"No (replied the Countess); two nights of dissipation would be more than I could bear."
The sparkling eyes of Madeline, which had been turned towards her, were instantly bent to the ground; and the gloom of disappointment overspread her countenance.
"Suppose then, my good friend (said Madame Chatteneuf, who saw, by the looks of Madeline, the wishes of her heart, and knew her daughter would be mortified at losing her company), that you and I enjoy a tête-a-tête this evening, and entrust our girls to the care of some matron less soberly inclined than ourselves."
"I thank you for your obliging offer (replied the Countess); but I can neither let you relinquish an amusement you have sufficient health and spirits to enjoy, nor give up my determination of returning to the chateau this day: and I am too well convinced of Madeline's regard, to think she will feel any other regret in accompanying me, than that which proceeds from quitting you."
"Certainly, madam (said Madeline, recollecting herself at these words, and endeavouring to dissipate all appearance of chagrin), I should be ungrateful if I did."
"Do not suppose, my love (cried the Countess), from bringing you home to-day, that it is my intention to make you refuse every invitation which I do not choose to accept myself; no, such conduct would be unreasonable in the highest degree; on the contrary, I shall be happy sometimes to let you mix in the diversions of this town, with your amiable friends here, who have already requested to let you now and then pass a few days with them for that purpose."
Madeline bowed, and thanked her friends for their obliging wishes to promote her happiness.
It was now settled, that in three days Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter should call for Madeline. They had just arranged this matter, when a footman entered with a letter, which he presented to Madeline; saying, "Mam'selle, the Chevalier de Sevignie's servant waits for an answer."
Madeline started up in universal trepidation: she forgot, in the agitation of the moment, the inference that might be drawn from her manner: she forgot, in short, that there was any being to observe her. She believed that she held a letter containing a full explanation of de Sevignie's sentiments; and that belief drove every idea not connected with it from her mind. She turned to a window, and, eagerly breaking the seal, read as follows:—
"M. de Sevignie presents his most respectful compliments to Mademoiselle Clermont; he is extremely concerned he cannot have the honour of waiting on her this morning: but though prevented by very particular business from making personal enquiries after her health, he still flatters himself he shall hear that she is well, and perfectly recovered from any fatigue that might have attended the amusements of last night."
Such a letter from de Sevignie, so cold, so formal, instead of the one she expected to receive from him, gave a shock to Madeline that almost annihilated every pleasing hope, every pleasing expectation. She sighed,—she leaned pensively against the window;—"I was mistaken then (said she to herself), in imagining de Sevignie had any thing important to say to me when he requested an interview; he only meant to have paid me what it seems is a customary compliment."
"The servant waits, my dear," said the Countess at length, rousing her from her reverie.
Madeline started, and felt ready to sink with confusion, as she thought, for the first time, of the remarks she had probably excited.
"If that letter requires an answer (cried the Countess), you had better give one directly."
Madeline again glanced at it; she thought, or rather wished to think, that the last lines expressed something like anxiety about her; and, judging of de Sevignie by herself, supposing, like her, he would be delighted to receive even a line from a beloved hand, she determined to answer the letter, and went to a table, on which was an open writing desk, for that purpose.
"What are you going to do, Madeline?" asked the Countess.
"I am going to write, madam," answered Madeline.
"Does your letter require a written answer? (again asked the Countess, in an accent of surprise) young ladies should be very careful how they write to gentlemen."
Madeline dropped the pen she had taken up. She began to think that to write to de Sevignie, without consulting the Countess, or showing her his letter, was not only a breach of respect to her, but of duty to her father, who had put her under the care of his friend, with a firm conviction, that she would never follow her own judgment without having it first sanctioned by hers. She took up the letter, and, going to the Countess, put it into her hand. "Will you have the goodness, Madame (said she) to tell me what answer I shall send?"
"It does not require a moment's consideration to determine that (cried the Countess); bless me, child, could you ever imagine this letter required more than a verbal answer? tell Monsieur de Sevignie's man (continued she turning to the servant), that Mam'selle Clermont is well, and thanks his master for his polite enquiries after her health."
Madeline sat down in a state of the most painful confusion, from which she was soon, in some degree, relieved by the entrance of the officers: they were immediately introduced to her and the Countess; and then requested the honour of their company for the evening. The Countess politely thanked them for their attention, but declined their invitation; and their mortification at her doing so, was evident. The conversation, however, soon grew lively, and was supported by all but Madeline with the utmost spirit.
"Pray (asked Mademoiselle Chatteneuf, during the pause of a minute, addressing one of the officers), what is become of de Sevignie to-day? I think he is generally your companion in your morning visits and rambles."
"I met him (replied the officer), not many minutes ago, and told him where I was coming; but I could not prevail on him to give up a solitary walk he was going to take to the mountains."
"Oh, shocking! (cried Olivia) to prefer solitude to our society; I really shall not readily forgive his want of gallantry."
A pang of wounded pride and mortified tenderness now touched the heart of Madeline. She felt equally surprised and hurt to hear, that he had in reality no business to prevent his coming to see her; and that he had even refused an invitation to do so.—How ill did such conduct agree with the delight he had evinced the preceding evening at their unexpected meeting, with the anxiety he had expressed to see her again. The hopes, the expectations which that delight, that anxiety, had given rise to, and which his letter had damped, not suppressed, now entirely vanished like the fleeting pleasures of a dream; and she began to fear he had either feigned or forgotten the sentiments he expressed for her.
She saw she was observed by the Countess and Olivia with an earnestness that seemed to say they wished to develop her feelings; and she immediately forced herself into conversation; but never before was one so painful to her; her thoughts were perpetually wandering from the subject; and she rejoiced when the officers rose to depart.
The Countess then ordered her coach; and she and Madeline were just going to it, when M. Chalons (the gentleman who had wished to dance with Madeline the preceding evening) appeared: finding the ladies on the point of departing, he regretted the lateness of his visit, and paid his compliments in a manner so pleasing to the Countess, that she invited him to accompany her friends whenever they paid their promised visit at the chateau; an invitation which he accepted with rapture, and a glance to Madeline, as if he wished her to think the exquisite pleasure he derived from it, was owing to the idea of seeing her again.
His glance, however, was lost upon Madeline, so much was her mind engrossed by its own concerns; and the moment the carriage drove off, she forgot such a being existed.
The Countess's motives for hurrying Madeline back to the chateau, is perhaps already understood. She thought, indeed, she should ill fulfill the sacred trust reposed in her by Clermont, if she did not particularly enquire about the commencement, and try to discover the strength of the attachment it was so obvious his daughter entertained for de Sevignie, that she might be timely guarded against indulging it, till assured (if that was not already th
e case) that she never would have reason to repent it: and as she could not (at least without interruption) make those enquiries, or give those cautions she wished at Madame Chatteneuf's, she brought her away for the purpose of doing so.
"Well, Madeline (said the Countess, first breaking silence after they had proceeded a few yards), you were agreeably amused last night."
"Yes, madam," replied Madeline.
"And agreeably surprised," cried the Countess.
Madeline blushed, faltered, and at length answered in the affirmative.
"Will you oblige me (said the Countess), by giving me now a more particular account of your first acquaintance with Monsieur de Sevignie than you did this morning?"
Madeline wished to gratify her friend; and she thought she could do so without betraying the feelings of her heart; but this was a mistaken idea. As she described her first introduction to de Sevignie, and the scenes she had passed with him, she involuntarily revealed her sentiments: but while she discovered the tenderness of her heart, she so fully proved its simplicity and integrity, that she was rather raised than lessened in the esteem of the Countess.
When she had concluded,—"Your narrative, my dear (said her friend), convinces me more than ever of the innocence and sensibility of your disposition; and woe be to the man who should ever seek to beguile one, or pain the other!—That a being exists who could be capable of hurting either, perhaps you doubt; but, alas, I am sorry to say, too many are to be found who would little scruple doing so! 'Tis unpleasant to hold up objects of a disagreeable nature to the view of youth; yet 'tis necessary to do so, in order to instruct it whom to shun. They who have made a perilous voyage, would be inexcusable if they did not caution those they saw about undertaking the same, of the dangers which lay in their way, that, by being timely apprised, they might endeavour to shun or at least acquire skill to overcome them.
"I, my dear Madeline, have made this perilous voyage, and against its dangers I wish to warn you: to none is the young, the lovely, the inexperienced female so particularly exposed as to those which proceed from a sex, ordained by heaven for her protectors, but of whom too many seem to forget, or rather disregard their original destination. Yes, my love, there are beings who make it their study, sometimes their boast, to ensnare the unsuspicious, and entail shame and sorrow upon her who would never perhaps have known either, but for a too fatal confidence in their honour. Others there are of a nature scarcely less hateful to virtue or injurious to society, who from a mere impulse of vanity, seek to gain the affections, which are no sooner won than disregarded; while they triumph aloud over the credulity and weakness that afforded them such a conquest.
"That you have never met, never may meet, with such characters I believe and trust: but liable as we all are to be mistaken, too much caution cannot be observed in receiving attentions which have a chance of touching the heart. In short, my discourse has only been (as I make no doubt you already guess) to lead to the subject of the Chevalier de Sevignie; his eyes declare love and admiration, and his language I dare say accords with their glances: but oh, my dear Madeline, fortify yourself against such seductive eloquence, except convinced his intentions are serious; if they are, believe me they will be speedily divulged; if not, if his situation prevents their being so, he will quickly cease to be particular, except destitute of honour and sensibility; for the man who possesses these, though he may, from the impetuosity of passion, be unhappily led into expressions of admiration, will never persevere in a line of conduct that may inspire tenderness which cannot properly be returned."
"Your precepts, your advice, my dear madam (said Madeline), I will treasure up as I would the means of felicity: oh, how gratefully do I feel your kind solicitude about me."
By this time they had reached the chateau, and its gloom and stillness formed a melancholy contrast to the gaiety and splendour of the preceding evening, and increased the dejection of Madeline's spirits; a dejection partly owing to her conversation with the Countess. She was shocked to hear of the depravity of mankind; and shuddered least she should find de Sevignie one of the worthless characters the Countess had described to her. "Yet, no (she cried to herself, trying to dispel the horror such an idea gave rise to), 'tis impossible; vice could never lurk beneath an appearance of such integrity and candour."
She was unable to converse as usual with the Countess; and her friend was too delicate to notice her dejection, any otherwise than by an increased attention; an attention which at last had the desired effect. Madeline no sooner perceived the efforts made to amuse her, than she felt ashamed of the weakness which had rendered such efforts necessary, and rallied her spirits; she tried to cheer, to tranquillize them, by reflecting that, in a few days, in all probability she would again behold de Sevignie; and that, as she had been taught a criterion whereby to judge of him, her suspense relative to him must soon be terminated. So soothing was this idea, that almost as soon as conceived, it dissipated her melancholy; and she was again able to converse and enjoy the conversation of the Countess. She wrote to her father an account of her meeting with de Sevignie; but she could not bring herself to tell him the agitation that meeting occasioned. The Countess also informed him of it, and the observations she had made; but charged him not to give way to uneasy sensations in consequence of them; assuring him that she would watch over Madeline as she would have done over her own daughter if she had been in a similar situation: and also that, from Madeline's disposition, she was convinced she could easily be made to give up the object of her affections, if once assured by prudence and experience greater than her own (because more tried), that he was unworthy of them.
CHAPTER VIII
His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercast;
So fades the fresh rose in its prime
Before the northern blast.
-MALLET
At the appointed time, Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter came to the chateau; nor did M. Chalons forget his invitation; but he was a much more welcome visitant to the Countess than to Madeline, as his presence restrained her conversation with Olivia, from whom she imagined, if he was not by, she should hear something of de Sevignie. They walked about the lawn before dinner; and while he stopped to make some observations on a distant prospect of the Alps to the elder ladies, she and Olivia rambled on.
"Well, my dear (said the latter when they had got a sufficient distance not to be overheard), our ball the other evening was delightful; there was only one person that appeared dejected at it; and who that person was, and why dejected, I dare say you can guess."
"Impossible," (said Madeline, while a rosy blush at the same moment declared her consciousness of the object.)
"Poor de Sevignie (resumed Olivia), expected to have met you; and, in consequence of his disappointment, neither danced, talked, or did any thing like himself the whole evening."
It was this expectation then perhaps, thought Madeline, which prevented his coming the other morning. The idea was too pleasing to be rejected; and every shadow of uneasiness vanished from her mind. Dinner was served at an earlier hour than usual; and soon after they had taken coffee, the Countess bade them adieu, the road between the town and the chateau being extremely lonesome.
She tenderly embraced Madeline at parting; and said, as she gave up one of her highest sources of pleasure in resigning her company, she could not wonder if she soon recalled her.
"Remember (cried Madame Chatteneuf), whenever you desire her return, you must come for her yourself; for, of our own accord, we cannot relinquish her society."
Pleased with the idea of soon beholding de Sevignie, and still more pleased at being able to account in any kind of satisfactory manner for his conduct, Madeline was unusually animated, and chatted with almost as much vivacity as the little voluble Olivia, who, on reaching home, proposed a walk upon the ramparts of the town, the fashionable promenade of the place. Thither they all accordingly repaired, except Madame Chatteneuf, who felt somewhat fatigued. The s
un was already set, and all was soft, serene and lovely: beneath the ramparts lay a delicious plain, scattered over with clumps of thick and spreading trees, a few neat cottages, and groups of cattle now reposing in sweet tranquillity. The river, that flowed in beautiful meanders through the plain, had already assumed the sable hue of evening, and thus heightened the brilliancy of the stars it reflected. The majestic Alps bounded the prospect, their feet hid in gloomy shadows, and their summits just beginning to be touched by the beams of a rising moon, which, as it ascended higher in the horizon, partly dissipated those shadows, and revealed in some degree, the romantic recesses they had concealed.
The company were just beginning to leave the ramparts; but the fineness of the night prevented Olivia and her companions from following their example, and they were soon the only party on them. As they proceeded, admiring the sublime and beautiful prospect they beheld, which touched their hearts with a kind of pensive pleasure, they nearly overtook a gentleman who walked before them, with downcast looks and folded arms, as if in deep and melancholy meditation: his air, his figure, had a strong resemblance to de Sevignie's; and Madeline was almost convinced it was him; but she feared saying so, lest she should betray the agitation the idea had excited. Olivia, however, free from all such emotion, instantly declared it was him; and, quickening her pace, found she was not mistaken. He started at the sound of her voice, and betrayed the greatest confusion while attempting, vainly attempting, to return her raillery: he caught a glimpse of Madeline, who had hitherto stood rather behind her friend: again he started; and, leaving unfinished what he was saying to Olivia, he took the trembling hand of Madeline with one equally tremulous, exclaiming, "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure." The soft beam which stole from her eye at that moment, convinced M. Chalons, who watched her with the most critical attention, that the fate of her heart was already decided; and he rejoiced at having made the discovery ere his own affections were more entangled, resolving from that period to pay her no other attentions than what common politeness demanded, that the world might have no reason to rank him in the list of unfortunate lovers.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 286
