intermingled with the ruder features of nature, and while the ſnow froze on the [166] 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 refreſhment. At ſome little diſtance they perceived the ruins of a fabric which had once been a caſtle; it ſtood almoſt on a point of rock that overhung a deep valley; and its broken turrets riſing from among the woods that emboſomed it, heightened the pictureſque beauty of the object.

The edifice invited curioſity, and the ſhades repoſe—La Luc and his party advanced.

They ſeated themſelves on the graſs under the ſhade of ſome high trees near the ruins. An opening in the woods afforded a view of the diſtant alps—the deep ſilence of ſolitude reigned. For ſome time they were loſt in meditation. Adeline felt a ſweet complacency, ſuch as ſhe had long been a ſtranger to. Looking at La Luc, ſhe perceived a tear [167] ſtealing down his cheek, while the eleva⯑tion of his mind was ſtrongly expreſſed 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 gran⯑deur of theſe woods, together with that monument of faded glory on which the hand of time is ſo emphatically impreſſed, diffuſe a ſacred enthuſiaſm over the mind, and awaken ſenſations truly ſublime."’

La Luc was going to ſpeak; but Peter coming 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.

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.

[168] When they aroſe to depart, ‘"I am un⯑willing,"’ ſaid Clara, ‘"to quit this char⯑ming 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 romantic ſimplicity of the idea; but Adeline ſighed deeply to the image of felicity, 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 Montanvert. The emotions of Adeline, as ſhe contemplated in various points of view the aſtoniſhing objects around her, ſurpaſſed all expreſſion; and the feelings of the whole party were too ſtrong to admit of converſation. The profound ſtillneſs which reigned in theſe regions of ſolitude inſpired awe, and heigh⯑tened the ſublimity of the ſcenery to an ex⯑quiſite degree

‘"It ſeems,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"as if we were walking over the ruins of the world, and were the only perſons who had ſurvived the wreck. I can ſcarcely perſuade myſelf that we are not left alone on the globe."’

‘"The view of theſe objects,"’ ſaid La Luc, ‘"lift the ſoul 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 raiſ⯑ed his eyes, filled with tears, to heaven, [169] and was for ſome moments loſt in ſilent adoration.

They quitted theſe ſcenes with extreme reluctance; but the hour of the day, and the appearance of the clouds, which ſeemed gathering for a ſtorm, made them haſten their departure. Could ſhe have been ſheltered from its fury, Adeline almoſt wiſhed to have witneſſed the tremendous effect of a thunder ſtorm in theſe regions.

They returned to Leloncourt by a different route, and the ſhade of the overhanging precipices was deepened by the gloom of the atmoſphere. It was evening when they came within view of the lake, which the travellers rejoiced to ſee, for the ſtorm ſo long threatened was now faſt approaching; the thunder murmured among the alps; and the dark vapours that rolled heavily along their ſides heightened their dreadful ſublimity. La Luc would have quick⯑ened his pace, but the road winding down the ſteep ſide of a mountain made caution neceſſary. The darkening air and the lightnings that now flaſhed along the horizon terrified Clara, but ſhe withheld the expreſſion of her fear in conſideration of her father. A peal of thunder, which ſeemed to ſhake the earth to its founda⯑tions, and was reverberated in tremendous echoes from the cliffs, burſt over their heads. [170] Clara's horſe took fright at the ſound, and, ſetting off, hurried her with amazing velocity down the mountain towards the lake, which waſhed its foot. The agony of La Luc, who viewed her progreſs in the horrible expectation of ſeeing her daſhed down the precipice that bordered the road, is not to be deſcribed.

Clara kept her ſeat, but terror had al⯑moſt deprived her of ſenſe. He efforts to preſerve herſelf were mechanical, for ſhe ſcarce⯑ly knew what ſhe did. The horſe, however, carried her ſafely almoſt to the foot of the mountain, but was making towards the lake, when a gentleman who travelled along the road caught the bridle as the animal endea⯑voured to paſs. The ſudden ſtopping of the horſe threw Clara to the ground, and, impatient of reſtraint, the animal burſt from the hand of the ſtranger, and plunged 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.

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 en⯑deavouring to thank him for his kindneſs [171] when La Luc and Adeline came up. The terror impreſſed on her father's features was perceived by Clara; languid as ſhe was, ſhe tried to raiſe herſelf, and ſaid, with a faint ſmile, which betrayed, inſtead of diſguſing her ſufferings, ‘"Dear Sir, I am not hurt."’ Her pale countenance and the blood that trickled down her cheek contradicted her words. But La Luc, to whom terror had ſuggeſted the utmoſt poſſible evil, now re⯑joiced to hear her ſpeak; he recalled ſome preſence of mind, and while Adeline applied her ſalts, he chaſed her temples.

When ſhe revived ſhe told him how much ſhe was obliged to the ſtranger. La Luc endeavoured to expreſs his gratitude; but the former interrupting him, begged he might be ſpared the pain of receiving thanks for having followed only an impulſe of com⯑mon humanity.

They were now not far from Leloncourt; but the evening was almoſt ſhut 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 evident 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 [172] ſprained his ſhoulder, and rendered his arm almoſt uſeleſs. The pain was exquiſite, and La Luc, whoſe fears for his daughter were now ſubſiding, was ſhocked at the circum⯑ſtance, and preſſed the ſtranger to accom⯑pany him to the village, where relief might be obtained. He accepted the invitation, and Clara, being at length placed on a horſe led by her father, was conducted to the cha⯑teau.

When Madame, who had been looking out for La Luc ſome time, perceived the cavalcade approaching, ſhe was alarmed, and her apprehenſions were confirmed when ſhe ſaw the ſituation of her niece. Clara was carried into the houſe, and La Luc would have ſent for a ſurgeon, but there was none within ſeveral leagues of the village, neither were there any of the phyſical pro⯑feſſion within the ſame diſtance. Clara was aſſiſted to her chamber by Adeline, and Ma⯑dame La Luc undertook to examine the wounds. The reſult reſtored peace to the family; for though ſhe was much bruiſed, ſhe had eſcaped material injury; a ſlight 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 com⯑poſed by herſelf, on the virtues of which ſhe deſcanted with great eloquence, till La Luc [173] interrupted her by reminding 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 retired to her own for the night.

La Luc, whoſe ſpirits had ſuffered much perturbation, was now tranquillized by the report his ſiſter made of Clara. He intro⯑duced the ſtranger, and having mentioned the accident he had met with, deſired that he might have immediate aſſiſtance. Ma⯑dame haſtened to her cloſet, and it is per⯑haps difficulty to determine whether ſhe felt moſt concern for the ſufferings of her gueſt, or pleaſure at the opportunity thus of⯑fered of diſplaying her phyſical ſkill. How⯑ever this might be, ſhe quitted the room with great alacrity, and very quickly re⯑turned with a phial containing her ineſtima⯑ble balſam, and having given the neceſſary directions for the application of it, ſhe left the ſtranger to the care of his ſervant.

La Luc inſiſted that the chevalier, M. Verneuil, ſhould not leave the chateau that night, and he very readily ſubmitted to be detained. His manners during the evening were as frank and engaging as the hoſpita⯑lity and gratitude of La Luc were ſincere, and they ſoon entered into intereſting con⯑verſation. [174] M. Verneuil converſed like a man who had ſeen much, and thought more, and if he diſcovered any prejudice in his opinions, it was evidently the prejudice of a mind which, ſeeing objects through the medium of its own goodneſs, tinges them with the hue of its predominant quality. La Luc was much pleaſed, for in his retired ſituation he had not often an opportunity of receiving the pleaſure which reſults from a communion of intelligent minds. He found that M. Verneuil had travelled. La Luc having aſked ſome queſtions relative to Eng⯑land, they fell into diſcourſe concerning the national characters of the French and Eng⯑liſh.

‘"If it is the privilege of wiſdom,"’ ſaid M. Verneuil, ‘"to look beyond happineſs, I own I had rather be without it. When we obſerve the Engliſh, their laws, writ⯑ings, and converſation, and at the ſame time mark their countenances, 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, and ſee ^* their wretched po⯑licy, their ſparkling, but ſophiſtical diſ⯑courſe, [175] frivolous occupations, and, with⯑al, their gay animated air, we ſhall be compelled to acknowledge that happineſs and folly too often dwell together."’

‘"It is the end of wiſdom,"’ ſaid La Luc, ‘"to attain happineſs, and I can hardly dig⯑nify that conduct or courſe of thinking which tends to miſery with the name of wiſdom. By this rule, perhaps, the fol⯑ly, as we term it, of the French deſerves, ſince its effect is happineſs, to be called wiſdom. That airy thoughtleſſneſs, which ſeems alike to contemn reflection and anticipation, produces all the effect of it without reducing its ſubjects to the mortification of philoſophy. But in truth wiſdom is an exertion of mind to ſubdue folly; and as the happineſs of the French is leſs the conſequence of mind than of conſtitution, it deſerves not the honours of wiſdom."’

Diſcourſing on the variety of opinions that are daily formed on the ſame conduct, La Luc obſerved how much that which is commonly called opinion is the reſult of paſſion and temper.

‘"True,"’ ſaid M. Verneuil, ‘"there is a tone of thought, as there is a key note in muſic, that leads all its weaker affections. Thus where the powers of judging may be equal, the diſpoſition to [176] judge is different, and the actions of men are at leaſt but too often arraigned by whim and caprice, by partial vanity and the humour of the moment."’

Here La Luc took occaſion to reprobate the conduct of thoſe writers, who, by ſhew⯑ing the dark ſide only of human nature, and by dwelling on the evils only which are incident to humanity, have ſought to de⯑grade 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 his piece objects of a black hue only, who preſented you with a black man, a black horſe, a black dog, &c. &c., and tells you that his is a pic⯑ture of nature, and that nature is black?"—"'Tis true, you would reply, "the ob⯑jects you exhibit do exiſt in nature, but they form a very ſmall part of her works. You ſay that nature is black, and, to prove it, you have collected on your canvaſs all the animals of this hue that exiſt. But you have forgot to paint the green earth, the blue ſky, the white man, and objects of all thoſe various hues with which creation abounds, and of which black is a very inconſiderable part."’

The countenance of M. Verneuil ligh⯑tened with peculiar animation during the [177] diſcourſe of La Luc.—‘"To think well of his nature,"’ ſaid he, ‘"is neceſſary to the dignity and the happineſs of man. There is a decent pride which becomes every mind, and is congenial to virtue. That conſciouſneſs of innate dignity, which ſhews him the glory of his nature, will be his beſt protection from the meanneſs of vice. Where this conſciouſneſs is wanting,"’ continued M. Verneuil, ‘"there can be no ſenſe of moral honour, and conſequently none of the higher prin⯑ples of action. What can be expected of him who ſays it is his nature to be mean and ſelfiſh? Or who can doubt that he who thinks thus, thinks from the ex⯑perience of his own heart, from the ten⯑dency of his own inclinations? Let it always be remembered, that he who would perſuade men to be good, ought to ſhew them that they are great."’ ‘"You ſpeak,"’ ſaid La Luc, ‘"with the honeſt enthuſiaſm of a virtuous mind; and in obeying the impulſe of your heart, you utter the truths of philoſophy: and, truſt me, a bad heart and a truly phi⯑loſophic head has never yet been united in the ſame individual. Vicious inclinati⯑ons not only corrupt the heart, but the underſtanding, and thus lead to falſe rea⯑ſoning. [178] Virtue only is on the ſide of truth."’

La Luc and his gueſt, mutually pleaſed with each other, entered upon the diſcuſ⯑ſion of ſubjects ſo intereſting to them both, that it was late before they parted for the night.

CHAPTER XVII.

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 [179] of ſome reſolution to endure in ſilence. It was now ſwelled and ſomewhat inflamed, and this might in ſome degree be attributed to the effect of Madam La Luc's balſam, whoſe reſtorative qualities had for once failed. The whole family ſympathiſed with his ſufferings, and Madame, at the requeſt of M. Verneuil, abandoned her balſam, and ſubſtituted an emollient fomentation.

From an application of this he, in a ſhort time, found an abatement of the pain, and returned to the breakfaſt table with greater compoſure. The 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 occaſioned M. Verneuil.

The pleaſure received from the company of his gueſt, and the conſideration of the eſſen⯑tial ſervices he had rendered him, co operated with the natural hoſpitality of La Luc, and he preſſed M. Verneuil to remain ſome time at the chateau—‘"I can never repay the ſervices you have done me,"’ ſaid La Luc; ‘"yet I ſeek to encreaſe my obligations to you by requeſting you will prolong your viſit, and thus allow me an opportunity of cultivating your acquaintance."’

[180] 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 thecountry, being now delighted with his hoſt and with every thing around him, willingly accepted the invitation. In this circumſtance prudence concurred with inclination, for to have purſued his journey on horſeback, in his preſent ſituation, would have been danger⯑ous, if not impracticable.

The morning was ſpent in converſation, in which M. Verneuil diſplayed a mind enriched with taſte, enlightned by ſcience and enlarged by obſervation. The ſituation of the chateau and the features of the ſur⯑rounding ſcenery charmed him, and in the eve⯑ning he found himſelf able to walk with La Luc and explore the beauties of this romantic region. As they paſſed through the village, 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 con⯑ſciouſneſs of deſerving and poſſeſſing their love.—‘"I live ſurrounded by my children,"’ ſaid he, turning to M. Verneuil, who had no⯑ticed their eagerneſs, ‘"for ſuch I conſider my pariſhioners. In diſcharging the duties of my office, I am repaid not only by my own conſcience, but by their gratitude. There [181] is a luxury in obſerving their ſimple and honeſt love, which I would not exchange for any thing the world calls bleſſings."’

‘"Yet the world, Sir, would call the pleaſures of which you ſpeak romantic,"’ ſaid M. Verneuil; ‘"for to be ſenſible of this pure and exquiſite delight exquires a heart untainted with the vicious pleaſures of ſociety—pleaſures that deaden its fineſt feelings and poiſon the ſcource of its trueſt enjoyments."—’They purſued their way along the borders of the lake, ſometimes under the ſhade of hanging woods, and ſometimes over hillocks of turf, where the ſcene opened in all its wild magnificence. M. Verneuil often ſtoped in raptures to obſerve and point out the ſingular beauties it exhibited, while La Luc, pleaſed with the delight his friend expreſſed, ſurveyed with more than uſual ſatisfaction the objects which had ſo often charmed him before. But there was a tender melancholy in the tone of his voice and his countenance, which aroſe from the recollection of having often traced thoſe ſcenes, and partook of the pleaſure they inſpired, with her who had long ſince bade them an eternal farewell.

They preſently quitted the lake, and, winding up a ſteep aſcent between the woods, came after an hour's walk, to a green ſum⯑mit, which appeared, among the ſavage rocks that invironed it, like the bloſſom on the [182] thorn. It was a ſpot formed for ſolitary de⯑light, inſpiring that ſoothing tenderneſs ſo dear to the feeling mind, and which calls back to memory the images of paſſed regret, ſoftened by diſtance and endeared by frequent recollection. Wild ſhrubs grew from the crevices of the rocks beneath, and the high trees of pine and cedar that waved above afforded a melancholy and romantic ſhade. The ſilence of the ſcene was interrupted only by the breeze as it rolled over the woods, and by the ſolitary notes of the birds that inhabited the cliffs.

From this point the eye commanded an entire view of thoſe majeſtic and ſublime alps whoſe aſpect fills the ſoul with emotions of indeſcribable awe, and ſeems to lift it to a nobler nature. The village, and the chateau of La Luc appeared in the boſom of the mountains, a peaceful retreat from the ſtorms that gathered on their tops. All the faculties of M. Verneuil were abſorbed in admiration, and he was for ſome time quite ſilent; at length, burſting into a rhapſody, he turned, and would have addreſſed La Luc, when he perceived him at a diſtance leaning againſt a ruſtick urn, over which drooped, in beau⯑tiful luxuriance, the weeping willow.

As he approached, La Luc quitted his po⯑ſition, and advanced to meet him, while M. Verneuil inquired upon what occaſion the [183] urn had been erected. La Luc, unable to anſwer, pointed to it, and walked ſilently away, and M. Verneuil, approaching the urn, read the following inſcription. ‘TO
THE MEMORY OF CLARA LA LUC.
THIS URN
IS ERECTED ON THE SPOT WHICH SHE LOVED,
IN TESTIMONY OF THE AFFECTION OF
A HUSBAND.’

M. Verneuil now comprehended the whole, and, feeling for his friend, was hurt that he had noticed this monument of his grief. He rejoined La Luc, who was ſtanding on the point of the eminence contemplating the landſcape below with an air more placid, and touched with the ſweet⯑neſs of piety and reſignation. He perceived that M. Verneuil was ſome what diſconcert⯑ed, and he ſought to remove his uneaſineſs. ‘"You will conſider it,"’ ſaid he, ‘"as a mark of my eſteem that I have brought you to this ſpot. It is never prophaned by the preſence of the unfeeling. They would deride the faithfulneſs of an attach⯑ment which has ſo long ſurvived its ob⯑jects, and which, in their own breaſts, would quickly have been loſt amidſt the [184] diſſipation of general ſociety. I have cheriſhed in my heart the remembrance of a woman whoſe virtues claimed all my love: I have cheriſhed it as a treaſure to which I could withdraw from temporary cares and vexations, in the certainty of finding a ſoothing, though melancholy, comfort."’

La Luc pauſed. M. Verneuil expreſſed the ſympathy he felt, but he knew the ſa⯑credneſs of ſorrow, and ſoon relapſed into ſi⯑lence. ‘"One of the brighteſt hopes of a future ſtate,"’ reſumed La Luc, ‘"is, that we ſhall meet again thoſe whom we have loved upon earth. And perhaps our hap⯑pineſs may be permitted to conſiſt very much in the ſociety of our friends, purified from the frailties of mortality, with the finer affections more ſweetly attuned, and with the faculties of mind infinitely more elevated and enlarged. We ſhall then be enabled to comprehend ſubjects which are too vaſt for human conception; to com⯑prehend, perhaps, the ſublimity of that Deity who firſt called us into being. Theſe views of futurity, my friend, elevate us above the evils of this world, and ſeem to communicate to us a portion of the nature we contemplate"’

‘"Call them not the illuſions of a viſion⯑ary brain,"’ proceeded La Luc: ‘"I truſt [185] in their reality. Of this I am certain, that whether they are illuſions or not, a faith in them ought to be cheriſhed for the com⯑fort it brings to the heart, and reverenced for the dignity it imparts to the mind. Such feelings make a happy and an impor⯑tant part of our belief in a future exiſtence: they give energy to virtue, and ſtability to principle."’

‘"This,"’ ſaid M Verneuil, ‘"is what I have often felt, and what every ingenuous mind muſt acknowledge."’

La Luc and M. Verneuil continued in converſation till the ſun had left the ſcene. The mountains, darkened by twilight, aſ⯑ſumed a ſublimer aſpect, while the tops of ſome of the higheſt alps were yet illuminated by the ſun's rays, and formed a ſtriking con⯑traſt to the ſhadowy obſcurity of the world below. As they deſcended through the woods, and traverſed the margin of the lake, the ſtillneſs and ſolemnity of the hour diffuſed a penſive ſweetneſs over their minds, and ſunk them into ſilence.

They found ſupper ſpread, as was uſual, in the hall, of which the windows open⯑ed upon a garden, where the flowers might be ſaid to yield their fragrance in gratitude to the refreſhing dews. The windows were embowered with eglantine and other ſweet ſhrubs, which hung in [186] wild luxuriance around, and formed a beautiful and ſimple decoration. Clara and Adeline loved to paſs the evenings in this hall, where they had acquired the firſt rudi⯑ments of aſtronomy, and from which they had a wide view of the heavens. La Luc pointed out to them the planets and the fixed ſtars, explained their laws, and from thence taking occaſion to mingle moral with ſcien⯑tific inſtruction, would often aſcend to⯑wards that great firſt cauſe, whoſe nature ſoars beyond the graſp of human compre⯑henſion.

‘"No ſtudy,"’ he would ſometimes ſay, ‘"ſo much enlarges the mind, or impreſſes it with ſo ſublime an idea of the Deity, as that of aſtronomy. When the imaginati⯑on launches into the regions of ſpace, and contemplates the innumerable worlds which are ſcattered through it, we are loſt in aſtoniſhment and awe. This globe ap⯑appears as a maſs of atoms in the im⯑menſity of the univerſe, and man a mere inſect. Yet how wonderful! that man, whoſe frame is ſo diminutive in the ſcale of being, ſhould have powers which ſpurn the narrow boundaries of time and place, ſoar beyond the ſphere of his exiſtence, penetrate the ſecret laws of nature, and calculate their progreſſive effects."’

‘"Oh! how expreſſively does this prove [187] the ſpirituality of our Being! Let the ma⯑terialiſt conſider it, and bluſh that he has ever doubted."’

In this hall the whole family now met at ſupper, and during the remainder of the evening the converſation turned upon general ſubjects, in which Clara joined in modeſt and judicious remark. La Luc had taught her to familiarize her mind to reaſoning, and had accuſtomed her to deliver her ſentiments freely [...] ſhe ſpoke them with a ſimplicity extremely engag⯑ing, and which convinced her hearers that the love of knowledge, not the va⯑nity of talking, induced her to converſe. M. Verneuil evidently endeavoured to draw forth her ſentiments, and Clara, in⯑tereſted by the ſubjects he introduced, a ſtranger to affectation, and pleaſed with the opinions he expreſſed, anſwered them with frankneſs and animation. They re⯑tired mutually pleaſed with each other.

M. Verneuil was about ſix and thirty; his figure manly, his countenance frank and engaging. A quick penetrating eye, whoſe fire was ſoftened by benevolence, diſcloſed the chief traits of his character; he was quick to diſcern, but generous to excuſe, the follies of mankind; and while no one more ſenſibly felt an injury, none [188] more readily accepted the conceſſion of an enemy.

He was by birth a Frenchman. A fortune lately devolved to him, had en⯑abled him to execute the plan, which his active and inquiſitive mind had ſug⯑geſted, of viewing the moſt remarkable parts of the continent. He was pecu⯑liarly ſuſceptible of the beautiful and ſub⯑lime in nature To ſuch a taſte Switzer⯑land and the adjacent country was, of all others, the moſt intereſting; and he found the ſcenery it exhibited infinitely ſurpaſ⯑ſing all that his glowing imagination had painted; he ſaw with the eye of a painter, and felt with the rapture of a poet.

In the habitation of La Luc he met with the hoſpitality, the frankneſs, and the ſimplicity, ſo characteriſtic of the country: in his venerable hoſt he ſaw the ſtrength of philoſophy united with the fineſt tenderneſs of humanity—a phi⯑loſophy which taught him to correct his feelings, not to annihilate them; in Clara, the bloom of beauty, with the moſt perfect ſimplicity of heart; and in Ade⯑line all the charms of elegance and grace, with a genius deſerving of the higheſt cul⯑ture. In this family picture the goodneſs of Madame La Luc was not unperceived or forgotten. The chearfulneſs and harmony [189] that reigned within the chateau was de⯑lightful; but the philanthropy which, flow⯑ing from the heart of the paſtor, was diffuſed through the whole village, and united the inhabitants in the ſweet and firm bonds of ſocial compact, was divine. The beauty of its ſituation conſpired with theſe circum⯑ſtances to make Leloncourt ſeem almoſt a Paradiſe. M. Verneuil ſighed that he muſt ſo ſoon quit it. ‘"I ought to ſeek no farther,"’ ſaid he, ‘"for here wiſ⯑wiſdom and happineſs dwell together."’

The admiration was reciprocal; La Luc and his family found themſelves much intereſted in M. Verneuil, and looked forward to the time of his depar⯑ture with regret. So warmly they preſ⯑ſed him to prolong his viſit, and ſo pow⯑erfully his own inclinations ſeconded theirs, that he accepted the invitation. La Luc omitted no circumſtance which might con⯑tribute to the amuſement of his gueſt, who, having in a few days recovered the uſe of his arm, they made ſeveral excurſions among the mountains. Adeline and Clara, whom the care of Madame had reſtored to her uſual health, were generally of the party.

After ſpending a week at the chateau, M. Verneuil bade adieu to La Luc and his family; they parted with mutual regret, and the former promiſed that when [190] he returned to Geneva, he would take Leloncourt in his way. As he ſaid this, Adeline, who had for ſome time obſerved, with much alarm, La Luc's declining health, looked mournfully on his languid countenance, and uttered a ſecret prayer that he might live to receive the viſit of M. Verneuil.

Madame was the only perſon who did not lament his departure, ſhe ſaw that the efforts of her brother to entertain his gueſt were more than his preſent ſtate of health would admit of, and ſhe rejoiced in the quiet that would now return to him.

But this quiet brought La Luc no re⯑ſpite from illneſs; the fatigue he had ſuffered in his late excurſions 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 unperformed for ſo long a period as his health might require; but this was an objection which would not have with⯑held him from Nice, had his faith in the [191] climate been equal to that of his phyſi⯑cians.

His pariſhioners felt the life of their paſtor to be of the utmoſt conſequence to them. It was a general cauſe, and they teſtified at once his worth, and their ſenſe of it, by going in a body to ſolicit him to leave them. He was much affected by this inſtan [...] of their attachment. Such a proof of regard, joined with the entreaties of his own family, and a conſideration that for their ſakes it was a duty to endeavour to prolong his life, was too powerful to be withſtood, and he determined to ſet out for Italy.

It was ſettled that Clara and Adeline, whoſe health La Luc thought required change of air and ſcene, ſhould accom⯑pany him, attended by the faithful Peter.

On the morning of his departure, a large body of his pariſhioners aſſembled round the door to bid him farewell. It was an affect⯑ing ſcene; they might meet no more. At length, wiping the tears from his eyes, La Luc ſaid, ‘"Let us truſt in God, my friends; he has power to heal all diſorders both of body and mind. We ſhall meet again, if not in this world, I hope in a better. Let our conduct be ſuch as to enſure that better."’

The ſobs of his people prevented any reply. There was ſcarcely a dry eye in [192] the 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 petition.

Having mounted his horſe, and Clara and Adeline being ready, they took a laſt leave of Madame La Luc, and quitted the chateau. The people, unwilling to leave La Luc, the greater part of them 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 ſo many peaceful years, and which he now gazed on, per⯑haps 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 towards the ſpot conſecrated to the memory of his deceaſed wife; 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 con⯑nected with that of our tenderneſs, will feel with him. This was an object round [193] which the affections of La Luc had ſettled themſelves; it was a memorial to the eye, and the view of it awakened more forcibly in the memory every tender idea that could aſſociate with the primary ſubject of his regard. In ſuch caſes fancy gives to the illuſions of ſtrong affection, the ſtamp of reality, and they are cheriſhed by the heart with romantic fondneſs.

His people accompanied him for near a mile from the village, and could ſcarce⯑ly then be prevailed on to leave him; at length he once more bade them farewell, and went on his way, followed by their prayers and bleſſings.

La Luc and his little party travelled ſlowly on, ſunk in penſive ſilence—a ſi⯑lence too pleaſingly ſad 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 green vallies of Piedmont, they entered the rich coun⯑ty of Nice. The gay and luxuriant views which now opened upon the travellers as they wound among the hills, appeared [194] like ſcenes of fairy enchantment, or thoſe produced by the lonely viſions of the Poets. While the ſpiral ſummits of the mountains exhibited the ſnowy ſeverity of winter, the pine, the cypreſs, the olive, and the myr⯑tle ſhaded their ſides with the green tints of ſpring, and groves of orange, lemon, and citron, ſpread over their feet the full glow of autumn. As they advanced the ſcenery became ſtill more diverſified; and at length, between the receding heights, 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 imagination, and made her watch impatiently for a nearer proſpect.

It was towards the cloſe of day when the travellers, winding round an abrupt projection of that range of Alps which crowns the amphitheatre that environs Nice, looked down upon the green hills that ſtretch to the ſhores, on the city, and its antient caſtle, and on the wide waters of the Medi⯑terranean; with the mountains of Corſica in the fartheſt diſtance. Such a ſweep of ſea and land, ſo varied with the gay, the magnificent, and the awful, would have fixed any eye in admiration:—for Adeline and Clara novelty and enthuſiaſm added their charms to the proſpect. The ſoft and [195] ſalubrious air ſeemed to welcome La Luc to this ſmiling region, and the ſerene at⯑moſphere 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 wound among groves of orange, lemon, and bergamot, whoſe delicious fragrance came to the ſenſe mingled with the breath of roſes and carnations that bloſſomed in their ſhade. The gently ſwelling hills that roſe from the plain were covered with vines, and crowned with cypreſſes, olives and date trees; beyond, there appeared the ſweep of lofty mountains whence the travellers had deſcended, and whence roſe the little river Paglion, ſwoln by the ſnows that melt on their ſummits, and which, after meander⯑ing through the plain, waſhes the walls of Nice, where it falls into the Mediterranean. In this blooming region Adeline obſerved that the countenances of the peaſants, mea⯑gre and diſcontented, formed a melancholy contraſt to the face of the country, and ſhe [196] lamented again the effects of an arbitrary government, where the bounties of nature, which were deſigned for all, are monopoliz⯑ed by a few, and the many are ſuffered to ſtarve tantalized by ſurrounding plenty.

The city loſt much of its enchantment on a nearer approach: its narrow ſtreets and ſhabby houſes but ill anſwered the ex⯑pectation which a diſtant view of its ram⯑parts and its harbour, gay with veſſels ſeemed to authoriſe. The appearance of the inn at which La Luc now alighted did not contribute to ſoften his diſappointment; but if he was ſurpriſed to find ſuch indifferent accommodation at the inn of a town cele⯑brated as the reſort of valetudinarians, he was ſtill more ſo when he learned the diffi⯑culty of procuring furniſhed lodgings.

After much ſearch he procured apartments in a ſmall but pleaſant houſe, ſituated a lit⯑tle way out of the town: it had a garden, and a terrace which overlooked the ſea, and was diſtinguiſhed by an air of neatneſs very unuſual in the houſes of Nice. He agreed to board with the family, whoſe table like⯑wiſe accommodated a gentleman and lady, their lodgers, and thus he became a tem⯑porary inhabitant of this charming climate.

On the following morning Adeline roſe at an early hour, eager to indulge the new and ſublime emotion with which a view of [197] the ocean inſpired her, and walked with Clara toward the hills that afforded a more extenſive proſpect. They purſued their way for ſome time between high embowering banks, till they arrived at an eminence, whence

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 va⯑pours 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 ſeen to beat upon the rocks; and diſcovering the diſ⯑tant ſails of the fiſhing boats, and the far diſtant highlands of Corſica, tinted with aetherial 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 ſenſes 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:

La Luc in his walks met with ſome ſen⯑ſible 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 a Frenchman, whoſe wild manners, marked with a deep and intereſting melancholy, had particular⯑ly attracted La Luc. He very ſeldom men⯑tioned himſelf, or any circumſtance that might lead to a knowledge of his family, but on other ſubjects converſed with frankneſs [199] and much intelligence. La Luc had fre⯑quently invited him to his lodgings, but he had always declined the invitation, and this in a manner ſo gentle as to diſarm diſplea⯑ſure, and convince La Luc that his refu⯑ſal was the conſequence of a certain dejec⯑tion of mind which made him reluctant to meet other ſtrangers.

The deſcription which La Luc had given of this foreigner had excited the curioſity of Clara; and the ſympathy which the un⯑fortunate 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 point⯑ed out the chevalier, and quickened his pace to overtake him. Adeline was for a moment impelled to follow, but delicacy checked her ſteps, ſhe knew how painful the preſence of a ſtranger often is to a wounded mind, and forbore to intrude her⯑ſelf on his notice for the ſake of only ſatis⯑fying an idle curioſity. She turned there⯑fore, into another path; but the delicacy which now prevented the meeting, acci⯑dent in a few days defeated, and La Luc introduced the ſtranger. Adeline received him with a ſoft ſmile, but endeavoured to reſtrain the expreſſion of pity which her features had involuntarily aſſumed; ſhe wiſh⯑ed [200] him not to know that ſhe obſerved he was unhappy.

After this interview he no longer rejected the invitations of La Luc, but made him frequent viſits, and often accompanied Ade⯑line and Clara in their rambles. The mild and ſenſible converſation of the former ſeem⯑ed to ſoothe his mind, and in her preſence he frequently converſed with a degree of ani⯑mation which La Luc till then had not ob⯑ſerved in him. Adeline too derived from the ſimilarity of their taſte, and his in⯑telligent converſation, a degree of ſatisfacti⯑on which contributed, with the compaſſion his dejection inſpired, to win her confi⯑dence, 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 excurſions to view thoſe magniſicent remains of Ro⯑man antiquity which enrich the neighbour⯑hood of Nice. When the ladies ſat at home and worked, he enlivened the hours by reading to them, and they had the pleaſure to obſerve his ſpirits ſomewhat relieved from the heavy 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 [201] in the moſt ſweet and mournful ſymphonies, but never could be prevailed on to play. When Adeline or Clara played, he would ſit in deep reverie, and loſt to every object around him, except when he fixed his eyes in mournful gaze on Adeline, and a ſigh would ſometimes eſcape him.

One evening Adeline having excuſed her⯑ſelf from accompanying La Luc and Clara in a viſit to a neghbouring family, ſhe re⯑tired to the terrace of the garden, which overlooked the ſea, and as ſhe viewed the tranquil ſplendour of the ſetting ſun, and his glories reflected on the poliſhed ſurface of the waves, ſhe touched the ſtrings of the lute in ſofteſt harmony, her voice accom⯑panying it with words which ſhe had one day written after having read that rich ef⯑fuſion of Shakeſpeare's genius, "A Mid⯑ſummer Night's Dream."

Adeline ceaſed to ſing—when ſhe immedi⯑ately heard repeated in a low voice,

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

In a melodious voice, that trembled with ſenſibility, he ſang the following

Monſieur Amand pauſed: he ſeemed much oppreſſed, and at length, burſting into tears, laid down the inſtrument and walked ab⯑ruptly 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 conduct,"’ 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 inſtru⯑ment, and when you touched it with ſuch melancholy expreſſion, I ſaw her very image before me. But alas! why do I diſtreſs you with a knowledge of my [205] ſorrows! ſhe is gone, and never to return! And you, Adeline—you"—’He checked his ſpeech; and Adeline, turning on him a look of mournful regard, obſerved a wildneſs in his eyes which alarmed her. ‘"Theſe recollections are too painful,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"in a gentle voice; let us return to the houſe; M La Luc 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 with you!—Such were the ſoft tones of her voice—ſuch the ineffable expreſſion of her counte⯑nance."—’Adeline interrupted him. ‘"Let me beg of you to conſider your health—this dewy air cannot be good for inva⯑lids."’ He ſtood with his hands claſped, and ſeemed not to hear her. She took up the lute to go, and paſſed her fingers lightly over the chords. The ſounds recalled his 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 juſt now,"’ ſaid M. Amand, in a hurried voice. ‘"Certainly;"’ and ſhe immediately began to play. He leaned againſt a palm tree in an attitude of deep attention, and as the ſounds languiſhed on the air, his features gradually loſt their wild expreſſion, and he [206] melted into tears. He continued to weep ſilently till the ſong concluded, and it was ſome time before he recovered voice enough to ſay, ‘"Adeline, I cannot thank you for this good⯑neſs. My mind has recovered its bias, you have ſoothed a broken heart. Increaſe the kindneſs you have ſhewn me by pro⯑miſing never to mention what you have witneſſed this evening, and I will endeavour never again to wound your ſenſibility by a ſi⯑milar offence."—’Adeline gave the required promiſe; and M. Amand, preſſing her hand, with a melancholy ſmile, hurried from the garden, and ſhe ſaw him no more that night.

La Luc had been near a fortnight at Nice, and his health, inſtead of amending, ſeemed rather to decline, yet he wiſhed to make a longer experiment of the climate. The air, which failed to reſtore her venerable friend, revived Adeline, and the variety and novelty of the ſurrounding ſcenes amuſed her mind, though, ſince they could not obliterate the memory of paſt, or ſuppreſs the pang of preſent affection, they were ineffectual to diſſipate the ſick languor of melancholy. Company, by compelling her to withdraw her attention from the ſubject of her ſor⯑row, afforded her a tranſient relief, but the violence of the exertion generally left her more depreſſed. It was in the ſtillneſs of ſolitude, in the tranquil obſervance of beau⯑tiful [207] nature, that her mind recovered its tone, and indulging the penſive inclination now become habitual to it, was ſoothed and fortified. Of all the grand objects which nature had exhibited, the ocean inſpired her with 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 recalled 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 frenzy of grief they formerly awakened in Savoy; the ſharpneſs of miſery was paſſed, though its heavy influence was not perhaps leſs powerful. To theſe ſolitary indulgencies generally ſucceeded calmneſs, and what Adeline endeavoured to believe was reſigna⯑tion.

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, [208] with their white ſails, 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 repeated the follow⯑ing lines.

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 ſhore. He was pale and dejected, and ſeemed much agitated when he obſerved her; ſhe there⯑fore endeavoured to avoid him, but he ad⯑vanced 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 climate,"’ added M. Amand; ‘"Alas! what climate can re⯑lieve the ſickneſs of the heart! I go to loſe in the varieties of new ſcenes the re⯑membrance of paſt happineſs; yet the effort 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 ſorrow,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"I know it from experience."’ Yet while ſhe ſpoke, the tears in her eyes contradicted the aſſertion of [211] her lips. ‘"You have been unhappy, Adeline!—Yes—I knew it 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 renewed her apprehenſion of a ſcene ſimilar to the one ſhe had lately wit⯑neſſed, and ſhe changed the ſubject, but he ſoon returned to it. ‘"You bid me hope much from time!—My wife!—My dear wife!"—’his tongue faultered—‘"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 misfortunes on your notice; forgive this perpetual ego⯑tiſm. 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 immediately began to converſe on indifferent topics. They returned towards the chateau, but La Luc being from home, M. Amand took leave at the door. Adeline retired to her chamber, oppreſſed by her [212] own ſorrows and thoſe of her amiable friend.

Near three weeks had now elapſed at Nice, during which the diſorder of La Luc ſeemed rather to encreaſe than to abate, when his phyſician very honeſtly confeſſed the little hope he entertained from the climate, and adviſed him to try the effect of a ſea voyage, adding, that if the experiment failed, even the air of Montpellier appeared to him more likely to afford relief than that of Nice. La Luc received this diſintereſted advice with a mixture of gratitude and diſap⯑pointment. The circumſtances which had made him reluctant to quit Savoy, rendered him yet more ſo to protract his abſence, and encreaſe his expences; but the ties of affection that bound him to his family, and the love of life, which ſo ſeldom leaves us, again prevailed over inferior conſiderations, and he determin⯑ed to coaſt the Mediterranean as far as Lan⯑guedoc, where, if the voyage did not an⯑ſwer 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 de⯑termined not to leave it before him. Dur⯑ing this interval he had not ſufficient re⯑ſolution to deny himſelf the frequent con⯑verſation [213] of Adeline, though her preſence, by reminding him of his loſt wife, gave him more pain than comfort. He was the ſecond ſon of a French gentleman of family, and had been married about a year to a lady to whom he had long been attached when ſhe died in her lying-in. The infant ſoon followed its mother, and left the diſ⯑conſolate father abandoned to grief, which had preyed ſo heavily on his health, that his phyſician thought it neceſſary to ſend him to Nice. From the air of Nice, however, he had derived no benefit, and he now determined to travel farther into Italy, 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 of his new friends, whom he attended to the ſea ſide. When he aſſiſted Adeline [214] 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 veſſel gently from the coaſt, and Adeline ſaw herſelf ſurround⯑ed by the undulating waves of the ocean. The ſhore appeared to recede, its moun⯑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; ‘"and my future view is like the waſte of waters that 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 conſide⯑rable depth, and fiſh of various colours glance athwart the current. Innumera⯑ble marine plants ſpread their vigorous [215] 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⯑perſeded that of ſublimity, and ſhe haſ⯑tily turned her eyes from the proſpect, and her thoughts from the ſubject.

CHAPTER XVIII.

TOWARDS 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 ſmall veſſel through the ſound⯑ing waters, and one ſolitary ſailor, lean⯑ing with croſſed arms againſt the maſt, 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 de⯑clining ſun, which threw a ſaffron glow upon the waves, and on the ſails, gently ſwelling in the breeze that was now dy⯑ing away. The ſun, at length, ſunk below the ocean, and twilight ſtole over the ſcene, leaving the ſhadowy ſhores [217] yet viſible, and touching with a ſolemn tint the waters that ſtretched wide around. She ſketched the picture, but it was with a ſaint pencil.

As the ſhadows thickened the ſcene ſunk into deeper repoſe. Even the ſailor's ſong had ceaſed; no ſound was heard but that of the waters daſhing beneath the veſſel, and their fainter murmur on the pebbly coaſt. Adeline's mind was in uniſon with the tranquility of the hour: lulled by the waves, ſhe reſigned herſelf to a ſtill melancholy, and ſat loſt in reverie. The preſent moment brought to her recollection her voyage up the Rhone, when ſeeking refuge from the [218] terrors of the Marquis de Montalt, ſhe ſo anxiouſly endeavoured to anticipate her future deſtiny. She then, as now, had watched the fall of evening and the fading proſpect, and ſhe remembred what a deſolate 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 retreat—and was delivered from the terrors ſhe then ſuf⯑fered—but ſtill ſhe was unhappy. The remembrance of Theodore—of Theodore who had loved her ſo truly, who had encountred and ſuffered 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 poſſibility of hear⯑ing of him. Sometimes a faint hope croſſed her that he had eſcaped the malice of his perſecutor; but when ſhe conſidered the inveteracy and power of the latter, and the heinous light in which the law regards an aſſault upon a ſuperior officer, even this poor hope vaniſhed, and left her to tears and an⯑guiſh, ſuch as this reverie, which began with a ſenſation of only gentle melancholy, now led to. She continued to muſe till the moon aroſe from the boſom of the ocean, and ſhed her trembling luſtre upon the waves, [219] diffuſing peace, and making ſilence more ſolemn; beaming a ſoft light on thewhite ſails, and throwing upon the waters the tall ſhadow of the veſſel, which now ſeemed to glide along unoppoſed by any current. Her tears had ſomewhat relieved the anguiſh of her mind, and ſhe again repoſed in placid me⯑lancholy, when a ſtrain of ſuch tender and entrancing ſweetneſs ſtole on the ſilence of the hour, that it ſeemed more like celeſtial than mortal muſick—ſo ſoft, ſo ſoothing, it ſunk upon her ear, that it recalled her from miſery to hope and love. She wept again—but theſe were tears which ſhe would not have exchanged for mirth and joy. She looked 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 languiſhing 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 diſtin⯑guiſhed 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 re⯑ſembling hope. Still ſhe liſtened, till the breeze again ſtole the ſounds. With regret ſhe now perceived that the veſſel was moving [220] from them, and at length they trembled faintly on the waves, ſunk away at diſtance, and were heard no more. She remained upon the deck a conſiderable time, unwilling to relinquiſh the expectation of 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 voyage, his ſpirits revived, and when the veſſel en⯑tered that part of the Mediterranean called the Gulf of Lyons, he was ſufficiently ani⯑mated to enjoy from the deck the noble proſ⯑pect which the ſweeping ſhores of Provence, terminating in the far diſtant ones of Lan⯑guedoc, exhibited. Adeline and Clara, who anxiouſly watched his looks, rejoiced in their amendment; and the fond wiſhes of the latter already anticipated his perfect recovery. The expectations of Adeline had been too often checked by diſappointment to permit her now to indulge an equal degree of hope with that of her friend, yet ſhe conſid⯑ed much in the effect of this voyage.

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, diſembogue themſelves into the Mediterranean. The Rhone, how⯑ever, was the only one of much conſequence [221] which he paſſed. On this object, though it was ſo diſtant that fancy, perhaps, rather than the ſenſe, beheld it, Clara gazed with peculiar pleaſure, for it came from the banks of Savoy; and the wave which ſhe thought ſhe perceived, had waſhed 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 in⯑habitants of the coaſt, and the natural hiſtory of the country; or as he traced in ima⯑gination the remote wanderings of rivers to their ſource, and delineated the character⯑iſtic beauties of their ſcenery.

After a pleaſant voyage of a few days, the ſhores of Provence receded, and that of Lan⯑guedoc, which had long bounded the diſtance, became the grand object of the ſcene, and the ſailors drew near their port. They land⯑ed in the afternoon at a ſmall town ſituated at the foot of a woody eminence, on the right overlooking the ſea, and on the left the rich plains of Languedoc, gay with the pur⯑ple vine. La Luc determined to defer his journey till the following day, and was di⯑rected to a ſmall inn at the extremity of the town where the accomodation, 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 [222] Adeline to walk. La Luc was fatigued, and did not go out, and Clara remained with him. Adeline took her way to the woods that roſe from the margin of the ſea, and climbed the wild eminence on which they hung. Often as ſhe went ſhe turned her eyes to catch between the dark foliage the blue waters of the bay, the white ſail that flitted by, and the trembling gleam of the ſetting ſun. When ſhe reached the ſum⯑mit, and looked down over the dark tops of the woods on the wide and various proſpect, ſhe was ſeized with a kind of ſtill rapture im⯑poſſible to be expreſſed, and ſtood unconſci⯑ous of the flight of time, till the ſun had left the ſcene, and twilight threw its ſolemn ſhade upon the mountains. The ſea alone reflect⯑ed the fading ſplendour 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 reſining herſelf to the luxury of ſweet and tender emotions, repeated the following lines:

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.

[225] The ſpreading duſk at length remind⯑ed Adeline of her diſtance from the inn, and that ſhe had her way to find through a wild and lonely wood: ſhe bade adieu to the ſyren that had ſo long detained her, and purſued the path with quick ſteps. Having followed it for ſome time, ſhe became bewildered among the thickets, and the increaſing darkneſs did not allow her to judge of the direction ſhe was in. Her apprehenſions heightened her difficulties: ſhe thought ſhe diſtinguiſhed the voices of men at ſome little diſtance, and ſhe in⯑creaſed her ſpeed till ſhe found herſelf on the ſea ſands over which the woods impend⯑ed. Her breath was now exhauſted—ſhe pauſed a moment to recover herſelf, and fearfully liſtened; but, inſtead of the voices of men, ſhe heard faintly ſwelling in the breeze the notes of mournful muſic.—Her heart, ever ſenſible to the impreſ⯑ſions of melody, melted with the tones, and her fears were for a moment lulled in ſweet enchantment. Surpriſe was ſoon mingled with delight when, as the ſounds advanced, ſhe diſtinguiſhed the tone of that inſtrument, and the melody of that well-known air, ſhe had heard a few preceding evenings from the ſhores of Provence. But ſhe had no time for con⯑jecture—footſteps approached, and ſhe [226] renewed her ſpeed. She was now emerged from the darkneſs of the woods, and the moon, which ſhone bright, exhibited along the level ſands the town and port in the diſtance. The ſteps that had followed now came up with her, and ſhe perceived two men, but they paſſed in converſation without noticing her, and as they paſſed ſhe was certain ſhe recollected the voice of him who was then ſpeaking. Its tones were ſo familiar to her ear, that ſhe was ſurpriſed at the imperfect memory which did not ſuffer her to be aſſured by whom they were uttered. Another ſtep now follow⯑ed, and a rude voice called to her to ſtop. As ſhe haſtily turned her eyes ſhe ſaw imperfectly by the moonlight a man in a ſailor's habit purſuing, while he renewed the call. Impelled by terror, ſhe fled along the ſands, but her ſteps were ſhort and trembling—thoſe of her purſuer's ſtrong and quick.

She had juſt ſtrength ſufficient to reach the men who had before paſſed her, and to implore their protection, when her purſuer came up with them, but ſud⯑denly 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 [227] 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 her thither. He ſaid that he had accidentally met with an old friend in Savoy, whom he now introduced by the name of Mauron, and who had 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 flute of M. Verneuil, and which had ſo often delighted her at Leloncourt, that ſhe had heard on the ſea.

When they reached the inn they found La Luc under great anxiety for Adeline, in ſearch of whom he had ſent ſeveral people. Anxiety yielded 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 [228] obſerved, and lamented, the very indif⯑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 reception. The pre⯑ſence of M. Verneiul, and the kindneſs of his friend, gave La Luc an unuſual flow of ſpirits; he converſed with a degree of vigour and livelineſs to which he had long been unaccuſtomed, and the ſmile of ſa⯑tisfaction that Clara gave to Adeline ex⯑preſſed how much ſhe thought he was al⯑ready benefited by the voyage. Adeline anſwered her look with a ſmile of leſs con⯑fidence, for ſhe attributed his preſent anima⯑tion to a more temporary cauſe.

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 ſhe ſcarcely doubted that the ſtranger was ſome perſon belong⯑ing [229] to the Marquis de Montalt, perhaps the Marquis himſelf, thought 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 inquired 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 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 ſat in trembling ex⯑pectation till the door opened, and Louis de la Motte entered the room. He advanced with an embarraſſed and melan⯑choly 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 [230] diſſipated, ſhe inquired when Louis had ſeen Monſieur and Madame La Motte.

‘"I ought rather to aſk you that queſ⯑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 ſurpriſe. I have not heard from my father for ſome time, owing probably to my re⯑giment being removed to new quar⯑ters."’

He looked as if he wiſhed to be inform⯑ed with whom Adeline now was; 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 of an hour, under a ſtruggle of feelings which he could neither conquer or con⯑cal, he roſe to leave the room, and as [231] he paſſed Adeline, ſaid, in a low voice, ‘"Do permit me to ſpeak with you alone for five minutes."’ She heſitated in ſome con⯑fuſion, and then ſaying there were none but friends preſent, begged he would be ſeated.—‘"Excuſe me,"’ ſaid he, in the ſame low ac⯑cent; ‘"What I would ſay nearly concerns you, and you only. Do favour me with a few moments attention."’ He ſaid this with a look that ſurprized her; and having ordered candles in another room, ſhe went thi⯑ther.

Louis ſat 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 unexpected meeting, though, if you are in ſafe hands, I ought certainly to rejoice, however hard the taſk that now falls to my lot. I am not ignorant of the dangers and perſecutions you have ſuffered, and cannot forbear expreſſing my anxiety to know how you are now circumſtanced. Are you indeed with friends?"—’ ‘"I am,"’ ſaid Adeline; ‘"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 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 [232] Adeline; ‘"you muſt excuſe me if I re⯑mind 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 taſk is too ſevere. Alas! my poor friend!"’

‘"Who is it you ſpeak of, Sir!"’ ſaid Adeline, with quickneſs. Louis roſe from his chair, and walked about the room. ‘"I would prepare you for what I have to ſay,"’ he reſumed, ‘"but upon my ſoul I am not equal to it."’

‘"I entreat you to keep me no longer in ſuſpence,"’ ſaid Adeline, who had a wild idea 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—indeed I can."’

‘"My unhappy friend!"’ 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 ſeat, and endeavouring to aſſume a collected air, ſaid, ‘"He is living, Ma⯑dam, but he is a priſoner, and—for why [233] ſhould I deceive you? I fear he has little to hope in this world."’

‘"I have long feared ſo, Sir,"’ ſaid Ade⯑line, in a voice of forced compoſure; ‘"you have ſomething more terrible than this to relate, and I again intreat you will ex⯑plain yourſelf."’

‘"He has every thing to apprehend from the Marquis de Montalt,"’ ſaid Louis. ‘"Alas! why do I ſay to apprehend? His judgment is already fixed—he is con⯑demned to die."’

At this confirmation of her fears a death⯑like paleneſs diffuſed itſelf over the counte⯑nance of Adeline; ſhe ſat motionleſs, and attempted to ſigh, but ſeemed almoſt ſuf⯑focated. Terrified at her ſituation, and ex⯑pecting to ſee her faint, Louis would have ſupported her, but with her hand ſhe waved him from her, and was unable to ſpeak. He now called for aſſiſtance, and La Luc and Clara, with M. Verneuil, informed of Ade⯑line's indiſpoſition, were quickly by her ſide.

At the ſound of their voices ſhe looked up, and ſeemed to recollect herſelf, when utter⯑ing a heavy ſigh ſhe burſt into tears. La Luc rejoiced to ſee her weep, encouraged her tears, which, after ſome time, relieved her, and when ſhe was able to ſpeak, ſhe deſired to go back to La Luc's parlour. Louis attended her thither; when ſhe was better [234] he would have withdrawn, but La Luc begged he would ſtay.

‘"You are perhaps a relation of this young lady, Sir,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and may have brought news of her father."—’ ‘"Not ſo, Sir,"’ replied Louis, heſitat⯑ing.—‘"This gentleman,"’ ſaid Adeline, who had now recollected her diſſipated thoughts, ‘"is the ſon of the M. La Motte, whom you may have heard me mention."—’Louis ſeemed ſhocked to be declared the ſon of a man that had once acted ſo unworthily towards Ade⯑line, who, inſtantly perceiving the pain her words occaſioned, endeavoured to ſoften their effect by ſaying that La Motte had ſaved her from imminent danger, and had afforded her an aſylum for many months. Adeline ſat in a ſtate of dread⯑ful ſolitude to know the particulars of Theodore's ſituation, yet could not ac⯑quire courage to renew the ſubject in the preſence of La Luc; ſhe ventured, how⯑ever, to aſk Louis if his own regiment was quartered in the town.

He replied that his regiment lay at Vaceau, a French town on the frontiers of Spain; that he had juſt croſſed a part of the Gulph of Lyons, and was on his way to Savoy, whither he ſhould ſet out early in the morning.

[235] ‘"We are lately come from thence,"’ ſaid Adeline; ‘"may I aſk to what part of Savoy you are going?"—’ ‘"To Lelon⯑court,"’ he replied.—‘"To Lelon⯑court!"’ ſaid Adeline, in ſome ſur⯑prize.—‘"I am a ſtranger to the country,"’ reſumed Louis; ‘"but I go to ſerve my friend. You ſeem to know Lelon⯑court."—’ ‘"I do indeed,"’ ſaid Ade⯑line.—‘"You probably know then that M. La Luc lives there, and will gueſs the motive of my journey."’

‘"O heavens! is it poſſible?"’ exclaim⯑ed Adeline—‘"is it poſſible that Theo⯑dore Peyrou is a relation of M. La Luc!"’

‘"Theodore! what of my ſon?"’ aſk⯑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 utterance, and La Luc and Clara, whoſe fears were [236] every inſtant heightened by this dreadful ſilence, continued to repeat their queſ⯑tions.

At length a ſenſe of th e approaching ſufferings of the good La Luc overcoming every other feeling, Adeline recovered ſtrength of mind ſufficient to try to ſof⯑ten the intelligence Louis had to com⯑municate, and to conduct Clara to ano⯑ther 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 pronoun⯑ced. 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 of that circumſtance which had contributed to keep her ignorant of Theodore's relationſhip to La Luc; ſhe was told the former had taken the name of Peyrou, with an eſtate which had been 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 habit would admit of, and on his acceſ⯑ſion [237] 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 ſacredneſs 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 en⯑dure no reſtraint; Adeline, who had commanded her feelings ſo as to impart this intelligence with tolerable compo⯑ſure, only by a ſtrong effort of mind, was now almoſt overwhelmed by her own and Clara's accumulated ſuffering. While they 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 firſt tried for the offence of having quit⯑ted [238] his poſt, he was now condemned on a charge of aſſault made upon 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 in 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, 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 whether 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 [239] 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 reſignation and compoſure was ſometimes viſible upon his countenance, notwithſtand⯑ing the efforts of his mind.

CHAPTER XIX.

WE 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 [...] his villa on the borders of the foreſt, where he expected to hear news of Adeline. It had been his intention to follow his ſervants to Lyons; but he now 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 [240] before ſhe could reach that city. In this expectation he had been miſerably diſ⯑appointed; for his ſervants informed him, 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 ſame town, heard an imperfect account of his ſtory, and being convinced that the priſoner was the 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 [241] 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 confi⯑dence 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 alſo that Theodore was his favoured rival; but he generouſ⯑ly ſuppreſſed the jealous pang this diſcovery occaſioned, and determined that no pre⯑judice of paſſion ſhould withdraw him from the duties of humanity and friendſhip. He eagerly inquired where Adeline then reſided. ‘"She is yet, I fear, in the power of the Marquis,"’ ſaid Theodore, ſighing deeply. ‘"O God!—theſe chains!"—’and he threw an agonizing glance upon them. Louis ſat ſilent and thoughtful; at length ſtarting from his reverie, he ſaid he would go to the Marquis, and immediately quitted the priſon. The Marquis was, however, al⯑ready ſet off for Paris, where he had been [242] ſummoned to appear at the approaching trial of La Motte; and Louis, yet ignorant of the late tranſactions at the Abbey, re⯑turned to the priſon, where he endeavoured to forget that Theodore was the favoured rival of his love, and to remember him only as the defender of Adeline. So ear⯑neſtly he preſſed his offers of ſervice, that Theodore, whom the ſilence of his father equally ſurprized and afflicted, and who was very anxious to ſee him once again, accepted his propoſal of going himſelf to Savoy. ‘"My letters I ſtongly ſuſpect to have been intercepted by the Marquis,"’ ſaid Theodore; ‘"if ſo, my poor father will have the whole weight of this ca⯑lamity to ſuſtain at once, unleſs I avail myſelf of your kindneſs, and I ſhall nei⯑ther ſee him nor hear from him before I die. Louis! there are moments when my fortitude ſhrinks from the conflict, and my ſenſes threaten to deſert me."’

No time was to be loſt; the warrant for his 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 Adeline, had opened and afterwards deſtroyed them.

But to return to La Luc, who now [243] drew near Vaceau, and whom his family obſerved to be greatly changed in his looks ſince he had heard the late calamitous in⯑telligence; he uttered no complaint; but it was too obvious that his diſorder had made a rapid progreſs. Louis, who, during the journey, proved the goodneſs of his diſpoſition by the delicate attentions he paid this unhappy party, concealed his obſervation of the decline of La Luc, and, to ſupport Adeline'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 contain⯑ed Theodore; and while her increaſing perturbation almoſt overcome her, ſhe yet tried to appear compoſed. When the carriage entered the town, ſhe caſt a timid and anxious glance from the window in ſearch of the priſon; but having paſſed through ſeveral ſtreets without perceiving any building which correſponded with her idea of that ſhe looked for, the coach ſtopped at the inn. The frequent changes 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 ſaintly ſaid, as he paſſed to the parlour, ‘"I am indeed ſick at heart, but I truſt the pain [244] 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; ‘"yours, Sir, is a mournful office.—be ſo good as to conduct me to him."’ He roſe to go, but, feeble and overcome with grief, again ſat down. Adeline and Clara united in entreating that he would compoſe himſelf, and take ſome refreſhment, and Louis urging the neceſſity of preparing Theodore for the in⯑terview, prevailed with him to delay it till his ſon ſhould 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 convul⯑ſions of his throat would not ſuffer him to ſwallow the wine that he held to his parch⯑ed lips, and he was now ſo much diſor⯑dered, 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 ſhall loſe [245] 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 firſt."’ Adeline knowing that La Luc's diſtreſs would be heightened by the obſer⯑vance of his daughter's, and that indulgence would only encreaſe its poignancy, endea⯑voured to arouſe her to an exertion of fortitude by urging the neceſſity of com⯑manding her emotion in the preſence of her father. ‘"This is poſſible,"’ added ſhe, ‘"however painful may be the ef⯑fort. You muſt know, my dear, that my grief is not inferior to your own, yet I have hitherto 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 impatience. ‘"What brings you back ſo ſoon,"’ ſaid he, ‘"have you heard news of my father?"’ Louis now gradually unfolded the circum⯑ſtances of their meeting, and La Luc's [246] arrival at Vaceau. A various emotion agi⯑tated the countenance of Theodore on re⯑ceiving this intelligence. ‘"My poor fa⯑ther!"’ ſaid he, ‘"he has then followed his ſon to this ignominious place! Lit⯑tle 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 himſelf; ‘"now he is come, I ſhrink from the interview I have ſo much wiſhed for. The ſight of his diſtreſs will be dreadful to me. Louis! when I am gone—comfort my poor father."’ His voice was again in⯑terrupted by ſobs; and Louis, who had been fearful of acquainting him at the ſame time of the arrival of La Luc, and the diſ⯑covery of Adeline, now judged it proper to adminiſter the cordial of this latter intel⯑ligence.

The glooms of a priſon, and of calamity, vaniſhed for a tranſient moment; thoſe who had ſeen Theodore would have believed this to be the inſtant 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 [247] enquired if La Luc was there 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 ſee her 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 ſee him—when, ſhocked that he had ſo long detained his friend, he entreated him to conduct La Luc to the priſon, and en⯑deavour to recollect fortitude for the ap⯑proaching interview.

When Louis returned to the inn La Luc was ſtill in his chamber, and Clara quitting the room to call him, Adeline ſeized with trembling impatience the opportunity to en⯑quire more particularly concerning Theo⯑dore, than ſhe choſe to do in the preſence of his unhappy ſiſter. Lewis repreſented him to be much more tranquil than he real⯑ly 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 re⯑covered its ſerenity, but was impreſſed with a deep and ſteady ſorrow, which excited in the beholder a mingled emotion of pity and reverence. ‘"How is my ſon? ſir,"’ ſaid [248] he as he entered the room. ‘"We will go to him immediately."’

Clara renewed the entreaties that had been already rejected, to accompany her father, who perſiſted in a refuſal. ‘"To⯑morrow you ſhall ſee him,"’ added he; ‘"but our firſt meeting muſt be alone. Stay with your friend, my dear; ſhe has need of conſolation."’ When La Luc was gone, Adeline, unable longer to ſtrug⯑gle againſt the force of grief, retired to her chamber and her bed.

La Luc walked ſilently towards the priſon, reſting on the arm of Lewis. It was now night: a dim lamp that hung above ſhewed them the gates, and Louis rung a bell; La Luc, almoſt overcome with agitation, lean⯑ed againſt the poſtern till the porter appear⯑ed. He enquired for Theodore, and fol⯑lowed the man.; but when he reached the ſecond court yard he ſeemed ready to faint, and again ſtopped. Louis deſired the porter would fetch ſome water; but La Luc, re⯑covering his voice, ſaid he ſhould ſoon be better, and would not ſuffer him to go. In a few minutes he was able to follow Louis, who led him through ſeveral dark paſſages, and up a flight of ſteps to a door, which being unbarred, diſcloſed to him the priſon of his ſon. He was ſeated at a ſmall table, on which ſtood a lamp that [249] threw a feeble 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 tremu⯑lous 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 afforded, and ſeating himſelf with Louis at the foot of the bed, had leiſure to obſerve the ravages which illneſs and ca⯑lamity had made on the features of his pa⯑rent. La Luc made ſeveral efforts to ſpeak, but unable to articulate, laid his hand upon his breaſt and ſighed deeply. Fearful of the conſequence of ſo affecting a ſcene on his ſhattered frame, Lewis endeavoured to call off his attention from the immediate object of his diſtreſs, and interrupted the ſilence; but La Luc ſhuddering, and complaining he was very cold, ſunk back in his chair. His condition rouſed Theodore from the ſtupor of deſpair; and while he flew to ſup⯑port his father, Louis ran out for other aſ⯑ſiſtance.—‘"I ſhall ſoon be better, Theo⯑dore,"’ ſaid La Luc, uncloſing his eye, ‘"the faintneſs is already going off. I have not been well of late; and this ſad meet⯑ing!"’ Unable any longer to command himſelf, Theodore wrung his hand, and [250] the diſtreſs which had long ſtruggled for utterance burſt in convulſive ſobs from his breaſt. La Luc gradually revived, and ex⯑erted himſelf to calm the tranſports of his ſon; but the fortitude of the latter had now entirely forſaken him, and he could only utter exclamation and complaint. ‘"Ah! little did I think we ſhould ever meet un⯑der circumſtances ſo dreadful as the pre⯑ſent! But I have not deſerved them, my father! the motives of my conduct have ſtill been juſt [...]"’

‘"That is my ſupreme conſolation,"’ ſaid La Luc, ‘"and ought to ſupport you in this hour of trial. The Almighty 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 hea⯑ven with an expreſſion of meek devotion, while the tears of humanity fell ſlowly on his cheek.

Still more affected by his laſt words, Theodore turned from him, and paced the room with quick ſteps: the entrance of Louis was a very ſeaſonable relief to La Luc, who, taking a cordial he had brought, was ſoon ſufficiently reſtored to diſcourſe on the ſubject moſt intereſting to him. Theo⯑dore tried to attain a command of his feel⯑ings, [251] and ſucceeded. He converſed with tolerable compoſure for above an hour, dur⯑ing which La Luc endeavoured to elevate, by religious hope, the mind of his ſon, and to enable him to meet with fortitude the aweful hour that approached. But the ap⯑pearance of reſignation which Theodore at⯑tained 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 inter⯑view muſt be in our preſent circumſtan⯑ces,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I cannot bear the thought of quitting the world without ſeeing her once again; yet I know not how to aſk her to encounter, for my ſake, the mi⯑ſery of a parting ſcene. Tell her that my thoughts never, for a moment, leave her; that"—’La Luc interrupted, and aſſured him, that ſince he ſo much wiſh⯑ed it, he ſhould ſee her, though a meeting could ſerve only to heighten the mutual an⯑guiſh 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 heart breaks. But I will indeed try to profit by your [252] precept and example, 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 Theodore, ‘"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 myſelf—he ſhall remain with you—I will go alone."’

This Theodore would not ſuffer; and La Luc no longer oppoſing him, they af⯑fectionately embraced, and ſeparated for the night.

When they reached the inn, La Luc con⯑ſulted with Louis on the poſſibility of ad⯑dreſſing a petition to the ſovereign, time enough to ſave Theodore. His diſtance from Paris, and the ſhort interval before the period fixed for the execution of the ſen⯑tence, made this deſign difficult; but be⯑lieving it was practicable, La Luc, incapa⯑ble as he appeared of performing ſo long a journey, determined to attempt it. Louis, 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, [253] ‘"I ſhall loſe little: if I ſave 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 compelled to acknowledge himſelf unequal to the immediate exertion which the parental anxiety prompted, and conſented to ſeek reſt.

When he had retired to his chamber, Clara lamented the condition of her father.—‘"He will not bear the journey,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"he is greatly changed within theſe few days."—’Louis was ſo entirely of her opinion, that he could not diſguiſe it, even to flatter her with a hope. She added, what did not contribute to raiſe his ſpirits, that Adeline was ſo much indiſpoſed by her grief for the ſituation of Theodore, and the ſuf⯑ferings 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 per⯑ſecution and the dangers which had pur⯑ſued 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 [254] the anguiſh of jealouſy and diſappointment; for though ſhe had forbade him to hope, he found it too painful an effort to obey her, and had ſecretly cheriſhed the flame which he ought to have ſtifled. His heart was however, too noble to ſuffer his zeal for Theodore to abate becauſe he was his fa⯑voured rival, and his mind too ſtrong not to conceal the anguiſh this certainty occa⯑ſioned. The attachment which Theodore had teſtified towards Adeline even endeared him to Louis, when he had recovered from the firſt ſhock of diſappointment, and that conqueſt over jealouſy which originated in principle, and was purſued with difficulty, became afterwards his pride and his glory. When, however, he again ſaw Adeline—ſaw her in the mild dignity of ſorrow more intereſting than ever—ſaw her, though ſinking beneath its preſſure, yet tender and ſolicitous to ſoften the afflictions of thoſe around her—it was with the utmoſt dif⯑ficulty he preſerved his reſolution, and for⯑bore to expreſs the ſentiments ſhe inſpired. When he farther conſidered that her acute ſufferings aroſe from the ſtrength of her affection, he more than ever wiſhed him⯑ſelf the object of a heart capable of ſo tender a regard, and Theodore in priſon and in chains was a momentary object of envy.

[255] In the morning, when La Luc aroſe from ſhort and diſturbed ſlumbers, he found Louis, Clara, and Adeline, whom indiſ⯑poſition could not prevent from paying him this teſtimony of reſpect and affection, aſ⯑ſembled in the parlour of the inn to ſee him depart. After a ſlight breakfaſt, during which his feelings permitted him to ſay little, he bade his friends a ſad farewell, and ſtepped into the carriage, followed by their tears and prayers—Adeline imme⯑diately retired to her chamber, which ſhe was too ill to quit that day. In the evening Clara left her friend, and, conducted by Louis, went to viſit her brother, whoſe emotions, on hearing of his father's depar⯑ture, were various and ſtrong.

CHAPTER XX.

WE return now to Pierre De la Motte, who, after remaining ſome weeks in the priſon of D—y, was removed to take his [256] trial in the courts of Paris, whither the Marquis de Montalt followed to proſecute the charge. Madame De la Motte accom⯑panied her huſband to the priſon of the Cha⯑telet. His mind ſunk under the weight of his misfortunes; nor could all the efforts of his wife rouſe him from the torpidity of deſpair which a conſideration of his circum⯑ſtances occaſioned. Should he be even ac⯑quitted of the charge brought againſt him by the Marquis, (which was very unlikely) he was now in the ſcene of his former crimes, and the moment that ſhould liberate him from the walls of his priſon would 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 emergency of his circum⯑ſtances had left him being nearly exhauſt⯑ed, his mind became corroded with the moſt cruel anxiety concerning the means of his future ſubſiſtence. As he was one evening riding alone in a remote part of the foreſt, muſing on his diſtreſſed circumſtan⯑ces, and meditating plans to relieve the exi⯑gencies which he ſaw approaching, he per⯑ceived among the trees at ſome diſtance a [257] chevalier on horſeback, who was riding de⯑liberately along, and ſeemed wholly unat⯑tended. A thought darted acroſs the mind of La Motte, that he might be ſpared the evils which threatened him by robbing this ſtranger. His 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 open⯑ed 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 ſtruggling for victory, La Motte ſaw ſeveral horſemen enter the extremity of the avenue, and, rendered deſperate by oppo⯑ſition and delay, he drew from his pocket a piſtol, (which an apprehenſion of ban⯑ditti made him uſually carry when he rode to a diſtance from the Abbey) and fired at the Marquis, who ſtaggered and fell ſenſeleſs to the ground. La Motte had time to tear from his coat a brilliant ſtar, ſome diamond rings from his fingers, and to rifle his poc⯑kets, [258] before his attendants came up. In⯑ſtead 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 Abbey at a little ruin, the tomb formerly mention⯑ed, 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 had 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 excited an almoſt ungovern⯑able tranſport; but it was ſoon checked when he remembered the means he had employed to obtain it, and that he had paid for the wealth he contemplated the price of blood. Naturally violent in his paſ⯑ſions, this reflection ſunk him from the ſummit of exultation to the abyſs of deſ⯑pondency. He conſidered himſelf a mur⯑derer, 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 preced⯑ing 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 [259] with unutterable anguiſh. To the horrors of remorſe 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 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, ſhe believed that their expen⯑ces were drawn from the uſual ſupply. But it was not ſo eaſy to diſguiſe the work⯑ings of remorſe and horror: his manner became 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 he ſcarce knew whether he beheld the ſhadow or the ſubſtance of a human [260] 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 abhor⯑rence of his guilt, and voluntarily uttered ſuch a ſolemn promiſe of returning the jewels he had yet in his poſſeſſion, for he had ventured to diſpoſe only of a ſmall part, that the Marquis at length liſtened to him with ſome degree of com⯑paſſion. This favourable ſentiment, ſecond⯑ed by a ſelfiſh motive, induced the Marquis to compromiſe with La Motte. Of quick and inflammable paſſions, he had obſerved the beauty of Adeline with an eye of no common regard, and he reſolved to ſpare the life of La Motte upon no other condition than 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 betray 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 precipi⯑tate [261] 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 in⯑duced 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 deplorable ſituation. The day of trial was now come, and he was led from priſon into the court, where the Marquis appeared as his accuſer. When the charge was delivered, La Motte, as is uſual, pleaded not guilty, and the Advo⯑cate 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 having attempted to perſuade his client to the mur⯑der 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 diſappointed the deſigns of his ac⯑cuſer, by conveying beyond his reach the unhappy object of his vengeance, that the Marquis had thought proper to charge La Motte with the crime for which he ſtood in⯑dicted. Nemours urged the improbability of [262] 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 certain that the Marquis had obſerved a frequent intercourſe with La Motte for ſome months following the time ſpecified for the commiſſion of the crime. If the Marquis intended to proſecute, why was it not immediately after his diſcovery of La Mo [...]? and if not then, what had in⯑fluenced him to proſecute at ſo diſtant a pe⯑riod?

To [...]is 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 ſeveral of his ſervants as witneſſes of the aſſault 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 examination moſt of them contradicted each other; their evidence was of courſe rejected; but as the Marquis had yet two other witneſſes to produce, whoſe arrival at Paris had been hourly expected, the event of the trial was poſtponed, and the court adjourned.

[263] La Motte was re-conducted to his priſon under the ſame preſſure of deſpondency with which he had quitted it. As he walk⯑ed through one of the avenues he paſſed a man who ſtood by to let him proceed, and who regarded him with a fixed and ear⯑neſt eye. La Motte thought he had ſeen him before; but the imperfect view he caught of his features through the duſkineſs of the place made him uncertain as to this, and his mind was in too perturbed a ſtate to ſuffer him to feel an intereſt on the ſubject. When he was gone, the ſtranger inquired of the keeper of the priſon, who La Motte was; on being told, and receiving anſwers to ſome farther queſtions he put, he deſired he might be admitted to ſpeak with him. The re⯑queſt, as the man was only a debtor, was granted; but as the doors were now ſhut for the night, the interview 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 [264] Motte to addreſs her letters to the place of her ſon's late reſidence, and he had thus continued ignorant of his father's misfor⯑tunes and removal. Madame La Motte, ſurprized at receiving no anſwers to her letters, ſent off another, containing an ac⯑count of the trial as far as it had proceeded, and a requeſt that her ſon would obtain leave of abſence, and ſet out for Paris in⯑ſtantly. As ſhe was ſtill ignorant of the failure of her letters, and had it been other⯑wiſe, 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 dread⯑ful period.

While theſe ſcenes were paſſing at Paris, La Luc arrived there without any accident after performing a journey, during which he had been ſupported almoſt entirely by the ſpirit of his reſolution. He haſtened to throw himſelf at the feet of the ſovereign, and ſuch was the exceſs of his feeling on preſent⯑ing the petition which was to decide the fate of his ſon, that he could only look ſilently up, and then fainted. The king received the paper, and giving orders for the unhappy father to be taken care of, paſſed on. He [265] was carried back to his hotel, where he awaited the event of this his final effort.

Adeline, mean while, continued at Va⯑ceau in a ſtate of anxiety too powerful for her long agitated frame, and the illneſs in conſequence of this, confined her almoſt wholly to her chamber. Sometimes ſhe ventured to flatter herſelf with a hope that the journey of La Luc would be ſucceſsful: but theſe ſhort and illuſive intervals of com⯑fort ſerved only to heighten, by contraſt, the deſpondency that ſucceeded, and in the alternate extremes of feeling ſhe experi⯑enced a ſtate more torturing than that pro⯑duced either by the ſharp ſting of unexpected calamity, or the ſullen pain of ſettled deſ⯑pair.

When ſhe was well enough ſhe came down to the parlour to converſe with Louis, who brought her frequent accounts of Theo⯑dore, and who paſſed every moment he could ſnatch from the duty of his profeſſion in endeavours to ſupport and conſole his af⯑flicted 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 tranſient 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 [266] her not indulging the earneſt wiſh he re⯑peatedly expreſſed to ſee 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 ſuffi⯑ciently forget thoſe ties which bound him to life to meet his fate with firmneſs; but though the paroxyſms of grief were acute and frequent, he ſought, and often attained in the 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 win⯑dow when the carriage drew up to the inn; ſhe ſaw him alight, and with feeble ſteps, ſupported by Peter, enter the houſe. From the languor of his air ſhe drew no favoura⯑ble [267] omen, and, almoſt ſinking under the violence of her emotion, ſhe went to meet him. Clara was already with her father when Adeline entered the room. She ap⯑proached him, but, dreading to receive from his lips a confirmation of the misfor⯑tune his countenance ſeemed to indicate, ſhe looked expreſſively at him and ſat down, unable to ſpeak the queſtion ſhe would have aſked. He held out his hand to her in ſi⯑lence, ſunk back in his chair, and ſeemed to be fainting under oppreſſion of heart. His manner confirmed all her fears; at this dreadful conviction her ſenſes failed her, and ſhe ſat motionleſs and ſtupified.

La Luc and Clara were too much oc⯑cupied by their own diſtreſs to obſerve her ſituation; after ſome time ſhe breathed a heavy ſigh, and burſt into tears. Reliev⯑ed by weeping, her ſpirits gradually return⯑ed, and ſhe at length ſaid to La Luc, ‘"It is unneceſſary, Sir, to aſk the ſucceſs of your journey; yet, when you can bear to mention the ſubject I wiſh"—’

La Luc waved his hand—‘"Alas!"’ ſaid he, ‘"I have nothing to tell but what you already gueſs too well. My poor Theodore!"—’His voice was convulſed with ſorrow, and ſome moments of unutter⯑able anguiſh followed.

Adeline was the firſt who recovered [268] ſufficient recollection to notice the extreme languor of La Luc, and attend to his ſupport. She ordered him refreſhments, and entreat⯑ed he would retire to his bed and ſuffer her to ſend for a phyſician; adding, that the fatigue he had ſuffered made repoſe abſo⯑lutely neceſſary. ‘"Would that I could find it, my dear child,"’ ſaid he; ‘"it is not in this world that I muſt look for it, but in a better, and that better, I truſt, I ſhall ſoon attain. But where is our good friend, Louis La Motte? He muſt lead me to my ſon."—’Grief again in⯑terrupted his utterance, and the entrance of Louis was a very ſeaſonable relief to them all. Their tears explained the queſtion he would have aſked; La Luc immediately inquired for his ſon, and thanking Louis for all his kindneſs to him, deſired to be conducted to the priſon. Louis endeavour⯑ed to perſuade him to defer his viſit till the morning, and Adeline and Clara joined their entreaties with his, but La Luc de⯑termined to go that night.—‘"His time is ſhort,"’ ſaid he; ‘"a few hours and I ſhall ſee him no more, at leaſt in this world: let me not neglect theſe precious moments. Adeline! I had promiſed my poor boy that he ſhould ſee you once more; you are not now equal to the meeting. I will try to [269] reconcile him to the diſappointment; but if I fail, and you are better in the morning, I know you will exert your⯑ſelf to ſuſtain the interview."—’Ade⯑line looked impatient, 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 neceſſity,"’ ſaid he; ‘"I find I am not able to go farther to-night. Go to him, La Motte, and tell him I am ſomewhat diſordered by my journey, but that I will be with him early in the morning. Do not flatter him with a hope; prepare him for the worſt."—’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 withdrew, Adeline told Louis, what was indeed unne⯑ceſſary, the event of La Luc's journey. ‘"I 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 ſink under its preſſure; he is much al⯑tered for the worſe ſince he ſet out for Paris. Tell me your opinion ſincere⯑ly."’

The change was ſo obvious, that Louis could not deny it, but he endeavoured [270] 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⯑panying La Luc to take leave of Theo⯑dore in the morning. ‘"I know not how I ſhall ſupport the interview,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"but to ſee him once more is a duty I owe both to him and myſelf. The re⯑membrance of having neglected to give him this laſt proof of affection would pur⯑ſue 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 received it with more compoſure than he had expect⯑ed; but he aſked, with impatience, why he did not ſee his father and Adeline, and on being informed that indiſpoſition with⯑held them, his imagination ſeized on the worſt poſſibility, and ſuggeſted that his fa⯑ther was dead. It was a conſiderable time before Louis could convince him of the con⯑trary, and that Adeline was not dangerouſly ill; when, however, he was aſſured that he ſhould ſee them in the morning, he be⯑came more tranquil. He deſired his friend would not leave him that night. ‘"Theſe are the laſt hours we can paſs together,"’ [271] added he; ‘"I cannot ſleep! Stay with me and lighten their heavy moments. I have need of comfort, Louis. Young as I am, and held by ſuch ſtrong attach⯑ments, I cannot quit the world with re⯑ſignation. I know not how to credit thoſe ſtories we hear of philoſophic fortitude; wiſdom cannot teach us cheerfully to re⯑ſign a good, and life in my circumſtances 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.

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 ſuffer⯑ed had ſhe lived to witneſs the ignominious death which awaited her ſon, frequently oc⯑curred to him.

It ſeemed as if a deſtiny had hung over the life of Theodore, for it is probable that the king might have granted the petition of the unhappy father, had it not happened [272] that the Marquis de Montalt was preſent at court when the paper was preſented. The appearance and ſingular diſtreſs of the peti⯑tioner had intereſted the monarch, and, in⯑ſtead of putting by the paper, he opened it. As he threw his eyes over it, obſerving that the criminal was of the Marquis de Montalt's regiment: he turned to him and inquired the nature of the offence for which the culprit was about to ſuffer. The anſwer was ſuch as might have been expected from the Marquis, and the king was convinced that Theodore was not a proper object of mercy.

But to return to La Luc, who was call⯑ed, 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 collected, but his countenance was impreſſed with a fixed deſpair that ſenſibly affected his young friend. While they wait⯑ed for Adeline he ſpoke little, and ſeemed ſtruggling 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 agitation, that her frame had ſunk under it, and ſhe was now endea⯑vouring to recover ſtrength and compoſure [273] ſufficient to ſuſtain her in this dreadful hour. Every moment that brought her nearer to it had increaſed her emotion, and the ap⯑prehenſion of being prevented ſeeing Theo⯑dore had alone enabled her to ſtruggle 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. After ſome moments he propoſed to go, and they ſtep⯑ped into a carriage which conveyed them to the gates of the priſon. The crowd had al⯑ready began to aſſemble there, and a confuſ⯑ed murmur aroſe as the carriage moved for⯑ward; 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 ſhe followed La Luc, whom the keeper led towards that part of the priſon where his ſon was confined. It was now eight o'clock, the ſentence was not to be executed till twelve but a guard of ſoldiers was already placed in the court, and as this unhappy party paſſed along the narrow avenues they were met by ſeveral of⯑ficers who had been to take a laſt farewell of Theodore. As they aſcended the ſtairs that led to his apartment, La Luc's ear caught the clink of chains, and heard him walking above with a quick irregular ſtep. The unhappy father, overcome by the mo⯑ment [274] which now preſſed upon him, ſtopped, and was obliged to ſupport himſelf by the banniſter. Louis fearing the conſequence of his grief might be fatal, ſhattered as his frame already was, would have gone for aſſiſtance, but he made a ſign to him to ſtay. ‘"I am better;"’ ſaid La Luc, ‘"O God! ſupport me through this hour!"’ and in a few minutes he was able to proceed.

As the warder unlocked the door, the harſh grating of the key ſhocked Adeline, but in the next moment ſhe was in the pre⯑ſence 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 coun⯑tenance ſo dear to him, which had ſo often lighted rapture in his heart, and which though pale and inanimate as it now was, awakened him to momentary delight. When at length ſhe uncloſed her eyes, ſhe fixed them in long and mournful gaze upon Theo⯑dore, who preſſing her to his heart could anſwer her only with a ſmile of mingled ten⯑derneſs and deſpair; the tears he endea⯑voured to reſtrain trembled in his eyes, and he forgot for a time every thing but Adeline. La Luc, who had ſeated himſelf at the foot of the bed, ſeemed unconſcious of what paſſ⯑ed around him, and entirely abſorbed in his own grief; but Clara, as ſhe claſped the [275] hand of her brother, and hung weeping on his arm, expreſſed aloud all the anguiſh of her heart, and at length recalled the atten⯑tion of Adeline, who in a voice ſcarcely au⯑dible entreated ſhe would ſpare her father. Her words rouſed Theodore, and ſupport⯑ing Adeline to a chair, he turned to La Luc. ‘"My dear child!"’ ſaid La Luc, graſping his hand and burſting into tears, ‘"My dear child!"’ They wept together. After a long interval of ſilence, he ſaid, ‘"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 good⯑neſs!"’

Theodore by a ſtrong and ſudden exerti⯑on aſſumed a compoſed and firm counte⯑nance, and endeavoured by every gentle argument to ſooth and comfort his weeping friends. La Luc at length ſeemed to con⯑quer his ſufferings; drying his eyes, he ſaid, ‘"My ſon, I ought to have ſet you a bet⯑ter example, and practiſed the precepts of fortitude I have ſo often given you. But it is over; I know, and will per⯑form, my duty."’ Adeline breathed a hea⯑vy ſigh, and continued to weep. ‘"Be com⯑forted, my love, we part but for a time,"’ ſaid Theodore as he kiſſed the tears from her cheek; and uniting her hand with that of his father's, he earneſtly recommended her [276] to his protection. ‘"Receive her,"’ added he, ‘"as the moſt precious legacy I can bequeath; 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 ſhould continue to, regard Adeline as his daughter. During thoſe afflicting hours he endeavoured to diſſipate the terrors of approaching death by inſpiring his ſon with religious confidence. His conver⯑ſation was pious, rational and conſolatory: he ſpoke not from the cold dictates of the head, but from the feelings of a heart which had long loved and practiſed the pure precepts of chriſtianity, and which now drew from them a comfort ſuch as no⯑thing earthly could beſtow.

‘"You are young, my ſon,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and are yet innocent of any great crime; you may therefore look on death with⯑out terror, for to the guilty only is his approach dreadful. I feel that I ſhall not long ſurvive you, and I truſt in a merci⯑ful God that we ſhall meet in a ſtate where ſorrow never comes; where the Son of Righteouſneſs ſhall come with heal⯑ing in his wing!"’ As he ſpoke he looked up; the tears ſtill trembled in his eyes, which beamed with meek yet ſervent devo⯑tion, [277] and his countenance glowed with the dignity of a ſuperior being.

‘"Let us not neglect the awful mo⯑ments,"’ ſaid La Luc, riſing, ‘"let our united prayers aſcend to Him who alone can comfort and ſupport us!"’ They all knelt down, and he prayed with that ſim⯑ple and ſublime eloquence which true piety inſpires. When he roſe he embraced his children ſeparately, and when he came to Theodore he pauſed, gazed upon him with an earneſt, mournful expreſſion, and was for ſome time unable to ſpeak. Theodore could not bear this; he drew his hand before his eyes, and vainly endeavoured to ſtifle the deep ſobs which convulſed his frame. At length recovering his voice, he entreated his father would leave him. ‘"This miſe⯑ry is too much for us all,"’ ſaid he, ‘"let us not prolong it. The time is now draw⯑ing on—leave me to compoſe myſelf. The ſharpneſs of death conſiſts in part⯑ing with thoſe who are dear to us; when that is paſſed, death is diſarmed."’

‘"I will not leave you, my ſon,"’ replied La Luc, ‘"My poor girls ſhall go, but for me, I will be with you in your laſt mo⯑ments."’ Theodore felt that this would be too much for them both, and urged eve⯑ry argument which reaſon could ſuggeſt to prevail with his father to relinquiſh his de⯑ſign. [278] But he remained firm in his deter⯑mination. ‘"I will not ſuffer a ſelfiſh con⯑ſideration of the pain I may endure,"’ ſaid La Luc, ‘"to tempt me to deſert my child when he will moſt require my ſup⯑port. It is my duty to attend you, and nothing ſhall withhold me."’

Theodore ſeized on the words of La Luc—‘"As you would that I ſhould be ſupported in my laſt hour,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I en⯑treat that you will not be witneſs of it. Your preſence, my dear father, would ſubdue all my fortitude—would deſtroy what little compoſure I may otherwiſe be able to attain. Add not to my 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 Luc continued to gaze on him in ſilent agony; at length he ſaid, ‘"Well, be it ſo. If indeed my preſence would diſtreſs you, I will not go."’ His voice was broken and interrupted. After a pauſe of ſome moments he again embraced Theo⯑dore—‘"We muſt part,"’ ſaid he, ‘"we muſt part, but it is only for a time—we ſhall ſoon be re-united in a higher world!—O God! thou ſeeſt my heart—thou ſeeſt all its feelings in this bit⯑ter hour!"—’Grief again overcame him. He preſſed Theodore in his arms; and at [279] 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. The⯑odore gazed, with a diſtracted counte⯑nance, alternately on his father, on Clara, and on Adeline, whom he preſſed to his throbbing heart, and their tears flowed to⯑gether. ‘"And do I then,"’ cried he, ‘"for the laſt time look upon that countenance!—Shall I never—never more behold it?—O! exquiſite miſery! Yet once again—once more,"’ continued he, preſſ⯑ing her cheek, but it was inſenſible and cold as marble.

Louis, who had left the room ſoon after La Luc arrived, that his preſence might not interrupt their farewell grief, now returned. Adeline raiſed her head, and perceiving who entered, it again ſunk on the boſom of Theodore.

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 [280] dear Sir, I have ſomething to ſay; yet I fear to tell it."—’ ‘"What do you mean?"’ ſaid La Luc, 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 ſup⯑port the tranſports of hope?"—’La Luc gazed eagerly on Louis—‘"Speak!"’ ſaid he, in a faint voice. Adeline raiſed her head, and, trembling between hope and fear, looked at Louis as if ſhe would have ſearch⯑ed his ſoul. He ſmiled cheerfully upon her. ‘"Is it—O! is it poſſible!"’ ſhe exclaim⯑ed, ſuddenly re-animated—‘"He lives! He lives!"—’She ſaid no more, but ran to La Luc, who ſunk ſainting in his chair, while Theodore and Clara with one voice called on Louis to relieve them from the tortures of ſuſpence.

He proceeded to inform them that he had obtained from the commanding officer a reſ⯑pite for Theodore till the king's farther pleaſure could be known, and this in con⯑ſequence of a letter received that morning from his mother, Madame De la Motte, in which ſhe mentioned ſome very extraor⯑dinary circumſtances that had appeared in the courſe of a trial lately conducted at Paris, [281] and which ſo materially affected the cha⯑racter of the Marquis de Montalt as to render it poſſible a pardon might be obtained for Theodore.

Theſe words darted with the rapidity of lightning upon the hearts of his hearers. La Luc revived, and that priſon ſo lately the ſcene of de2ſpair now echoed only to the voices of gratitude and gladneſs. La Luc, raiſing his claſped hands to Heaven, ſaid, ‘"Great God! ſupport me in this mo⯑ment, as thou haſt already ſupported me!—If my ſon 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 con⯑traſt. So powerful indeed was the effect 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 diffuſed a more lively joy. But when the firſt emotions were ſubſided, the uncertainty of Theodore's fate once more appeared. Adeline forbore to expreſs this, but Clara without ſcruple lamented the poſſibility that her brother might yet be taken from them, and all their joy be turn⯑ed to ſorrow. A look from Adeline checked her. Joy was, however, ſo much the pre⯑dominant feeling of the preſent moment, that the ſhade which reflection threw upon [282] their hopes paſſed away like the cloud that is diſpelled by the ſtrength of the ſun beam; and Louis alone was penſive and abſtract⯑ed.

When they were ſufficiently compoſed, he informed them that the contents of Ma⯑dame De la Motte's letter obliged him to ſet out for Paris immediately; and that the intelligence he had to communicate inti⯑mately concerned Adeline, who would un⯑doubtedly judge it neceſſary 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 cir⯑cumſtances of importance to be underſtood, the following is a relation of the occurrences that had lately happened at Paris.

It may be remembered, that on the firſt day of his trial, La Motte, in paſſing from the courts to his priſon, ſaw a perſon whoſe features, though imperfectly ſeen through the duſk, he thought he recollected; and that this ſame perſon, after inquiring the name of La Motte, deſired to be admitted to him. On the following day the warder complied with his requeſt, and the ſurpriſe of La Motte may be imagined when, in the ſtronger light of his apartment, he diſtin⯑guiſhed the countenance of the man from [283] whoſe hands he had formerly received Ade⯑line.

On obſerving Madame De la Motte in the room, he ſaid, he had ſomething of conſequence to impart, and deſired to be left alone with the priſoner. When ſhe was gone, he told De la Motte that he under⯑ſtood 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 deſpe⯑rate. Do you wiſh for life?"’

‘"Need the queſtion be aſked!"’

‘"Your trial, I underſtand, proceeds to⯑morrow. I am now under confinement in this place for debt; but if you can obtain leave for me to go with you into the courts, and a condition from the judge that what I reveal ſhall not crimi⯑nate myſelf, I will make diſcoveries that ſhall confound that ſame Marquis; I will prove him a villain; and it ſhall then be judged how far his word ought to be taken againſt you."’

La Motte, whoſe intereſt was now ſtrong⯑ly excited, deſired he would explain him⯑ſelf; and the man proceeded to relate a long hiſtory of the misfortunes and conſe⯑quent poverty which had tempted him to become ſubſervient to the ſchemes of the Marquis, till he ſuddenly checked himſelf, [284] and ſaid. ‘"When I obtain from the court the promiſe I require, I will explain my⯑ſelf fully; till then I cannot ſay more on the ſubject."’

La Motte could not forbear expreſſing a doubt of his ſincerity, and a curioſity con⯑cerning 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 without reſenting it, par⯑ticularly from a villain whom you have ſerved."—’La Motte, for his own ſake, en⯑deavoured to check the vehemence with which this was uttered. ‘"I care not who hears me,"’ continued the ſtranger, but at the ſame time he lowered his voice; ‘"I repeat it—the Marquis has uſed me ill—I 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 conſequence. I warrant he ſhall ſoon repent that he has provoked me, and 'tis fit he ſhould."’

The doubts of La Motte were now diſ⯑ſipated; the proſpect of life again opened upon him, and he aſſured Du Boſſe, (which was the ſtranger's name) with much warmth, that he would commiſſion his Advocate to [285] do all in his power to obtain leave for his appearance on the trial, and to procure the neceſſary condition. After ſome farther converſation they parted.

CHAPTER XXI.

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 Mon⯑talt on perceiving this man was obſerv⯑ed by many perſons preſent, and particu⯑larly by La Motte, who drew from this circumſtance a favourable preſage for him⯑ſelf.

When Du Boſſe was called upon, he in⯑formed the court, that on the night of the twenty-firſt of April in the preced⯑ing year, one Jean d'Aunoy, a man he had known many years, came to his lodging. After they had diſcourſed for ſome time on their circumſtances, d'Au⯑noy [286] ſaid he knew a way by which du Boſſe might change all his poverty to riches, but that he would not ſay 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, (who he after⯑wards told du Boſſe was the Marquis de Montalt) to carry off a young gir from a convent, and that ſhe was to be taken to a houſe at 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, though he often paſſed his nights at Paris."’ He would not tell me more of the ſcheme, but ſaid he ſhould want aſſiſtants, and if I and 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 to 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.

[287] ‘"When he called the next night for his anſwer, my brother and I agreed to engage, and accordingly we went home with him. He then told us that 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 wiſe 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 till her death. The child was then placed in a convent and deſigned for the veil; but when ſhe was of an age to receive the vows, ſhe had ſteadily perſiſted in refuſing them. This cir⯑cumſtance had ſo much exaſperated the Marquis, that in his rage he or⯑dered, that if ſhe perſiſted in her ob⯑ſtinacy ſhe ſhould 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 whom he had yet a regard, would be condemned to expiate her crime by a terrible death."’

Du Boſſe was interrupted in his narrative by the council of the Marquis, who contended that the circumſtances alledg⯑ed [288] tending to criminate his client, the proceeding was both irrelevant and illegal. He was anſwered that it was not [...]elevant, and therefore not illegal, for that the cir⯑cumſtances which threw light upon the character of the Marquis, affected his evidence againſt La Motte. Du Boſſe was ſuffered to proceed.

‘"D'AUnoy then ſaid that the Marquis had ordered him to diſpatch her, but that as he had been uſed to ſee her from her infancy, he could not find in his heart to do it, and wrote to tell him ſo. The Marquis then com⯑manded him to find thoſe who would, and this was the buſineſs for which he wanted us. My brother and I were not ſo wicked as this came to, and ſo we told d'Aunoy, and I could not help aſking why the Marquis reſolved to murder his own child rather than expoſe her mother to the riſque of ſuffering death. He ſaid the Marquis had never ſeen his child, and that therefore it could not be ſuppoſed he felt much kindneſs towards it, and ſtill leſs that he could love it better than he loved its mother."’

Du Boſſe proceeded to relate how much he and his brother had endeavoured to ſoften the heart of d'Aunoy towards the [289] 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 young girl at the houſe on the heath, where the former had conſented to re⯑main, ſeemingly for the purpoſe of exe⯑cuting the orders they might receive, but really with a deſign to ſave the unhappy 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; when he knew that Adeline was the daughter of the Marquis, and remembered the crime to which he had once devoted her, his frame thrilled with 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; and urged, [290] as a proof of the preſent proſecution ori⯑ginating in malice, that it had com⯑menced immediately after he had effect⯑ed her eſcape from the Marquis. He concluded, however, with ſaying, 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 overruled by the court. The uncommon degree of emotion which his countenance betrayed during the narrations of Du Boſſe, and De la Motte, was generally obſerved. The court ſuſpended the ſen⯑tence 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 ſhould be ſought for.

The Marquis was accordingly ſeized at the ſuit of the crown, and put under confinement till Adeline ſhould appear, or proof could be obtained that ſhe 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 reſ [...]dence from the town where he was formerly ſtationed, had [291] acquainted him with his father's ſituation, and the proceedings of the trial; and as ſhe believed that Adeline, if ſhe had been ſo fortunate as to eſcape the Mar⯑quis's purſuit, was ſtill in Savoy, ſhe de⯑ſired Louis would obtain leave of abſence, and bring her to Paris, where her imme⯑diate preſence was requiſite to ſubſtan⯑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 officer 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.

[...]HAPTER XXII.

ON learning the purpoſe of Madame de la Motte's letter, Adeline ſaw the ne⯑ceſſity of her immediate departure for Paris. The life of La Motte, who had more than ſaved her's, the life, perhaps, of her beloved Theodore, depended on the teſtimony ſhe ſhould give. And ſhe who had ſo lately been ſinking under the influence of illneſs and deſpair, who could ſcarcely raiſe her languid head, or ſpeak but in the fainteſt accents, now re⯑animated with hope, and invigorated by a ſenſe of the importance of the buſineſs before her, prepared to perform a rapid journey of ſome hundred miles.

Theodore tenderly intreated that ſhe would ſo far conſider her health as to 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 con⯑firm her health. So ſtrong was the effect of hope upon her mind now, that it ſuc⯑ceeded [293] 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 foreſee the obſtacle that circumſtance might produce to her union with Theodore, ſhould he at laſt be permitted to live.

It was ſettled that ſhe ſhould ſet off for Paris in a few hours with Louis, and at⯑tended by Peter. Theſe hours were paſſed by La Luc and his family in the priſon.

When the time of her departure arrived, the ſpirits of Adeline again forſook her, and the illuſions of joy diſappeared. She no longer beheld Theodore as one reſpited from death, but took leave of him with a mournful pre-ſentiment that ſhe ſhould ſee him no more. So ſtrongly was this preſage impreſſed upon her mind, that it was long before ſhe could ſummon reſolution to bid him farewell; and when ſhe had done ſo, and even left the apartment, ſhe returned to take of him a laſt look. As ſhe was once more quitting the room, her melancholy imagination repreſented Theodore at the place of execution, pale and convulſed in death; ſhe again turned her lingering eyes upon him; but fancy affected her ſenſe, for ſhe thought as ſhe now gazed [294] that his countenance changed, and aſſumed a ghaſtly hue. All her reſolution vaniſhed and ſuch was the anguiſh of her heart, that ſhe reſolved to defer her journey till the morrow, though ſhe muſt by this means loſe the pro⯑tection of Louis, whoſe impatience to meet his father would not fuffer the delay. The triumph of paſſion, however, was tranſient; ſoothed by the indulgence ſhe promiſed her⯑ſelf, her grief ſubſided, reaſon reſumed its influence; ſhe again ſaw the neceſſity of her immediate departure, and recollected ſufficient reſolution to ſubmit. La Luc would have accompanied her for the pur⯑poſe of again ſoliciting 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, notwithſtanding his en⯑treaties, that ſhe would not undertake 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 a pardon be granted to Theodore, La Luc deſigned to fetch Adeline from Paris; but ſhould this be refuſed, ſhe was to return with Peter. He bade her adieu with a father's kindneſs, which ſhe [295] repaid with a filial affection, and in her laſt words conjured him to attend to the recovery of his health: the languid ſmile he aſſumed ſeemed to expreſs that her ſolicitude was vain, and that he thought his health paſt recovery.

Thus Adeline quitted the friends ſo juſtly dear to her, and ſo lately found, for Paris, where ſhe was a ſtranger, almoſt without protection, and compelled to meet a father who had purſued her with the utmoſt cruel⯑ty, in a public court of juſtice. The car⯑riage in leaving Vaceau paſſed by the priſon; ſhe threw an eager look towards it as ſhe paſſed; its heavy black walls, and narrow-grated windows, ſeemed to frown upon her hopes—but Theodore was there, and leaning from the window, ſhe con⯑tinued 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 heart, 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 without exchanging a word.

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 [296] 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.

In the ſolitude of his confinement the Marquis de Montalt had leiſure to reflect on the paſt, 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 ſecu⯑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 [297] could not be found he would be concluded guilty of her death. But the appearance of d'Aunoy was the circumſtance he moſt dreaded; and to oppoſe the poſſibility of this, he employed ſecret emiſſaries to diſcover his retreat, and to bribe him to his intereſt. Theſe were, however, as 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 op rate in his favour.

Adeline arrived at Paris after a jour⯑ney of ſeveral days, during which ſhe was chiefly ſupported by the delicate at⯑tentions of Louis, whom ſhe pitied and eſteemed, though ſhe could not love. She was immediately viſited at the hotel by Madame La Motte: the meeting was affecting on both ſides. A ſenſe of her paſt conduct excited in the latter an em⯑barraſſment [298] which the delicacy and good⯑neſs of Adeline would willingly have ſpared her; but the pardon ſolicited was given with ſo much ſincerity, that Madame gra⯑dually became compoſed and re-aſſured. This forgiveneſs, however, could not have been thus eaſily granted, had Adeline be⯑lieved her former conduct was voluntary; a conviction of the reſtraint and terror under which Madame had acted, alone induced her to excuſe the paſt. In this firſt meeting they forbore dwelling on particular ſubjects; Madame La Motte propoſed that Adeline ſhould remove from the hotel to her lodgings near the Chatelet, and Adeline, for whom a reſidence at a public hotel was very impro⯑per, gladly accepted the offer.

Madame there gave her a circumſtantial account of La Motte's ſituation, and con⯑cluded with ſaying, that as the ſentence of her huſband had been ſuſpended till ſome certainty could be obtained concerning the late criminal deſigns of the Marquis, and as Adeline could confirm the chief part of La Motte's teſtimony, it was probable that now ſhe was arrived the Court would pro⯑ceed immediately. 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 her from death. Her horror of the Marquis, whom ſhe could [299] not bear to conſider as her father, and her gratitude to her deliverer, redoubled, and ſhe became impatient to give the teſtimony ſo neceſſary to the hopes of her preſerver. Madame then ſaid, ſhe believed it was not too late to gain admittance that night to the Chatelet; and as ſhe knew how anxiouſly her huſband wiſhed to ſee Adeline, ſhe en⯑treated her conſent to go thither. Adeline, though much harraſſed and fatigued, com⯑plied. When Louis returned from M. Nemcur'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 admit⯑ted ſo forcibly recalled to Adeline's mind the ſituation of Theodore, that ſhe with difficul⯑ty ſupported 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 kindneſs, 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 himſelf, it ſeemed to awaken a remem⯑brance of the guilty deſigns he had once [300] aſſiſted, and to ſtrike the pangs of conſcience deeper in his heart. Endeavouring to conceal his emotions, he entered on the ſubject of his preſent danger, and informed Adeline what teſtimony would be required of her on the trial. After above an hour's converſation with La Motte, ſhe returned to the lodgings of Madame, where, languid and ill, ſhe withdrew to her chamber, and tried to obliviate her anxieties in ſleep.

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 trembling into the Court, where almoſt the firſt object that met her eyes was the Marquis de Montalt, whom ſhe now beheld with an emotion en⯑tirely new to her, and which was ſtrongly tinctured with horror. When du Boſſe ſaw her, he immediately ſwore to her identity; his teſtimony was confirmed by her manner; for on perceiving him ſhe grew pale, and a univerſal tremor ſeized her. Jean d'Aunoy could no where be found, and La Motte was thus deprived of an evidence which eſ⯑ſentially affected his intereſt. Adeline, when called upon, gave her little narrative with clearneſs and preciſion; and Peter, who had conveyed her from the Abbey, [301] ſupported the teſtimony ſhe offered. The evidence produced was ſufficient to criminate the Marquis of the intention of murder, in the minds of moſt people preſent; but it was not ſufficient to affect the teſtimony of his two laſt witneſſes, who poſitively ſwore to the commiſſion of the robbery, and to the perſon of La Motte, on whom ſentence of death was accordingly pronounced. On re⯑ceiving this ſentence the unhappy criminal fainted, and the compaſſion of the aſſembly, whoſe feelings had been unuſually intereſted in the deciſion, was expreſſed in a general groan.

Their attention was quickly called to a new object—it was Jean d'Aunoy who now entered the Court. But his evidence, if it could ever, indeed, have been the means of ſaving La Motte, came too late. He was re-conducted to priſon; but Ade⯑line, who, extremely ſhocked by his ſen⯑tence, was much indiſpoſed, received or⯑ders to remain in the Court during the ex⯑amination 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 mo⯑ney 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 [302] revenge of the latter had been rouſed againſt the Marquis by an imaginary neglect, and the money which was deſigned 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 un⯑dergo the torture. D'Aunoy, who was ignorant how far the ſuſpicions concerning the Marquis extended, and who was con⯑ſcious that his own words might condemn him, remained for ſome time obſtinately ſi⯑lent; but when the queſtion was adminiſter⯑ed his reſolution gave way, and he confeſſ⯑ed a crime of which he had not even been ſuſpected.

It appeared, that in the year 1642 d'Au⯑noy, together with one Jacques Martigny, and Francis Balliere, had way-laid, and ſeized, Henry Marquis de Montalt, half⯑brother to Phillipe; and after having rob⯑bed 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 Fontangville. Here he was confined for ſome time till farther directions were received from Phillipe de Montalt, the preſent Marquis, who was then on his eſtates in a northern province of France. Theſe orders were for death, [303] and the unfortunate Henry was aſſaſſinated in his chamber in the third week of his con⯑finement at the Abbey.

On hearing this Adeline grew faint; ſhe remembered the M S. 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'Au⯑noy 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 diſtant part of the kingdom, where, aſſuming the name of St. Pierre, he brought her up as his own child, receiving from the preſent Mar⯑quis a conſiderable annuity for his ſe⯑crecy.

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 confuſion occaſioned by this circumſtance ſubſided, Jean d'Au⯑noy went on. He related, that on the [304] death of his wife, Adeline was placed in a convent, from whence ſhe was afterwards re⯑moved to another, where the Marquis had deſtined her to receive the vows. That her determined rejection of them had occa⯑ſioned him to reſolve upon her death, and that ſhe had accordingly been removed to the houſe on the health. D'Aunoy added, that by the Marquis's order he had miſled du Boſſe with a falſe ſtory of her birth. Hav⯑ing after ſome time diſcovered that his com⯑rades had deceived him concerning her death, d'Aunoy ſeparated from them in enmity; but they unanimouſly determined to conceal her eſcape from the Marquis, that they might enjoy the recompence 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 Mon⯑talt was committed to take his trial for the murder of Henry, his brother; d'Aunoy was thrown into a dungeon of the Chate⯑let, and du Boſſe was bound to appear as evidence.

[305] The feelings of the Marquis, who, in a proſecution ſtimulated by revenge, 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, heightened its atrocity, the murder of one connected with him by the ties of blood, and by habits of even infan⯑tine aſſociation—the paſſions which had ſtimulated him to ſo monſtrous a deed were ambition, 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 indulge his vo⯑luptuous inclinations.

The late Marquis de Montalt, the father of Adeline, received from his anceſtors a patrimony very inadequate to ſupport the ſplendour of his rank; but he had married the heireſs of an illuſtrious family, whoſe fortune amply ſupplied the deficiency of his own. He had the misfortune to loſe her, for ſhe was amiable and beautiful, ſoon after the birth of a daughter, and it was then that the preſent Marquis formed the diabolical deſign of deſtroying his brother. The con⯑traſt of their characters prevented that cor⯑dial regard between them which their near relationſhip ſeemed to demand. Henry was [306] benevolent, mild, and contemplative. In his heart reigned the love of virtue; in his manners the ſtrictneſs of juſtneſs was tem⯑pered, not weakened, by mercy; his mind was enlarged by ſcience, and adorned by elegant literature. The character of Phil⯑lipe has been already delineated in his ac⯑tions; 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 conſiderable eſtates, of which the Abbey of St. Clair, and the villa on the borders of the foreſt of Fontangville, were the chief. His paſſion for magnificence and diſſipation, however, ſoon involved him in difficulties, and point⯑ed 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 em⯑ploy the ſame means to ſecure the child, ſeems ſomewhat ſurprizing, unleſs we ad⯑mit 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 ap⯑pears [307] as if her preſervation was the effect of ſomething more than human policy, and affords a ſtriking inſtance that Juſtice, how⯑ever long delayed, will overtake the guilty.

While the late unhappy Marquis was ſuffering at the Abbey, his brother, who, to avoid ſuſpicion, remained in the north of France, delayed the 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 con⯑trived to propagate of his brother's death would veil his crime from ſuſpicion. It ſuc⯑ceeded but too well; for the ſervant, whoſe life had been ſpared that he might relate the tale, naturally enough concluded that his Lord had been 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 naturally believed him, and ſpread the report accordingly.

From this period the Marquis, to whom the Abbey of St. Clair belonged in right of his wife, viſited it only twice, and that at diſtant times, till after an interval of ſeveral years he accidentally found La Motte its in⯑habitant. He reſided at Paris, and on his eſtate in the north, except that once a year he uſually paſſed a month at his delightful [308] 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 remem⯑brance 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 world.

It is probable, that on the night of his abrupt departure from the Abbey, the ſoli⯑tary 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 con⯑ſcience vaniſhed with the darkneſs; for on the following day he returned to the Abbey, though it may be obſerved, he never at⯑tempted to paſs another night there. But though terror was rouſed for a tranſient mo⯑ment, neither pity or repentance ſucceeded, 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 ſoul with hu⯑man blood. This diſcovery 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 de⯑livered to him at Caux. It may be remem⯑bered, that having read this note, he was [309] 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 diſpatched a letter to d'Aunoy, the purport of which has been already mentioned. From d'Aunoy he received the confirmation of his fears. Knowing that his life muſt pay the forfei⯑ture 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 im⯑mediately 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, ſuggeſted.

As the hiſtory of the ſeal which revealed the birth of Adeline is rather remarkable, it may not be amiſs to mention, that it was ſtolen from the Marquis, together with a gold watch, by Jean d'Aunoy: the watch was ſoon diſpoſed of, but the ſeal had been kept as a pretty trinket by his wife, and at her death went with Adeline among her clothes to the convent. Adeline had care⯑fully preſerved it, becauſe it had once be⯑longed to the woman whom ſhe believed to have been her mother.

CHAPTER XXIII.

WE now return to the courſe of the nar⯑rative, and to Adeline, who was carried from the court to the lodging of Madame De la Motte. Madame was, however, at the Chatelet with her huſband, ſuffering all the diſtreſs which the ſentence pronounced againſt him might be ſuppoſed to inflict. The feeble frame of Adeline, ſo long har⯑raſſed by grief and fatigue, almoſt ſunk un⯑der the agitation which the diſcovery of her birth 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 pur⯑ſued by a cruel and powerful enemy, ſhe ſaw herſelf ſuddenly transformed to the daughter of an illuſtrious houſe, and the heireſs of im⯑menſe wealth. But ſhe learned alſo that her father had been murdered—murdered in the prime of his days—murdered by means of his brother, againſt whom ſhe muſt now appear, and in puniſhing the deſtroyer of her parent doom her uncle to death.

When ſhe remembered the manuſcript ſo fingularly found, and conſidered that when ſhe wept for the ſufferings it deſcribed, her tears had flowed for thoſe of her father, her emotion cannot eaſily be imagined. The [311] circumſtances attending the diſcovery of theſe and papers no longer appeared to be a work of chance, but of a Power whoſe deſigns are great and juſt. ‘"O my father!"’ ſhe would exclaim, ‘"your laſt wiſh is fulfilled—the pitying heart you wiſhed might trace your ſuf⯑ferings ſhall avenge them."’

On the return of Madame La Motte Adeline endeavoured, as uſual, to ſup⯑preſs her own emotions, that ſhe might ſooth the affliction of her friend. She related what had paſſed in the courts af⯑ter the departure of La Motte, and thus excited, 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: ſhe 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 [312] and melancholy ſupper they ſeparated for the night, and Adeline, in the ſoli⯑tude of her chamber, had leiſure to me⯑ditate on the diſcoveries of this eventful day. The ſufferings of her dead father, ſuch as ſhe had read them recorded by his own hand, preſſed moſt forcibly to her thoughts. The narrative had for⯑merly ſo much affected her heart, and intereſted her imagination, that her me⯑mory now faithfully reflected each parti⯑cular circumſtance there diſcloſed. But when ſhe conſidered that ſhe had been in the very chamber where her parent had ſuffered, where even his life had been ſacrificed, and that ſhe had probably ſeen the very dagger, ſeen it ſtained with ruſt, the ruſt of blood! by which he had fallen, the anguiſh and horror of her mind defied all controul.

On the following day Adeline received orders to prepare for the proſecution of the Marquis de Montalt, which was to commence as ſoon as the requiſite wit⯑neſſes could be collected. Among theſe were the Abbeſs of the Convent, who had received her from the hands of d'Aunoy; 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 [313] 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 remembred, 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, 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 revealed. If this ſenſibility was, in her peculiar [314] circumſtances, a weakneſs, it was at leaſt an amiable one, and as ſuch deſerves to be re⯑verenced.

The accounts ſhe received from Vaceau of the health of M. La Luc did not contri⯑bute to tranquillize her mind. The ſymptoms deſcribed by Clara ſeemed to ſay that he was in the laſt ſtage of a conſumption, and the grief of Theodore and herſelf on this occaſion was expreſ⯑ſed 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 ſhewed 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 occaſioned him by the ſituation in which it had been her misfortune to involve Theodore, had ſhat⯑tered his frame to its preſent infirmity. The ſame cauſe alſo with-held him from ſeeking in the climate of Montpellier the relief he had formerly been taught to expect there. When ſhe looked round on the condition of her friends, her heart was almoſt over⯑whelmed with the proſpect; 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 [315] whatever the deſigns in which he had for⯑merly 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 eſtabliſhment of her rank, her fortune, and conſequently her influence, 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 life 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. Verneuil. Her countenance expreſſed both ſurprize and ſatisfaction at this unexpected meeting, and ſhe inquired, though with little expec⯑tation of an affirmative, if he had heard of M. La Luc. ‘"I have ſeen him,"’ ſaid M. Verneuil; ‘"I am juſt come from Vaceau. But I am ſorry I cannot give you a better account of his health. He is greatly altered ſince I ſaw him before."’

Adeline could ſcarcely refrain from tears at the recollection theſe words revived of the calamities which had occaſioned this la⯑mented change. M. Verneuil delivered her a packet from Clara; as he preſented it he ſaid, ‘"Beſide this introduction to your no⯑tice, I have a claim of a different kind, which I am proud to aſſert, and which [316] which will perhaps juſtify the permiſſion I aſk of ſpeaking upon your affairs."—’Adeline bowed, and M. Verneuil, with a countenance expreſſive of the moſt ten⯑der ſolicitude, added that he had heard of the late proceeding of the parliament of Paris, and of the diſcoveries that ſo intimately concerned her. ‘"I know not,"’ continued he, ‘"whether I ought to congratulate or condole with you on this trying occaſion. That I ſincerely ſympathize in all that concerns you I hope you will believe, and I cannot deny my⯑ſelf the pleaſure of 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 towards M. Verneuil; ſurprize and ſatisfaction re⯑animated her features. ‘"Do I indeed ſee 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 received M. Verneuil's embrace in ſilence. It was ſome time before her emo⯑tion would permit her to ſpeak.

To Adeline, who from her earlieſt infan⯑cy had been abandoned to ſtrangers, a for⯑lorn and helpleſs orphan; who had never till lately known a relation, and who then found one in the perſon of an inveterate ene⯑my, to her this diſcovery was as delightful as unexpected. B [...]t after ſtruggling for [...] emotions that [317] preſſed upon her heart, ſhe begged M. Ver⯑neuil permiſſion 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 ſtrength⯑ened by his increaſing regard for Clara, had drawn him to Vaceau, where he was in⯑formed of the family and peculiar circum⯑ſtances of Adeline. On receiving this in⯑telligence he immediately ſet out for Paris to offer his protection and aſſiſtance to his newly-diſcovered relation, 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 ſupport and aſſiſtance, if they ſhould be found neceſſary. ‘"But I truſt,"’ added he, ‘"to the juſtneſs of your cauſe, and hope it will not require any adventitious aid. To thoſe who remember the late Marchioneſs, your features bring ſufficient evidence of your birth. As a proof that my judgment in this inſtance is not biaſſed by prejudice, the reſemblance ſtruck me when I was in Savoy, though I knew the Marchioneſs only by her portrait; and I believe I mentioned to M. La Luc that you often reminded me of a deceaſed relation. You may form ſome judgment of this yourſelf,"’ added M. Verneuil, taking a miniature from [318] his pocket. ‘"This was your amiable mo⯑ther."’

Adeline's countenance changed; ſhe re⯑ceived the picture eagerly, gazed on it for a long time in ſilence, and her eyes filled with tears. It was not the reſemblance ſhe ſtudied, but the countenance—the mild and beautiful countenance of her parent, whoſe blue eyes, full of tender ſweetneſs, ſeemed bent upon her's; while a ſoft ſmile played on her lips; Adeline preſſed the picture to her's, and again gazed in ſilent reverie. At length, with a deep ſigh, ſhe ſaid, ‘"This ſurely was my mother. Had ſhe but lived, O my poor father! you had been ſpared."’ This reflection quite overcame her, and ſhe burſt into tears. M. Verneuil did not interrupt her grief, but took her hand and ſat by her without ſpeak⯑ing till ſhe became more compoſed. Again kiſſing the picture, ſhe held it out to him with a heſitating look. ‘"No,"’ ſaid he, ‘"it is already with its true owner."’ She thank⯑ed him with a ſmile of ineffable ſweetneſs, and after ſome converſation on the ſubject of the approaching trial, on which occaſion ſhe requeſted M. Verneuil would ſupport her by his preſence, he withdrew, having begged leave to repeat his viſit on the following day.

Adeline now opened her packet, and ſaw once more the well-known characters of [319] Theodore; for a moment ſhe felt as if in his preſence, and the conſcious bluſh overſpread her cheek; with a trembling hand ſhe broke the ſeal, and read the tendereſt aſſurances and ſolicitudes of his love; ſhe often pauſed that ſhe might prolong the ſweet emotions which theſe aſſurances awakened, but while tears of tenderneſs ſtood trembling on her eyelids, the bitter recollection of his ſituati⯑on would return, and they fell in anguiſh on her boſom.

He congratulated her, and with peculiar delicacy, on the proſpects of life which were opening to her; ſaid every thing that might tend to animate and ſupport her, but avoided dwelling on his own circumſtances, except by expreſſing his ſenſe of the zeal and kind⯑neſs of his commanding officer, and adding, that he did not deſpair of finally obtaining a pardon.

This hope, though but faintly expreſſed, and written evidently for the purpoſe of con⯑ſoling 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 ſurround⯑ed her. Theodore ſaid little of his father's health; what he did ſay 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, with⯑out [320] reſerve, all her apprehenſion and con⯑cern.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE day of the trial ſo anxiouſly awaited, and on which the fate of ſo many perſons depended, at length arrived. Adeline, ac⯑companied by M. Verneuil and Madame la Motte, appeared as the proſecutor of the Marquis de Montalt; and d'Aunoy, du Boſſe, Louis de la Motte, and ſeveral other perſons, as witneſs in her cauſe. The judges were ſome of the moſt diſtinguiſhed in France; and the advocates on both ſides men of eminent abilities. On a trial of ſuch im⯑portance the court, as may be imagined, was crowded with perſons of diſtinction, and the ſpectacle it preſented was ſtrikingly ſo⯑lemn, yet magnificent.

When ſhe appeared before the tribunal, Adeline's emotion ſurpaſſed all the arts of diſguiſe, but adding to the natural 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 ad⯑miration [321] 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 appearance in tremb⯑ling expectation, a confuſed murmuring roſe in a diſtant part of the hall. Her ſpirits now almoſt forſook her; the certainty of ſeeing immediately, and conſciouſly, the murderer of her father, chilled her with horror, and ſhe was with difficulty preſerved from fainting. A low ſound now ran through the court, and an air of confuſion appeared, which was ſoon communicated to the tribunal itſelf. Several of the members aroſe, ſome left the hall, the whole place exhibited a ſcene of diſorder, and a report at length reached Ade⯑line that the Marquis de Montalt was dying. A conſiderable time elapſed in uncertainty; but the confuſion continued; the Marquis did not appear; and at Adeline's requeſt M. Verneuil went in queſt of more poſitive in⯑formation.

He followed a crowd which was hurrying towards the Chatelet, and with ſome diffi⯑culty gained admittance into the priſon; but the porter at the gate, whom he had bribed for a paſſport, could give him no certain information on the ſubject of his enquiry, and not being at liberty to quit his poſt, fur⯑niſhed M. Verneuil with only a vague di⯑rection to the Marquis's apartment. The courts were ſilent and deſerted, but as he [322] advanced a diſtant hum of voices led him on, ſtill perceiving ſeveral perſons running to⯑wards a ſtaircaſe which appeared beyond the archway of a long paſſage, he followed thi⯑ther, and learned that the Marquis was cer⯑tainly dying. The ſtaircaſe was filled with people; he endeavoured to preſs through the crowd, and after much ſtruggle and dif⯑ficulty he reached the door of an anti-room which communicated with the apartment where the Marquis lay, and whence ſeveral perſons now iſſued. Here he learned that the object of his enquiry was already dead. M. Verneuil, however, preſſed through the anti-room to the chamber where lay the Marquis on a bed ſurrounded by officers of the law, and two notaries, who appeared to have been taking down depoſitions. His countenance was ſuffuſed with a black, and deadly hue, and impreſſed with the horrors of death; M. Verneuil turned away, ſhock⯑ed by the ſpectacle, and on enquiry heard that the Marquis had died by poiſon.

It appeared that convinced he had nothing to hope from his trial, he had taken this me⯑thod of avoiding an ignominious death. In the laſt hours of life, while tortured with the remembrance of his crime, he reſolv⯑ed to make all the atonement that remained for him, and having ſwallowed the potion, he immediately ſent for a confeſſor to take a full confeſſion of his guilt, and two nota⯑ries, [323] and thus eſtabliſhed Adeline beyond diſpute in the rights of her birth; and al⯑ſo bequeathed her a conſiderable legacy.

In conſequence of theſe depoſitions ſhe was ſoon after formally acknowledged as the daughter and heireſs of Henry Marquis de Montalt, and the rich eſtates of her father were reſtored to her. She immediately threw herſelf at the feet of the king in be⯑half of Theodore and of La Motte. The character of the 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 forcible, that it is more than probable the monarch would have granted his pardon to a pleader leſs irreſiſtible than was Adeline de Mon⯑talt. Theodore La Luc not only received an ample pardon, 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 condemned for the robbery on full evidence, and who had been alſo charged with the crime which had formerly compelled him to quit Paris, a pardon could not be obtained; but at the earneſt ſupplication of Adeline, and in con⯑ſideration of the ſervice he had finally ren⯑dered her, his ſentence was ſoftened from death to baniſhment. This indulgence, however, would have availed him little, had [324] not the noble generoſity of Adeline ſilenced other proſecutions that were preparing a⯑gainſt 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 betrayed through weakneſs rather than natural depravity, and awakened ſo keen a a remorſe for the injuries he had once me⯑ditated 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 own⯑ed for Adeline was raiſed almoſt to adoration by her late conduct; but he now relinquiſh⯑ed even the ſaint hope which he had hitherto almoſt unconſciouſly cheriſhed, and, ſince the life which was granted to Theodore rendered this ſacrifice neceſſary, he could not repine. He reſolved, how⯑ever, to ſeek in abſence the tranquility 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 Ade⯑line; 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.

[325] Adeline remained ſome time at Paris to ſettle her affairs, where ſhe was introduced by M. V— to the few and diſtant re⯑lations that remained of her family. 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 ſome⯑thing more than the effect of fancy. The death of his elder brother had abruptly re⯑called him from Italy; but Adeline had the ſatisfaction to obſerve, that the heavy melancholy which formerly oppreſſed him, had yielded to a ſort of placid reſignation, and that his countenance was often enliven⯑ed 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 an⯑ceſtors. D'Aunoy was tried, condemned, and hanged, for the murder. At the place of execution he had deſcribed the ſpot where the remains of the Marquis were concealed, which was in the ſtone-room already men⯑tioned, belonging to the Abbey. M. V— accompanied the officers appointed for the ſearch, and attended the aſhes of the Mar⯑quis to St. Maur, an eſtate in one of the northern provinces. There they were depo⯑ſited with the ſolemn funeral pomp becoming his rank. Adeline attended as chief mourn⯑er; [326] and this laſt duty paid to the memory of her parent, ſhe became more tranquil and reſigned. The MS. that recorded his ſuf⯑ferings had been found at the Abbey, and delivered 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 dan⯑ger had alone withheld him from haſtening, the moment he obtained his liberty, to thank Adeline for the life ſhe had preſerved. She now received him as the friend to whom ſhe was indebted for her preſervation, and as the lover who deſerved, and poſſeſſed, her tendereſt affection The remembrance of the circumſtances under which they had laſt met, and of their mutual anguiſh, render⯑ed more exquiſite the happineſs of the pre⯑ſent moments, when no longer oppreſſed by the horrid proſpect of ignominious death and final ſeparation, they looked forward only to the ſmiling days that awaited them when hand in hand they ſhould tread the flowery ſcenes of life. The contraſt which memo⯑ry drew of the paſt with the preſent, fre⯑quently drew tears of tenderneſs and grati⯑tude to their eyes, and the ſweet ſmile which ſeemed ſtruggling to diſpel from the coun⯑tenance of Adeline thoſe gems of ſorrow, penetrated the heart of Theodore, and brought to his recollection a little ſong which in other circumſtances he had formerly ſung to her. He took up a lute that lay on the table, and touching the dulcet chords, ac⯑companied it with the following words:

Her affection for Theodore had induced Adeline to reject ſeveral ſuitors which her goodneſs, beauty, and wealth, had already attracted, and whom, though infinitely his ſuperiors in point of fortune, were many of them inferior to him in family, and all of them in merit.

The various and tumultuous emotions which the late events had called forth in the boſom of 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 re-joining 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 therefore 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—, 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 [328] ſhe was preparing when ſhe received from her friend a flattering account of his amendment; and as ſome farther ſet⯑tlement of her affairs required her pre⯑ſence at Paris, ſhe deferred her deſign, and M. V— departed alone.

When Theodore's affairs aſſumed a more favourable aſpect, M. Verneuil had written to La Luc, and communicated to him the ſecret of his heart reſpect⯑ing Clara. La Luc, who admired and eſteemed M. V—, and who was not ignorant of his family connections, was pleaſed with the propoſed alliance; Clara thought ſhe had never ſeen any perſon whom ſhe was ſo much inclined to love; and M. V— received an an⯑ſwer favourable to his wiſhes, and which encouraged him to undertake the preſent journey to Montpelier.

The reſtoration of his happineſs and the climate of Montpelier did all for the health of La Luc that his moſt anxious friends could wiſh, and he was at length ſo far recovered as to viſit Adeline at her eſtate of St. Maur. Clara and M. V— accompanied him, and a ceſſation of hoſ⯑tilities between France and Spain ſoon after permitted Theodore to join this happy party. When La Luc, thus reſtored 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 exquiſite joy and gratitude; and his venerable countenance, ſoftened by an expreſſion of complacent delight, exhibited a perfect picture of happy age.

CHAPTER XXV.

ADELINE, in the ſociety of friends ſo beloved, loſt the impreſſion of that melan⯑choly which the fate of her parent had occaſioned; ſhe recovered all her natural vi⯑vacity; 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 D—, and La Luc had the ſupreme felicity of confirming on the ſame day the flattering deſtinies of both his children. When the ceremony was over he bleſſed and embraced them all with tears of fatherly affection. ‘"I thank thee O God! that I have been permitted to ſee this hour;"’ ſaid he, ‘"whenever it ſhall pleaſe thee to call me hence, I ſhall depart in peace."’

‘"Long, very long, may you be ſpared to bleſs your children,"’ replied Adeline. Cla⯑ra kiſſed her father's hand and wept: ‘"Long, very long,"’ ſhe repeated in a voice ſcarce⯑ly audible. La Luc ſmiled cheerfully, and turned the converſation to a ſubject leſs affect⯑ing.

But the time now drew nigh when La Luc thought it neceſſary to return to the du⯑ties of his pariſh, from which he had ſo long [330] been abſent. Madame La Luc too, who had attended him during the period of his danger at Montpelier, and hence returned to Savoy, complained much of the ſolitude of her life; and this was with her brother an additional motive for his ſpeedy departure. Theodore and Adeline, who could not ſupport the thought of a ſeparation, endeavoured to perſuade him to give up his chateau, and to reſide with them in France; but he was held by many ties to Leloncourt. For many years he had conſtituted the comfort and hap⯑pineſs 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 forſak⯑ing 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 ſentiment alſo of a more tender nature,—(and let not the ſto⯑ic prophane it with the name of weakneſs, or the man of the world ſcorn it as unnatu⯑ral)—a ſentiment ſtill more tender attracted him to Leloncourt,—the remains of his wife repoſed there.

Since La Luc would not reſide in France, Theodore and Adeline, to whom the ſplen⯑did gaieties that courted them at Paris were very inferior temptations to the ſweet do⯑meſtic pleaſures and refined ſociety which Leloncourt would afford, determined to accompany La Luc and Mon. and Madame Verneuil abroad. Adeline arranged her af⯑fairs ſo as to render her reſidence in France [331] unneceſſary; and having bade an affection⯑ate adieu to the Count and Counteſs D—, and to M. Amand, who had recovered a tole⯑rable degree of cheerfulneſs, ſhe departed with her friends for Savoy.

They travelled leiſurely, and frequently turned out of their way to view whatever was worthy of obſervation. After a long and pleaſant journey they came once more within view of the Swiſs mountains, the ſight of which revived a thouſand intereſting re⯑collections in the mind of Adeline. She re⯑membred the circumſtances and the ſenſati⯑ons under which ſhe 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 en⯑thuſiaſm the magnificent and changing ſcene⯑ry which the receding mountains ſucceſſive⯑ly diſcloſed.

It was evening when they approached with⯑in a few miles of Leloncourt, and the road wind⯑ing round the foot of a ſtupendous cragg, preſented them a full view of the lake, and of the peaceful dwelling of La Luc. An ex⯑clamation of joy from the whole party an⯑nounced the diſcovery, and the glance of pleaſure was reflected from every eye. The ſun's laſt light gleamed upon the waters that repoſed in ‘"chryſtal purity"’ below, mel⯑lowed [332] 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 thankſgiving that he was permitted thus to return to it. Ade⯑line 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 gra⯑titude and complacent delight. She looked at Theodore, whom in theſe very ſcenes ſhe had lamented as loſt to her for ever; who when found again, was about to be torn from her by an ignominious death, but who now ſat by her ſide her ſecure and happy huſ⯑band, the pride of his family and herſelf; and while the ſenſibility of her heart flowed in tears from her eyes, a ſmile of ineffable tenderneſs told him all ſhe felt. He gently preſſed her hand, and anſwered her with a look of love.

Peter, who now rode up to the carriage with a face full of joy and of importance, interrupted a courſe of ſentiment which was become almoſt too intereſting. ‘"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 villagers aſſembled on a green ſpot that ſloped to the very margin of the waves, and dancing in [333] all their holiday finery. It was the evening of a feſtival. The elder peaſants ſat under the ſhade of the trees that crowned this little 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 cattle that ſtood, ſome on the brink, ſome half in the water, and others repoſing on the green bank, while ſeveral peaſant girls, dreſſed in the neat ſimplicity of their country, were diſpenſing the milky feaſt. Peter now rode on firſt, and a crowd ſoon collected round him, who learning that their beloved maſter was at hand, went forth to meet and welcome him Their warm and honeſt expreſſions of joy diffuſed an exquiſite ſatisfaction over the heart of the good La Luc, who met them with the kindneſs of a father, and who could ſcarcely forbear ſhed⯑ding tears to this teſtimony of their attach⯑ment When the younger part of the pea⯑ſants heard the news of his arrival, the ge⯑neral joy was ſuch, that, led by the tabor and pipe, th [...]y danced before his carriage to the chateau, where they again welcomed him and his family with the enlivening ſtrains of muſic. At the gate of the chate [...]u they were receiv [...]d by Madame La Luc, and a happier party never met.

As the evening was uncommonly mild and beautiful, ſupper was ſpread in the gar⯑den. When the repaſt was over, Clara, whoſe heart was all glee, propoſed a dance by moonlight ‘"It will be delicious,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"the moon-beams are already dancing on the waters. See what a ſtream [334] of radiance they throw acroſs the lake, and, how they ſparkle round that little promontory on the left. The freſhneſs of 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 called in too,"’ ſaid La Luc: ‘"they ſhall all par⯑take our happineſs. There is devotion in making others happy, and gratitude ought to make us devout. Peter, bring more wine, and ſet ſome tables under the trees."’ Peter flew, and, while chairs and tables were placing, Clara ran for her favourite lute, the lute which had formerly afforded her ſuch delight, and which Adeline had often touched with a melancholy expreſſion. Clara's light hand now ran over the chorus, and drew forth tones of tender ſweetneſs, her voice accom⯑panying the following

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 pipe and tabor were placed, at Clara's requeſt, under the ſhade of her beloved acacias on the [335] he margin of the lake; the merry notes of muſic ſounded, Adeline led off the dance, and the mountains anſwered only to the ſtrains of mirth and melody.

The venerable La Luc, as he ſat among the elder peaſants, ſurveyed the ſcene—his children and people thus aſſembled round him in one grand compact of harmony and joy—the frequent tear bedewed his cheek, and he ſeemed to taſte the fullneſs of an ex⯑alted delight.

So much was every heart rouſed to glad⯑neſs, that the morning dawn began to peep upon the ſcene of their feſtivity, when every cottager returned to his home bleſſing the benevolence of La Luc.

After paſſing ſome weeks with La Luc, M. Verneuil bought a chateau in the vil⯑lage of Leloncourt, and as it was the only one not already occupied, Theodore look⯑ed out for a reſidence in the neighbourhood. At the diſtance of a few leagues, on the beautiful banks of the lake of Geneva, where the waters retire into a ſmall bay, he pur⯑chaſed a villa. The Chateau was charac⯑terized by an air of ſimplicity and taſte, ra⯑ther than of magnificence, which however was the chief treat in the ſurrounding ſcene. The chateau was almoſt encircled with woods, which forming a grand amphitheatre ſwept, down to the water's edge, and abounded with wild and romantic walks. Here nature was ſuffered to ſport in all her beautiful 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 ſail that glided by, or of the diſtant moun⯑tains. In front of the chateau the woods opened to a lawn, and the eye was ſuffered [336] to wander over the lake, whoſe boſom pre⯑ſented an ever-moving picture, while its va⯑ried margin ſprinkled with villas, woods, and towns, and crowned beyond with the ſnowy and ſublime alps, riſing point behind point in awful confuſion, exhibited a ſcene⯑ry of almoſt unequalled magnificence.

Here contemning the ſplendour of falſe happineſs, and poſſeſſing the pure and rati⯑onal delights of a love refined into the moſt tender friendſhip, ſurrounded by the friends ſo dear to them, and viſited by a ſelect and enlightened ſociety—here, in the very bo⯑ſom of felicity, lived Theodore and Adeline La Luc.

The paſſion of Louis De la Motte yielded at length to the powers of abſence and neceſ⯑ſity. He ſtill loved Adeline, but it was with the placid tenderneſs of friendſhip, and when at the earneſt invitation of Theodore, he viſi⯑ted the villa, he beheld their happineſs with a ſatisfaction unalloyed by any emotions of envy. He afterwards married a lady of ſome fortune at Geneva, and reſigning his com⯑miſſion in the French ſervice, ſettled on the borders of the lake, and increaſed the ſoci⯑al delights of Theodore and Adeline.

Their formal lives afforded an example of trials well endured—and their preſent, of virtues greatly rewarded; and this reward they continued to deſerve—for not to them⯑ſelves was their happineſs contracted, but diffuſed to all who came within the ſphere of their influence. The indigent and unhappy rejoiced in their benevolence, the virtuous and enlightened in their friendſhip, and their children in parents whoſe example im⯑preſſed upon their hearts the precepts offered to their underſtandings.