His letter, which St. Julian, in the full conviction of his fidelity, imparted to Lafroy, was immediately shown by him to D'Alembert. For leaving him so abruptly, Lafroy apologized to St. Julian by saying he wished to be alone in his chamber, in order to consider what was to be done.
D'Alembert, on reading the letter, struck his forehead in a frenzy, and exclaimed that all was lost. Lafroy, however, soon convinced him to the contrary. The conversation which passed between him and Madeline, and which has already been related, sufficiently explains his plot.
St. Julian, instead of meeting a friendly guide at the extremity of the forest, as he had been taught to expect, was met by two ruffians, who rudely seized him, and forced him into a chaise, in which he was conveyed to Madame Fleury's, where too late he discovered, that by the person in whom he had most confided, he had been most deceived.
Josephe, Lafroy's brother, was the person who accompanied Madeline to Paris, under the assumed name of Oliver. An express from the Castle of Montmorenci informed young D'Alembert of all the transactions at it, and of St. Julian and his daughter being consigned to the care of Madame Fleury till he had determined their fate. He immediately conceived the idea of passing himself as the nephew of Madame Fleury, and under that assumed character, offering his hand to Madeline, falsely imagining her friendless situation would make her readily embrace any offer which gave her a promise of protection. When tired of her, which he doubted not being soon the case, he resolved on destroying her, as a sure method of preventing another disappointment relative to the fortune of Montmorenci: her father's death he would not have delayed an hour, but that he was withheld from it, by considering, if artifice failed with Madeline, fears for her father might accomplish his designs. In the house of Madame Fleury, he knew any scene of iniquity might be acted with impunity. She was a woman of the most infamous description, and avowedly kept a house for the encouragement of vice. Beneath her roof the innocent and lovely Adelaide lost her life; bribed to the horrid deed by D'Alembert, the owner of the inn at which she slept put her into his power, and, on finding no other way of escaping his violence, she stabbed herself to the heart with a knife which she concealed about her; her body was thrown into a vault beneath the house; and it was the traces of her blood which had so much alarmed Madeline. Blanche, the once faithful servant of her mother's, was the unhappy penitent she discovered before the crucifix: the seeds of virtue which had been early implanted in her mind, the artifices of Lafroy had not been able entirely to destroy; and ere she was many months with Madame Fleury, Blanche bitterly regretted her misconduct, and wished to leave her. This was a wish, however, which Madame Fleury was peremptorily commanded by D'Alembert not to gratify, lest her releasement should occasion the discovery of his crimes.
The resemblance which Madeline bore to Lady Geraldine immediately struck her; the effect it had upon her has been already described. On Madeline's quitting her, she followed her to the head of the gallery, and heard the scene which passed between her and D'Alembert. Whilst he was pursuing Madeline, she stepped into his chamber, and read his letters, which clearly explained the real name of Madeline, and the situation of her and her father—a situation which, on discovering who they really were, Blanche was determined to run every risk to rescue them from. She was acquainted with all the passages in the house, and knew she never was suspected of leaving her chamber; she therefore flattered herself she could easily effect their delivery. As soon as it grew dark, she unlocked the door of St. Julian's prison, who had by that time entirely recovered from the effects of the opiate, and briefly informed him of her wishes and intention to serve him. He heard her with grateful transport; and was conducted by her to the vault communicating with the court, from whence she ascended to bring his daughter to him.
During this transaction D'Alembert was seated quietly with Madame Fleury, exulting at the probability there was of his schemes being now successful in consequence of the terror into which he had thrown Madeline, whom he meant shortly to visit, and inform that the officers of justice were coming to the house to seize her father. But great as was his exultation, it was trifling compared to that which his father experienced, who, on the removal of St. Julian and Madeline from the Castle of Montmorenci, had not a fear remaining of any future disappointment. Till Madeline was secured, he deemed it unsafe to say any thing about her father to the Marquis; he therefore made him believe, till she had departed, that his unfortunate son, oppressed with the deepest melancholy, wandered about the forest to indulge it the whole day, and only returned at night to take some trifling refreshment, and go to bed.
As soon as Madeline was consigned to the care of Josephe, a letter was presented to the Marquis, which exactly imitated the writing of his son, and was signed with his name. This letter contained a full confession of the murder of his brother, and went on as follows:—"It was a murder to which I was stimulated by revenge at the usurpation of my rights, and a hope, that if he was once out of the way, you would not be averse to doing me justice. That hope has been realized, but without yielding me happiness. Since my arrival at the castle, remorse has been awakened by means not more awful than mysterious, in my breast; and, in consequence of that remorse, I have determined to resign all claim to the fortunes of Montmorenci, and seclude myself for ever from the world. Nor shall my daughter enjoy them; they would entail misery instead of happiness upon her: a convent is her doom; to her God I shall devote her; the offering I trust will be acceptable, and cause him to look with an eye of compassion and forgiveness upon my miseries and crimes."
The feelings of the Marquis on perusing this letter were too dreadful to be described; he accused himself as the cause of death to one son, and guilt to the other; and all idea of vengeance for the murder of Philippe was lost in the reflection of his having occasioned that murder himself. His life, in all probability, would have been terminated in a few days by the anguish he suffered, had not that Being, who accepts our penitence as an atonement for our errors, unexpectedly relieved him from the horrors of despair.
D'Alembert dispatched two emissaries after Claude for the purpose of destroying him. Fatigued by his exertions, he had stepped aside to rest himself in a little grotesque hollow at some distance from the road they took, and thus escaped falling into their merciless hands. From his concealment he had a perfect view of them, and the moment he beheld them, he conjectured their horrible designs. All hope of succouring Madame D'Alembert now died away; all hope of escaping the vengeance of her husband and his father; for whether he advanced or retreated, he was confident equal danger awaited him. Overwhelmed with fear and anguish, he flung himself despairingly on the ground, determined rather to die there, than by stirring from the spot, expose himself to the hand of an assassin. In this situation he heard a party of travellers approaching; he was in that desperate state which tempts a man to adventure every thing. He accordingly started up, and resolved on applying to them for protection for himself, and assistance for Madame D'Alembert. The instant they drew near, he threw himself before them, and in a supplicating voice, besought them to stop and listen to a story calculated to awaken all the feelings of compassion, and to interest every generous heart. His words and manner claimed immediate attention, and he began his strange narrative. Scarcely had he concluded it, when a sudden exclamation of mingled grief and indignation burst from some of the party, which convinced him he had applied to the friends of Madame D'Alembert in her behalf. To her most tender, most affectionate friends he had indeed applied—to Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter, who were returning from Italy to France, accompanied by an Italian Nobleman, (to whom a few days before the commencement of her journey, Olivia had given her hand), his friend, and a numerous retinue of servants. To the dreary castle they immediately bent their course, and rescued the unhappy Viola from worse than death—from lingering misery!
Her safety ensured, Claude mentioned the imprisonment of Philippe. His reason for not declaring it to Madeline was owing to his doubts of the existence of the u
nhappy captive at the time he set out for the Alps, having heard a few days before that he was in so weak a state, his life was despaired of: he therefore feared raising expectations in the breast of Madeline which might be disappointed, being well convinced, that if Philippe died ere he reached the castle, the assertion of his having lived to that period, would be considered as the mere fabrication of his brain. To the gloomy tower in which he was confined, he led the way, and found him, as he had been taught to expect, on the very brink of the grave—that grave to which he had long wished himself consigned; for, torn as he was from all that could render life desirable, life was a burden which he ardently wished to resign! But with the change in his prospects, an immediate change took place in his sentiments, and the soothing attentions of compassion—attentions to which he had been long a stranger; the joy of unexpected deliverance, and rapturous idea of beholding his son, soon effected such an alteration in his appearance, as not more delighted than astonished his friends, gave them every hope of his speedy recovery, and enabled them, even sooner than they had expected, to proceed to the castle of Montmorenci. Within a little way of it, all the carriages but Madame Chatteneuf's, stopped and, accompanied by her son-in-law, she proceeded to it, and demanded a private interview with the Marquis. After the first ceremonies of meeting were over, she told him she had something to relate to him not more affecting than interesting; but declared she could not commence her relation till he had given orders for Monsieur D'Alembert and Lafroy being secured.
Strange as was this desire, the impressive manner in which it was delivered, would not permit the Marquis to hesitate about obeying it. He accordingly summoned some of the domestics he most confided in, and gave them a strict charge to have an eye over D'Alembert and Lafroy, and inform him if they attempted to quit the castle.
Madame Chatteneuf then began her promised narrative;—nothing but the knowledge which the Marquis had of her character, could have prevented him from interrupting her in the midst of it, and declaring his doubts of its truth. When she had concluded the recital of the injustice which had been done to Madame D'Alembert, and her sufferings in consequence of it, she paused—paused from the emotions she experienced at the idea of those which the fond father would feel when informed the long-lamented darling of his heart was about being restored to his arms. She approached him with eyes swimming in tears, and taking his hand, pressed it between her's. "A yet greater, a yet more affecting surprise than that received by hearing of Madame D'Alembert's existence, awaits you (cried she); Oh! endeavour to bear it with composure—endeavour to hear with moderation—that he, whom long you have mourned, still lives—lives to demand a father's blessing, and recompense the bitter sorrow he has occasioned."
Great joy and great sorrow are often alike in their effects. Madame Chatteneuf had scarcely uttered the last word, ere the Marquis fainted in her arms. She directly desired a servant to be dispatched for the rest of her party; and the first object the Marquis beheld on recovering, was his long-lost Philippe. The scene which followed can better be conceived than described; it was such as drew tears from every spectator. Yet amidst the Marquis's raptures, the keenest pangs of anguish seized his heart at beholding the devastation which suffering had made upon his son, no more he beheld eyes darting fire, cheeks painted with the liveliest bloom of health, and a form graceful and elastic. "But happiness (he exclaimed), happiness never is perfect in this life!"
When Philippe grew a little more composed, he mentioned his son, and besought him to be sent for. This was a new surprise, a new source of delight to the Marquis; and an express was directly dispatched to the cottage of Josephe for him. Orders were also given for the confinement of D'Alembert and Lafroy.
Ignorant of the late transactions at the castle, de Sevignie, whilst he obeyed the summons to it, could not otherwise account for that summons, than by supposing his residence near Madeline had been discovered by her father, and awakened his apprehensions of their attachment being renewed in consequence of their vicinity to each other; to prevent which, he had sent for him to request he would go elsewhere. "If he makes such a request, I will obey it (cried de Sevignie, as in a melancholy manner he followed the messenger); go where I will, I shall still retain the idea of Madeline; and, though my situation cannot gain the approbation, my conduct shall merit the esteem, of her father."
Oh! how impossible to describe the feelings of Philippe when he presented himself to his view? How equally impossible to do justice to those of the Marquis, when, in the youthful Henri, he beheld the exact resemblance of his beloved son—his resemblance, when all the graces, all the charms of elegance and youth were his. Surprised by the reception he met with, by the emotions with which he was alternately clasped to the bosom of Lord Philippe and the Marquis, de Sevignie looked the very picture of astonishment. He was not permitted to remain long in ignorance of his real situation; and with a delight not inferior to that experienced by his new-found relatives, he knelt to receive their blessing. But short was the duration of his joy when informed of Madeline and her father having been spirited away from the castle; informed of the too probable dangers which surrounded them, the most dreadful anguish pervaded his soul; and striking his hand distractedly against his forehead, he exclaimed, that happiness was lost for ever!
D'Alembert and Lafroy had been brought into the apartment, taxed with their guilt, and strictly interrogated concerning St. Julian and his daughter; to which interrogations both had hitherto observed a profound silence—a silence the former determined to persevere in, from a fiend-like wish of rendering others as miserable as himself; but which the latter resolved on breaking if he could, by doing so, escape the punishment he merited. In reply, therefore, to what de Sevignie had said, he declared there was still a chance of happiness being restored to him.
"If (cried he), the Marquis will promise to pardon me, and not cast me without provision upon the world, I will, without delay, reveal the place to which the Count and his daughter have been taken."
"Oh! promise him all he asks (exclaimed de Sevignie, grasping the arm of the Marquis); promise him pardon—promise him wealth, protection, if he but declares the situation of Madeline and her father."
"Solemnly I promise to grant him all he desires," said the Marquis.
"May his information come too late! (cried D'Alembert, who, finding his baseness could not even be palliated, determined no longer to conceal the deformity of his soul); may his information come too late! ere this, I trust, the fate of the father and daughter is decided—the dreadful fate to which they both were doomed."
"Infernal monster! (exclaimed de Sevignie, catching him by the breast, then suddenly flinging him from him); you are a defenceless man (he exclaimed), that consideration alone saves you from my fury. Villain as you are, I will not strike where there can be no resistance. Oh! tell me (he continued, turning to Lafroy), Oh! tell me whither I can fly to rescue Madeline and her father."
Lafroy, having made his conditions, informed him without hesitation, and the Count Manfredonia, the husband of Olivia, and his friend Count Durasso, both declared their resolution of accompanying him directly to Paris.
Whilst the carriages were preparing, the Marquis wrote a hasty letter to a nobleman of high rank and power there, requesting him to give whatever authority was necessary to de Sevignie for searching the house of Madame Fleury. De Sevignie never stopped till he reached Paris, except when compelled to do so for the purpose of changing horses.
The moment the nobleman to whom the Marquis's letter was addressed, had perused it, he procured proper officers to accompany de Sevignie to Madame Fleury's. She and D'Alembert were immediately secured, and the house searched for Madeline and her father. But when de Sevignie found it searched in vain, no language could describe what he felt; he flew to the prisoners, and implored them to reveal the place to which they had conveyed the unfortunate St. Julian and his daughter. They heard his supplications unmoved: what he asked they could not indeed have granted; yet, in order to torture
him, they pretended that they could. Though unable to account for the escape of St. Julian and Madeline, they yet believed they had effected it, and rejoiced at the idea, not only on the account of the anguish which they perceived the uncertainty of their fate gave to de Sevignie, but from a hope that they might be able to extricate themselves from his power, and regain the fugitives.
De Sevignie was sinking beneath the horrors of despair, when the subterraneous chambers were mentioned by the officers; thither he directly fled, and there discovered the objects of his search; from thence he bore the senseless Madeline to the parlour, which was cleared for her reception. Oh! how utterly impossible to describe her feelings when, on recovering, she perceived de Sevignie—when, as he pressed her to his throbbing heart, from his lips she received an assurance of her safety and her father's: but great as was the rapture of those feelings, it was faint compared to that which she experienced on being informed of the existence of Philippe. At first she doubted the reality of what she heard, and accused de Sevignie of an intention of deceiving her; then besought him, if he wished to be credited, to give a solemn assurance of the truth of his assertion. This solemn assurance was instantly given, and received by Madeline with a wild scream of joy: then, flying to her father, who, on the first mention of his brother, had sunk motionless upon a chair, she flung herself into his arms; her caresses restored him to sensibility. He disengaged himself from her, and knelt down—"Oh! God (he cried, his uplifted hands folded together), accept my thanks—accept my thanks for preventing me from being in reality a murderer, a fratricide. In adversity I besought thee to give me fortitude to bear it; in prosperity I now beseech thee to give me moderation to sustain it; Oh! teach, teach me to support with composure this sudden reverse of situation!"
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 327
