D’Alonville readily undertook this humane commission, and going immediately down stairs, enquired of the landlord where he could speak to the French gentleman — the man bade one of the waiters see if he was in his room, who returning in a moment, said, rudely, “he ben’t there — I reckon he’s out upon one of his rambles.”— “and where,” said D’Alonville, “is he usually to be found when he is out on these rambles,”— “Ah!” replied the man, “sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another, but chiefest, I think, by the river side about a mile off — as he’ve been taken for a spy there two or three times.” — D’Alonville procured a direction, and set out to see if he could discover the unhappy man, who, probably from derangement of his intellects in consequence of misfortune, was become the subject of illiberal suspicion, and vulgar curiosity.
It was a sullen gloomy autumnal evening; and as D’Alonville walked the way he had been directed, he took out his pocket-book, and saw from the memorandums he had made in it, that it was the anniversary of that evening, on which he had been compelled, with his expiring father, to take shelter in the then hospitable castle of Rosenheim. The cruel remembrance of that scene returned once more to his mind, and he sighed deeply— “perhaps,” said he, “ the poor wanderer whom I now seek, may be as desolate and wretched as I was then.” — His mind thus recalled to the object of his search; he looked round, but saw nobody. — Close to the river a row of pollard willows crowded along the shelving bank, which formed a causeway; on the other side of which was an osier ground — its marshy surface concealed by withered flags, with here and there an old above it; the evening wind sighed round their almost leafless branches, and the small remains of their grey and faded foliage, fell before slowly in the breeze; the surface of the water was black and troubled; and D’Alonville, as he surveyed the dreary scene, thought it but too fit a place for a miserable being, such as his countryman had been described, to indulge the darkest despair — perhaps even projects of suicide, to which too many of the victims of the revolution had been already driven. This idea urged him to continue his search, though he began to fear it might be fruitless; — he advanced slowly, and at length, a few paces before him, thought he saw a man stretched on the ground, under a pollard-tree, which served as a support to him. D’Alonville approached him — and gazed upon him a moment in silence; — he was convinced by the great-coat in which he was wrapped, that this was the person he sought, but he could not distinguish his face, which was concealed by his hat and his arm. D’Alonville going close up to him, spoke to him in French, “Sir,” said he, “I fear you are not well by your being here at such a time — can I assist you to your lodgings? or can I be otherwise of use to you?”
The stranger raised himself upon his elbow, and fixed his eyes sternly on D’Alonville, who instantly uttered an exclamation of surprise and satisfaction. “It is De Touranges!” cried he, eagerly— “my dear friend, how fortunate is this meeting!”
De Touranges still gazed on him, as if he did not perfectly recollect him; after a moment however, he held out his hand, and said, slowly and languidly— “The Chevalier D’Alonville, is it not?”
“Have you any doubts, De Touranges, of my identity?” cried D’Alonville,— “and how does D’Alonville deserve to be received thus coldly by his friend, of whom he has been so long in search?”
De Touranges had now risen from the ground, and leant against the tree, still looking on D’Alonville with an air of incredulity. — To D’Alonville’s last question however, he replied in a slow and solemn tone, “I do not receive you coldly, my friend — but in very truth it is so long since I have seen any being I wished to see; it is so long since I have beheld the face of a friend, that I questioned the information of my senses, when they told me it was you.” He paused a moment and then leaning on D’Alonville’s arm, the memory of all he had suffered, and all he had feared, rushed upon his mind at once, and seemed again to overwhelm him — deep groans burst from his heart. “Oh! my friend,” said he, “to what a condition are we reduced : in what a state of wretchedness, of hopeless disgrace is France, our ruined country, — this last infamous murder! — my brain burns when I think of it: I curse the hour of my birth — I call upon the powers of vengeance, to sweep the nation guilty of such an atrocity from the earth.” There was so much wildness in the manner of saying all this, and still more in the look and gesture with which it was accompanied; that it but too well justified the opinion that had been formed of his state of mind.
D’Alonville thought it better to let this agonizing burst of passion pass off, before he attempted to soothe or to console him; — he supposed that De Touranges knew not that his wife, his mother, and his child were in safety in England, and that individual misery added redoubled poignancy to his keen sense of natural calamity. He led him slowly back the way he had passed, — considering how he might the most safely disclose what he knew of Madame de Touranges.
“Where is the Abbé St. Remi?” enquired D’Alonville,— “he has not, I am sure, left you?”
“No,” answered De Touranges, he is gone to London, and gone on my account; but on a research how hopeless! A vague notion that we gathered in Brittany, that my wife and mother had taken shelter in England, induced me, as a last effort of despair, to yield to St. Remi’s entreaties, and to come to this country in search of them, — but no! they are not here — they are lost for ever; — the delicate frame of my poor Gabrielle has sunk under trials so severe — she and my infant perished together, and my mother — my dear, my tender mother! she perhaps lives, but in some situation, that to a woman of her high spirit, must be worse than a thousand deaths.”
D’Alonville, who thought this a favourable opportunity to begin revealing some of the intelligence, which would be so welcome to the wounded mind of De Touranges, yet was not to be abruptly told, now said, “but you are too hasty in concluding that all this evil has befallen you — perhaps, the good Abbé may bring you more satisfactory intelligence. Perhaps.” —
“Tell me not of perhaps, and perhaps,” cried the Marquis, impatiently; “you know that it is but trifling with my miseries. No, no! all is lost for me! — my wife, my child, my mother, my friends, my country, my fortune! I am a desolate and wretched being — my existence is painful to myself, and burthensome to others — I have nothing left to do, but to die — and I feel it to be meanness and cowardice that I have lived so long.”
“But what,” said D’Alonville, “if these connexions so deservedly dear to you still exist? — It would be surely throwing away the blessings you may still enjoy, and which I am persuaded are still reserved for you, were you to yield to this wild and desperate impulse of impatient passion.”
He was going on, when De Touranges stopped him; and holding his arm, looked steadily in his face, repeating in a hollow tone— “these connections may still exist; these blessings you may still enjoy, and which I am persuaded are reserved for you! Hah! D’Alonville, did you not say all this? — but have a care, my friend — do not, by way of healing the wounds of my heart, cause them to mortify — I am sensible,” continued he, putting his hand to his forehead, “that my reason has often been on the point of leaving me! what do you mean by holding out to me these hopes? never speak, I beseech you, in this way — it kills me.”
“But if I know any thing favourable,” said D’Alonville, “would you have me conceal it from you? or am I to suppose my friend so weakened by suffering, that he can neither bear evil nor good? — hear with calmness, what I believe; that your Gabrielle, with her infant, a lovely and promising boy, are both safe in the neighbourhood of London, under the protection of your mother; and, though it be true, that in common with every emigrant from France they have suffered some inconveniences, yet, that their greatest affliction has been in not knowing what was your fate.”
As during this discourse they had entered the town, and were now at the door of the inn, De Touranges suffered his friend to lead him into a room, where he sat down unable to speak; in a few
moments, however, he was so far recovered, as to listen, with some degree of composure, to the abridged narrative D’Alonville gave him of all that had befallen himself since they parted; and then, seeing De Touranges tolerably tranquil, though he could not yet converse, D’Alonville left him to inform Ellesmere, that in the person of the unhappy stranger for whom his humanity had been awakened, they had discovered, and probably rescued from the fatal effects of his despair, their old acquaintance De Touranges. — Ellesmere expressed the sincerest pleasure at this account. He would not, however, see De Touranges that night, but commissioned D’Alonville to settle with him that they should all proceed towards London together the next morning. to this De Touranges most readily assented. The gloom that had darkened his mind now gave place to vehement impatience. — He asked a thousand questions of D’Alonville, and made him again and again, relate the minutest circumstance relative to his wife, his child, and his mother; now besought him to say if he was sure they were still at the same place as when Mrs. Denzil mentioned them; and now calculated how many hours it would be before it was probable he should see them. D’Alonville, besides his own solicitude to see Angelina, was uneasy lest the impatience of De Touranges should still occasion some painful scenes; he wished to have St. Remi with them before this interview took place; but De Touranges would not listen to any idea of delay even on account of his excellent friend, by observed, when D’Alonville said that it was possible they might miss him, that they should certainly meet him on the road; or if not, that he could not fail finding him at a coffee-house in London, where he lodged. — Thither, therefore, D’Alonville proposed that they should go immediately on their arrival in London; for which place the whole party set out before noon the next day; Ellesmere in better health and spirits than he had known since he received his would; he was sure of meeting in London, the woman who was most dear to him, and though he proposed paying his duty to his father at Eddisbury, as soon as he was able to bear the fatigue of another journey, he had no fears of losing sight of the object of his passion, while De Touranges was tormented with a thousand fearful apprehensions of disappointment, and D’Alonville, far from being able to appease them, could not quiet those fears with which he was himself agitated, lest, in the long interval since Ellesmere had heard of the Denzil family, something should have happened fatal to his hopes.
CHAPTER XV.
Je sens, de mes jours, usés dans l’ameratume
Le flambeau p|[acirc ]|lissant s’éteint et se consume.
VOLTAIRE.
AS soon as the party reached London, Ellesmere went to lodgings that had been taken for him, where he had appointed to meet him, a man of great skill, under whose care Sir Maynard had insisted upon his putting himself, as soon as he arrived in England. — D’Alonville leaving De Touranges at the Coffee-house, (where they were fortunate enough to meet the Abbé de St. Remi,) accompanied Ellesmere to these lodgings, where, to the surprize rather than the satisfaction of the wounded soldier, he found his father. The recollection of the son he had lost, and the sight of Ellesmere, pale and emaciated, perhaps too, some unwelcome reproaches from his own heart, for the little affection he had formerly shewn him, combined to affect the spirits of Sir Maynard, who appeared to D’Alonville to be in a very bad state of health; as the latter knew he could be of no farther use to his friend, and suspected that he was not very welcome to Sir Maynard, he withdrew as soon as Ellesmere would permit him to take his leave, and returned to the place where he had left De Touranges and St. Remi, taking with him the direction contained in Mrs. Denzil’s last letters, to the village where she and her family lodged, and near them the ladies De Touranges; information that he had before absolutely refused to give to the Marquis, whose impatience was so great, that D’Alonville doubted how far he could depend on his not breaking his word and going alone to their lodgings, had he known where they were.
While D’Alonville had been absent, the arguments of St. Remi, and the conviction of his perfect attachment, had in some measure subdued the frantic impatience of De Touranges, who still with great difficulty was induced to agree to D’Alonville’s going first to Wandsworth, the village where his family and that of Mrs. Denzil were to be found, in order to apprize them of his being so near; his mother, and his wife, who, especially the latter, had given up their long cherished hopes of ever seeing him again; but as De Touranges could not be prevailed upon to stay till D’Alonville returned from a place so distant from London, it was settled that he and the Abbé should wait in a hackney coach some distance, while D’Alonville went to Mrs. Denzil’s, and concerted with her the management of an interview, which, if it happened too suddenly, might have, on spirits so tender as those of Gabrielle, the most fatal consequences.
It was late in the afternoon before they sat out; and the man who drove them observing them to be foreigners, did not hurry the wretched pair of horses that drew them. — D’Alonville directed the coach to stop at an house of public entertainment, where he entreated his two friends to await his return, and then, with a palpitating heart, sought the row of houses which Mrs. Denzil had described; he found it without much difficulty and when he rang the bell of the gate marked number 3, his agitation was so great, that he could hardly breathe — nobody seemed to hear — he rang a second time, and a maid servant appeared.
D’Alonville enquired for Mrs. Denzil, and was answered that she lodged there. “Is she at home?” asked he; the woman hesitated; she did not know — she believed not. “Will you be so good as to ask?” said D’Alonville; “I - I don’t know, Sir,” answered the woman— “Mrs. Denzil, if she is at home, is ill, I am sure she cannot see you;” “I am persuaded she would ,” replied he, “if she knew who it was. — Are none of the young ladies at home? Could not I be favoured with speaking to them?”
“To tell you the truth, then,” said the maid, “I don’t believe they can be seen; there’s only one of the eldest Misses, and a little one, here, and all the family be in great trouble.” “Oh! my God!” exclaimed D’Alonville, “they are in trouble! — tell me, pray tell me what is the matter?” “As to that,” said the woman, sneeringly, “ the matter is common enough; but howsoever, as you say you are a friend, and perhaps you may, as I see French folks about them forever, you may send in your name; or if you’ll come into Mistress’s parlour, for she’s gone out, I’ll just step and tell some on um that you wants to speak to um.” D’Alonville now comprehending that this woman was not Mrs. Denzil’s servant, but belonged to the people of the house, he followed her through a long slip of a court into a parlour, where she left him, first carefully looking round that there was nothing he could take, and he remained in a state of miserable suspense, listening to the noises in the house; people seemed to go up and down stairs — then all was silent; and he thought he heard some person come into the next room, who wept violently. The parlour where he sat was nearly dark; there was a light in the next, and he observed that the door was not shut close; the sobs and sighs of the distressed woman who was in it redoubled, though she seemed endeavouring to stifle them; the compassion, as well as the anxiety of D’Alonville, was excited; perhaps it might be one of that family to which he was so tenderly attached; it might be even Angelina herself — he pushed the door gently open — the mourner rested her head on her hands on a little work table, and was so absorbed in grief, that she did not hear D’Alonville as he approached her; but the door in falling back made a slight noise, and lifting up her eyes to a glass that was between the windows, she saw the figure of a man behind her, and uttering a faint shriek, she started up and was flying out of the room, when D’Alonville took her hands, and trembling as much as she did, implored her not to be frightened.— “Have you, indeed, forgotten me, then, my adorable Angelina? Has D’Alonville no longer the happiness of being reckoned among your friends?” Angelina sat down; she could neither speak nor shed a tear, but seemed in such a state of surprize and joy, as, added to her former distress, deprived her for a moment of reason and recollection. — Te
rrified to death, D’Alonville now implored her to speak to him; now ran to the door for assistance, but then attempted to ring the bell; but while he was thus frantically trying to relieve her, she laid her head again on her arm, and fetching a deep sigh, burst into tears; they seemed to have saved her heart from breaking. — She held out her hand, and, as he wildly threw himself on his knees, kissing and pressing it to his bosom, she faintly said, “Is it you, D’Alonville? — ah! my dear friend, I never thought to have seen you again.” “For God’s sake,” said he, “tell me what has happened in your family, and why I see you in this distress?” “Oh, D’Alonville! my mother! my dear mother, who loves you so tenderly!”— “What of her?” cried D’Alonville, “cette tendre maman!” “She is dreadfully ill, my friend,” answered Angelina, “so ill, that I believe we shall soon lose her.” “God forbid, my Angelina,” said he, “your fears, your anxious affections carry your imagination too far — what is her illness? For Heaven’s sake what advice has she had?” “her illness,” interrupted Angelina, in a mournful voice, “Her illness is, I greatly fear, incurable, for it is a broken heart; and for advice,” continued she, her words uttered tremulously as she drew a deep sigh, “for advice — do you not know our circumstances? Ah! my poor mamma! she has concealed the disorder that preyed upon her, because she would not, in paying a physician, take from her children any part of what her writing has, from time to time, procured us; at length it became too powerful for her to resist it longer. She was indebted to her bookseller, who, as she was rendered unable to fulfill what she had undertaken, would supply her with money no longer; I entreated of her to let me go to a medical man, who I knew she had an high opinion of, and with whom our family had formerly lived in great intimacy; he, I thought, would give her his advice as a friend, but she would not hear of it;” “No, my Angelina, said she, “I do not love obligations, and besides, my love, I believe that in the present instance no medical assistance can do me any good. — If I grow better, I will go farther into the country; the change of air I know will be of service to me; but I fear this cannot be done yet; for if your resources fail, where shall I find money to pay our lodgings, or to remove us? I must endeavour to apply to my work again. — Let me see you easy, my Angelina; perhaps I may be better in a day or two, and sit down to my desk; in the mean time, do not let me find you depressed, my love.” She forced a melancholy smile, and added, “perhaps I shall think of some expedient to night, to fence a little longer against the spectre Poverty, which has now so long menaced us, that I begin to be familiar with her, so that her frightful figure does not deprive me of my presence of mind.” “My mother,” continued Angelina, “grew worse, and the apothecary who attended her, repeated what he had before told me, that unless her mind could be made easy, she would not live two months; for, that although she was yet but in middle age, her constitution, naturally very good, was quite broken down with fatigue of mind, by leading so sedentary a life as she had lately done to write for our subsistence, and by the constant anxiety she had so long undergone. Notwithstanding all this, (of which she was perfectly sensible herself; my mother, seing seeing no other resource for us than what she was able to find in constant application, continued to exert herself with more than usual fortitude and perseverance, and would have finished within a few days of the time she had engaged to deliver it, the book she was about: while she endeavoured, amidst her bodily sufferings and unceasing fatigue of mind, to appear chearful, and to conceal from us the real situation of her health as well as her circumstances, because she could not bear to see us distressed at time of life when we ought to be gay and happy; she made, too, every effort to hide the truth from Madame de Touranges, and Gabrielle, lest they should refuse to share our dinner as they now frequently did.
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