"The confusion of the family, the grief of his daughter, who would only listen to consolation from me, and my own affliction then deadened my curiosity, and his interment had taken place ere I thought of visiting the cabinet; nor perhaps should I have done so as soon as I did, had I not found myself, the very evening after his funeral, seated with Elvira in the room where it stood. We were alone; for her guardian, who lived in a remote part of the kingdom, was not yet arrived. The moment I beheld the cabinet my curiosity was revived, and I eagerly wished to take from it the important papers; the eyes of Elvira followed mine, and the words of her father instantly recurred to her recollection.
"'My dear Lausane, (said she) I am confident you must have suffered much from the suspension of your curiosity; delay no longer to gratify it—it may be requisite for you to be immediately acquainted with the secret my father spoke of; I will retire to give you a proper opportunity of perusing the packet.'
"'No, Elvira, (I replied, taking her hand as she rose to withdraw), you have hitherto honored me with the appellation of brother, and heaven can witness for me I bear you the affection of one; a brother should have no secrets from an affectionate sister; since you therefore permit me to consider you as one, condescend to hear the mysterious words of your father explained; they have prepared me for a tale of distress, and if any thing can alleviate the sorrow it may perhaps excite, it can only be the gentle sympathy of such a friend as you are.'
"She re-seated herself, and tremblingly I approached and unlocked the cabinet: the first thing I beheld within it was the India box. I took it out, I drew back the lid, and beheld a large sealed packet, directed in the hand-writing of the Count to me. I felt my whole frame agitated, and could scarcely reach the sofa on which Elvira sat.
"Many minutes elapsed ere I could summon sufficient resolution to break the seal. I felt as if about to raise a veil which had hitherto concealed terrific images from my view, and shuddered at the idea of the horrors they might excite; at length I ventured to do so, and found several sheets of small paper within the envelope, all closely written, and in a hand entirely new to me. Elvira leaned over my shoulder, and together we began to peruse the following story."
Here Clermont paused; and, taking a manuscript from his pocket, he put it into the hand of his daughter, and desired her to read it to herself,
"When you have finished it, (said he) I will go on with my narrative."
Madeline bowed, and read as follows:
"Ere those pages meet your eye, the hand that wrote them will be crumbled into dust. Oh! my son, offspring of an unhappy and ill-requited love, long before you peruse them, every trace, every memorial of your unfortunate mother will be obliterated from your mind, nor will all your efforts be able to recall to recollection the period in which her bitter tears bedewed your innocent cheek, in which with happy playfulness you hid your head in her distracted bosom:—but I run into complaints ere I assign the sad occasion of them—I will, if possible, be brief.
"Ere I was born, love, unhappy love, I may say, laid in some degree the foundation of my misery. My mother, the daughter of Count St. Paul, whose family is well known for its antiquity and pride in the Province of Normandy; untinctured either by the ambition or avarice of her parents, selected for herself at an early age a partner whose only portion was merit, and thus disappointed the expectations which her birth, beauty, and accomplishments had raised in her family; in consequence of doing so she was utterly discarded by every member of it, her youngest brother excepted, who had then however nothing to bestow but—assurances of friendship.
"St. Foix, the descendant of a noble but reduced family, to whom she had united herself, was in the army, and with him she launched into the world, whose storms and distresses she had hitherto known only by report; too soon, alas! she had a sad experience of them.
"But with a noble fortitude she sustained them, not only from tenderness to her husband, but from a consciousness of having drawn them upon herself. St. Foix, however, the delirium of passion over, and the pressure of distress experienced, bitterly regretted having yielded to an affection which heightened his cares, by involving the woman he adored in sorrow, and in little more than two years after his marriage, and a few months after my birth, he fell a victim to his feelings. The grief of my mother may be imagined, but cannot be described, and in all probability she would soon have sunk beneath it, had not her brother flown to her relief: an union just then completed with an heiress of considerable fortune, gave him the power of serving her as he wished, and he endeavoured to calm her sorrows by assurances of being a never-failing friend to her, and of supplying to me, to the utmost of his power, the place of the parent I was so early deprived of. He immediately took a small cottage, in a sequestered and romantic part of Dauphine, for her, and settled upon her a yearly stipend, amply sufficient to procure her all that she could want or desire in retirement.
"Time and religion softened her anguish, and as I grew up, her heart again began to be sensible of pleasure; a pleasure, however, frequently embittered by a conviction of the unhappiness her brother experienced in consequence of serving her; for his wife, selfish and illiberal in her disposition, could not with any degree of patience bear the idea of his regarding any one out of his own immediate family, or of his expending on them any part of that fortune she so frequently boasted of having given to him.
"Long he withstood her solicitations to withdraw his bounty, long opposed her inclination; but at length, tired of domestic strife, of continual upbraidings for the intention he avowed of providing for his niece in a manner suitable to her birth, he hinted a wish to my mother for my retiring into a convent.
"This was an unexpected blow, and one which overwhelmed my mother, by destroying those hopes that, with the natural vanity and partiality of a parent, almost from my birth she had indulged, of seeing me at some period or other happily settled, and of enjoying beneath my roof that tranquillity which sorrow and dependence had hitherto prevented her from experiencing.
"With tears, with agonies which shook her frame, she conjured him not to deprive her of her only earthly comfort, not to entomb her child alive, or in one short minute undo all he had hitherto done.
"Ah! my mother, well had it been for your Madeline, if your lips had never uttered such a supplication; well had it been for her, if in the first bloom of life, ere her heart was sufficiently expanded to feel that tenderness which constitutes our greatest happiness or misery, the walls of a convent had immured her from a world, where her peace, her fame, were destined to be wrecked.
"My uncle was too generous to repeat a wish which gave such pain; he regretted ever having mentioned it, and strove to make amends for having done so, by reiterating the most solemn assurances of fulfilling the intentions he had before avowed towards me.
"Thus was the storm which threatened the peace of my mother, overblown; but, alas! the calm that succeeded it was to me of short duration. I had scarcely attained my sixteenth year when I was deprived of this inestimable parent. In the language of despair I wrote to my uncle, then at Paris, to inform him of this event; and at the same time enclosed a letter, written by my mother in her last hours, and, which I afterwards found contained a supplication not to permit me to enter a convent without I wished myself to do so, and an entreaty for his protection to be continued to me.
"He directly hastened to me, and used every method in his power to sooth my sorrows; he repeated his assurances of continued kindness, and declared from that period I should reside with him till I had a proper habitation of my own to go to.
"I accordingly accompanied him to Paris; and here, in all probability, the sadness of my heart might soon have been diverted by the novelty of every thing I saw, had I met with any of that tenderness I had always been accustomed to; but the most chilling coldness, or else the most contemptuous disdain, was the treatment I received from my aunt and her family. My uncle, in order to try and prevent my mind from dwelling on it, insisted on my being taken to all the p
laces they frequented; but this, instead of alleviating, rather aggravated my misery, for my aunt soon took it into her head that I was a rival to her daughters. A year I dragged on in a state of wretchedness, which no language could justly express: at the expiration of that period, worn out with ill treatment, and agonized by beholding my benevolent protector in continual disquietude on my account, I determined, with a kind of desperate resolution, to terminate that disquietude and my indignities, by retiring to a cloister: but how impossible is it to express the pangs with which I formed and announced this resolution: yet what, you will say, could have occasioned those pangs? surely not the idea of renouncing a world which contained no tender friend to supply the place of the one I had lost?—
"Alas! it then contained a being dearer to me than life itself:—St. Julian, the Marquis of Montmorenci's son, visited at my uncle's, and had not long been known ere he was beloved! Those who knew him could not have wondered at my sudden attachment; every virtue, every grace which ennobles and adorns humanity he appeared to possess. Oh! St. Julian, Heaven surely endowed you with every virtue; for candour and benevolence sat upon your countenance, and it was only an improper education, or pernicious company that rendered you deceitful, and led you to betray the unsuspicious heart, which reposed upon you for happiness.
"Secretly I indulged my passion, yet without the smallest hope of having it returned; for though a soft beam from the eye of St. Julian sometimes tempted me to think I was not utterly indifferent to him, I never had reason to imagine he thought seriously about me; but, notwithstanding my hopelessness respecting him, so great, so exquisite was the pleasure I derived from seeing, from listening to him, that the idea of foregoing it was infinitely more painful to me than that of death.
"My uncle heard my determination of retiring to a cloister with a satisfaction which he could not disguise, though he attempted it; and my aunt and her children with evident delight: generous to the last, my uncle left me free to choose a convent—I accordingly fixed on one, with which I was well acquainted, near the habitation where alone I had been happy.
"Immediate preparations were made for my removal, and in a few days after I had avowed my intention of quitting it, I was hurried from my uncle's house.
"Accompanied by an old female domestic, I commenced my journey; what I suffered on doing so I shall not attempt to describe. I felt like a wretch going into a gloomy exile, where the features, the voice he loved, would never more charm his eye, or sooth his ear.
"At a late hour we stopped for the night. As soon as my companion had retired to her chamber, I locked myself up in mine, and gave way to the agonies of my soul. In the midst of my lamentations I was startled by a tap at the chamber-door; I listened attentively, and heard it repeated, and at the same time my name pronounced in a low voice. Still more surprised, I hastily unlocked the door, and beheld—ah! gracious Heaven! what were the feelings of that moment, St. Julian!—I involuntarily receded, and sunk half fainting upon a chair. The words, the tenderness of St. Julian soon revived me, and brought me to a perfect sense of my happiness; he implored my pardon for the agitation he had caused me.
"He had loved me, he declared, almost from the first moment he beheld me, and would at once have divulged his passion, had he not feared its being then discovered to my aunt, whose malice he knew would betray him to his father; he had therefore determined, if he beheld no chance of losing me, to conceal it till the expectations he entertained of a splendid independence at the death of a very old relative were realized, and he consequently secured from suffering any pecuniary distress through the displeasure of his father, which he could not deny his thinking would follow the disclosure of our union.
"My sudden resolution, (he proceeded to say) had been concealed from him till I had quitted my uncle's; with difficulty on hearing it he could hide his emotions, and almost instantly pursued me, trembling lest I should be lost to him for ever.
"He now implored me to consent to a private union, and put myself immediately under his protection, solemnly assuring me, that the moment he could acknowledge me as his wife, without involving me in distress, with equal pride and pleasure he would do so.
"You may well believe I did not, could not resist his supplications:—a carriage and confidential servants were in waiting, and we directly set out for Paris, which we reached at the dawn of the day, and, stopping at the first church we came to, were united.
"St. Julian then took lodgings for me in a retired part of the town, under a feigned name, passing himself for a secretary to a man of consequence, and unable, from his situation, to be always with me.
"I had now no drawback on my felicity but that which proceeded from sorrow at my mother's not being alive to witness it, and uneasiness at the disquiet, which I learned from St. Julian, who still continued to visit at his house, my uncle felt on my account, not being able to form the slightest conjecture of what had become of me: Perfect happiness, however, I knew was unattainable in this world, and as the best proof of my gratitude to Heaven for that portion which I enjoyed, I sedulously endeavoured to repel the sigh of regret that sometimes involuntarily heaved my bosom.
"Before the expiration of a year you were born. Oh! with what rapture did I receive you to my arms! with what delight did I present you to your father! and, with mingled emotions of tenderness and pleasure, beheld the tear which stole down his cheek, as I endeavoured in your infant features to discover a resemblance to his. "I had now attained my summit of felicity; and my sun was soon to set in misery and despair.
"Soon after your birth, the visits of your father became less frequent; he did not assign any reason for their being so, nor did I inquire; for suspicion was a stranger to my breast; my faith was unbounded, great, and firm as my love; and while I wept his absence, I ever hailed his presence with a smile.
"At length a long space ensued in which I did not behold him; my spirits involuntarily drooped, and with them my health declined; yet, notwithstanding my sufferings, the moment I again saw him, I thought myself amply rewarded for them.
"The pleasure, however, which filled my heart on his entering my chamber, was quickly damped by the coldness of his manner: he scarcely returned my caresses, or noticed you.
"'Well, Madeline, (said he, seating himself at a distance from me), I trust you have been well and happy since I last saw you.'
"'As well and happy (I replied, looking at him with that tenderness which my heart experienced) as I could be without the society which constitutes my chief felicity."
"'Ah! Madeline, (cried he) I trust when you mix more in the world, you will be able to enjoy felicity without that society.'
"'Could the world (said I) produce any change in my present sentiments, I should wish for ever to be secluded from it.'
"He arose and approached me.
"'I came, Madeline, (said he) with a hope of receiving proofs of your good sense instead of your tenderness; do not interrupt me, (continued he, seeing me about to speak) listen attentively to what I am about saying:
"'All hopes of an independence are terminated by my uncle, who died some days ago, bequeathing the whole of his property to a religious house; I am therefore entirely at the mercy of my father; consequently to disclose our marriage would be to involve me in certain ruin, as I am convinced no supplications, no entreaties would ever prevail upon him to pardon so imprudent a step; 'tis absolutely necessary therefore that we should conceal it for ever.'
"'For ever! (repeated I) gracious Heaven! would it not be better to avow it, than to be teased with continual importunities (which must be the case) to form another connexion.'
"'I will not deny, Madeline, (said he) that it is not my intention to be deaf to such importunities: as our marriage is a profound secret, I mean it never shall be known; that from henceforth we shall be strangers to each other, and each again enter the world free to make another choice.'
"Good heavens! what words were those for a wife, for a mother to hear!—The blood run cold through my veins
, and for some time the faculties of speech were suspended.
"Have I lived, (I at length exclaimed) have I lived to hear the husband I adore declare his intention of disowning me? Have I lived to hear St. Julian avow his design of branding his child with infamy?"
"'Do not, Madeline, (said he) with the weakness peculiar to your sex, run into complaints at once unjust and unavailing; when you mix more in the world, and have opportunities of comparing my conduct with that of others, you will then be convinced that it is not quite so base or cruel as you now imagine; you will then see numbers of your sex, perhaps as amiable as yourself, cruelly forsaken after the first ardour of passion is extinguished, instead of which you will find yourself, if your obstinacy does not counteract my intentions, in possession of an ample provision, with which you can retire to some other part of France, where you are not known, and there, passing yourself as a widow, bring up your son, and, perhaps, make another choice more calculated than your present one to render you happy.'
"My heart felt bursting; but I strove to repress the grief, the indignation with which it laboured.
"No, St. Julian, (said I, in a solemn voice), never will I enter the road of infamy you have marked out for me to take; I am your wife, nor shall any power but that, whose mandate we must all obey, make me give up my claims. What! did you snatch me from the altar of my God, from the dwelling of piety and peace, but to plunge me into guilt and misery?"
"'Madeline, (cried he) be wise, nor mar my good intentions towards you by useless endeavours to support claims, which I am determined to deny; 'tis impossible, you know, for you to prove your marriage; there were, you may recollect, no witnesses to it, and with the name of the priest who performed the ceremony you are unacquainted.'
"Alas! those were truths which could not be controverted, and destitute as I was of any friend to interfere in my behalf, my uncle having paid the last sad debt of nature some weeks before, I saw no means of escaping the fate he doomed me to. I wept, I upbraided, I supplicated, but all without effect; and I was soon convinced that every spark of his former affection was extinguished, and that some dangerous rival had taken entire possession of his heart.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 308
