"Oh! ecstasy (cried Madeline, kneeling beside him), to know your guiltless brother lives; to know you have nothing more to fear, repays me amply for all my sufferings."
When they grew a little composed, de Sevignie continued his narration.
"The web of deceit is at length unravelled (said St. Julian, as soon as he had concluded it), and the ways of Providence are justified to man. We now perceive, that however successful the schemes of wickedness may be at first, they are, in the end, completely defeated and overthrown. We now perceive, that God wounds but to heal, strikes but to save, punishes us in this life, but to correct our passions, and render us deserving of happiness in that which is to come."
Blanche, who had followed them to the parlour, shared their transports, and now made herself known; for time and sorrow had so altered her, that St. Julian had not the smallest recollection of her. He freely granted the pardon she asked for the part she had had in his sufferings, and he promised to send her to the place of her nativity, where she earnestly wished to end her days.
Anxious to terminate the anxiety of his friends, it was determined that the journey to the Castle of Montmorenci should be commenced at the dawn of day. Accordingly at the settled time they left the detested mansion of Madame Fleury, leaving her and D'Alembert in it under the care of the officers of justice, till it should be known whether the charges against them would occasion their being confined elsewhere. They travelled with the utmost expedition, nor slackened their speed, till within a short distance of the castle, in order to send forward a servant to inform the Marquis of their approach, lest their appearance, if unexpected, should affect him too much; but, notwithstanding this precaution, the emotions he felt on beholding them—on beholding the long separated brothers folded in the arms of each other, were such as nearly overcame him, and "shook his frame almost to dissolution."
In the most affecting language St. Julian implored Lord Philippe's pardon, which he, in terms not less affecting, granted.
"My sons (said a reverend Monk from a neighbouring convent, the same to whom the Marquis had given such particular directions about his eldest son before he was discovered), take my advice, and let a veil be drawn over past transactions, never to be raised except it is for the purpose of instructing youth, by displaying to them the fearful scenes which uncontrolled passions may occasion—uncontrolled passions I repeat, for to such were all your miseries owing. The Marquis, by gratifying his love at the expense of honour and humanity, entailed remorse upon himself, and all the horrors which must ever attend our conviction of being under the immediate displeasure of heaven: and you (addressing St. Julian), by madly following the bent of resentment, plunged yourself, to all appearance, into an abyss of guilt, from whence you scarcely dared to raise your eyes to heaven to implore its protection against the designs of the cruel, and the punishment you thought you had merited; whilst your brother, by gratifying the impulse of inclination, without obtaining, or trying to obtain, the sanction of a parent, left himself exposed to the most base designs, and, by practising deceit himself, taught others to practise it upon him. In the course of your sufferings, I dare say you have often accused fate of being the occasion of them; when, in reality, had you properly reflected, you would have found they entirely originated with yourselves: that they are terminated can scarcely excite more pleasure in your hearts than in mine: may your happiness never again know diminution, and your past sorrows, if mentioned, only be mentioned for the purpose of keeping alive a fervent gratitude to that Being who so wonderfully dispersed them!
"From your strange and eventful story, the virtuous may be convinced that they should never despair—the guilty, that they should never exult, as the hour of deliverance to one, and retribution to the other, often arrives when least expected: both should also learn by it, that a merciful God makes allowances for human frailty, and accepts sincere repentance as an atonement for error." In the words of the poet the holy man might have concluded,
Heaven has but
Our sorrows for our sins, and then delights
To pardon erring man. Sweet mercy seems
Its darling attribute, which limits justice,
As if there were degrees in Infinite,
And Infinite would rather want perfection,
Than punish to extent.
"The affection subsisting between my sons (said the Marquis), prevents my feeling that uneasiness I should otherwise experience at the idea of leaving one almost wholly depending upon the other."
"We will know no difference of fortune (exclaimed St. Julian); all that I could do for my brother, all that I could bestow upon him, could never be a sufficient recompense for the sufferings I occasioned him."
"Most amply can you recompense them," said Philippe.
"In what manner?" cried St. Julian with eagerness.
"Need I explain my meaning? (said Philippe, and he glanced alternately at Madeline and de Sevignie, whose attachment he had been previously informed of); need I say that it is by giving your daughter to my son, you can make me amends for all my sorrows."
"That I shall readily make such amends, you will believe (cried St. Julian), when I tell you, that by so doing, I shall ensure my own happiness; in seeing the precious offspring of Elenora and Geraldine united, the most ardent wishes of my heart will be accomplished: in giving her to de Sevignie, I give her to a man, in whose favour I felt a predilection from the first moment I beheld him—a predilection, excited not only by his manner, but his strong resemblance to you. Take her (he continued, presenting her hand to de Sevignie), take her with the fond blessing of her father; and may the felicity you both deserve, be ever your's!"
The feelings of de Sevignie and Madeline were such as language could not have done justice to; but their eyes, more eloquently than any words could have done, expressed them.
Sorrow now seemed removed from every heart but that of Madame D'Alembert's; with the deepest melancholy she ruminated over her sad prospects, and resolved to retire from the castle of Montmorenci to a convent, as soon as some settlement had taken place relative to her husband and his iniquitous father. On her account (well knowing, notwithstanding her abhorrence to them she would sensibly feel their exposure to public disgrace), the Marquis determined not to give them up to the punishment they merited, provided they solemnly promised, ere he liberated them, never more to molest her, or attempt injuring the property she inherited in right of her mother. He had already spoken on the subject to D'Alembert, but could not extort a reply from him; he therefore resolved on sending an express to the son, to inform him of the conditions on which he would restore him to liberty.
On the evening of this happy day which restored them to the Castle of Montmorenci, de Sevignie and Madeline wandered into the forest, and there he informed her of all he had suffered on her account. "In a manner very different from the family to which I was supposed to belong (said he), I was brought up, by the desire, it was said, of Monsieur D'Alembert, my godfather. Not qualified from my education to partake of the amusements, or join in the pursuits of my family, I found home unpleasant, and early conceived a passion for wandering about; which passion the presents I received from D'Alembert, and the indulgence of my father, permitted me to gratify. In the course of my wanderings, I beheld and became acquainted with you: the feelings you inspired, what followed that acquaintance must have already explained. Though formed to adorn the highest station, I yet flattered myself the unambitious disposition of your father would incline him to bestow you on me, provided I could prove myself possessed of a competency, and worthy, from my past conduct, of his approbation. To do the latter would, I knew, be easy; and to do the former, would, I trusted, be scarcely more difficult, for D'Alembert had always promised to secure me a handsome establishment, and I now hoped he might be prevailed on to fulfil his promises. I wrote to my father, opened my whole heart to him, and besought him to apply to D'Alembert in my behalf. I received an immediate answer to this letter, in which my father charged me, except
I wished to incur his severest malediction, never to think more about you, declaring that my sole prosperity in life depended on my union with D'Alembert's daughter, who, in my visits to the chateau, he said, had conceived a partiality for me, which her father, rather than destroy her peace, had determined to gratify. My resolution, on perusing this letter, was instantly formed: I resolved never to marry a woman I disliked, nor unite myself to one I loved, except assured I could add to, instead of injure, her happiness. Notwithstanding my determination, I lingered in your house till the altered looks of your father plainly convinced me he wished for my departure: the pangs which rend soul and body, could not, I am sure, have been greater than those I endured on tearing myself from you.
"I returned to my father's house; he treated me ill, and I resumed my wanderings, with a hope that change of scene might alleviate my anguish; but this hope was disappointed; no change of scene could change the feelings of my soul; no company could amuse, no prospect delight; upon the loveliest productions of Nature I often gazed with a vacant eye—prospects which, in the early days of youth, when expectation sat smiling at my heart, I had often contemplated with a degree of rapturous enthusiasm which seemed to raise me from earth to heaven, and inspiring me with a sublime devotion, made me look up through Nature's works to Nature's God.
"Not all the attention, the hospitality I received at V—, to which chance alone conducted me, could dissipate the thoughts that corroded my peace; but, as if I had a presentiment of your coming to it, I could not bring myself to leave it. Strange and inconsistent you found me: that strangeness, that inconsistency, was owing to a passion which I wished to conquer, yet could not forbear nourishing—which I wished, yet dreaded, to have returned, conscious as I was that that return would plunge the object of my love in sorrow.
"But how weak is the mind of man, how frail his best resolves! When I found I had an interest in that tender heart, every idea but of felicity fled from me; and I was tempted to ask you to unite your destiny to mine: a sudden interruption to our conversation alone prevented my doing so. Scarcely however, had I left your presence, ere Reason resumed her empire, and represented the baseness of what I had intended. Shall I then persevere in such an intention? (I cried); shall I take advantage of her tenderness?—shall I requite it by plunging her into difficulties—by transplanting her from the genial soil in which she has flourished, to one of penury?—shall I sink, instead of exalting, my love?—shall I requite the humanity of the father, by blasting the hopes he entertains about his child?—Oh! no, (I exclaimed, maddening at the idea), I will not be such a villain; I will not, Madeline, merit your after-reproaches and my own by such conduct; every hope relative to you—hopes which but now raised my soul to heaven, I will relinquish. How I acted in consequence of this determination you know; but you know not, nor can I give you any adequate idea of the anguish which I endured in consequence of it—the anguish which I felt at observing the resentment that glowed upon your cheek, and sparkled in your eye at the idea of my being either deceitful or capricious; scarcely on witnessing it, could I withhold myself from kneeling at your feet, and fully explaining the motives of my conduct. You may wonder, perhaps, at my not revealing myself on hearing of the Countess de Merville's kind intentions towards me; I was prevented doing so, by an idea of her being, notwithstanding all her worth, too proud, like the rest of the French noblesse, to think of bestowing her Madeline—she, whose graces, whose loveliness fitted her for the most exalted station, upon the son of a peasant, when once she had discovered his origin: to disclose my situation I therefore deemed unnecessary. After our parting I lingered some time longer at V—, and might not perhaps have left it so soon as I did, had I not received a positive command from my father to return home:—on doing so, he renewed his importunities for a marriage with D'Alembert's daughter; I told him my positive determination relative to her, and he behaved with outrage. I should immediately have quitted home, had he not assured me, if I did so, his curses would pursue me. Though I considered his conduct unjustifiable, I shrunk from his malediction, and accordingly obeyed him. Chance first produced the discovery of my vicinity to her who engrossed all my thoughts. Ah! little did I think, when I first heard of the newly-acknowledged son of the Marquis of Montmorenci, that Clermont was that son: Ah! little did I think, when I heard of the beauty, the goodness of his daughter, that it was to the praises of Madeline I was listening.
"I saw you one day in the forest; surprise riveted me to the spot, nor had I power to move till you disappeared. A domestic belonging to the castle was passing me at the moment; I enquired from him about you, and heard your real situation. From that period I haunted the forest in hopes of catching a glimpse of you; and you may recollect seeing me one evening near the monumental pillar.
"Great have been my sufferings, but amply are they recompensed; my present felicity is such as, in the most sanguine moments of expectation, I never could have thought of experiencing. To find myself allied to beings congenial to my heart—to find myself on the point of being united to the woman I adore, is a happiness which requires the utmost efforts of reason to bear with any moderation."
As he spoke, they heard an approaching step, and the next instant St. Julian appeared before them:—he looked agitated; and Madeline, in a voice of alarm, enquired the cause of that agitation;—he briefly informed her.
An express, he said, had just arrived from Paris to announce the death of young D'Alembert. Maddened at finding his schemes discovered, and his hopes defeated, in a paroxysm of fury he had stabbed himself; but scarcely had he committed the rash act ere he repented it, and implored immediate assistance; this assistance was procured but to confirm his apprehensions of the wound being mortal. After suffering excruciating pangs of body and mind, he endeavoured to ease the latter by a full avowal of all his enormities. He accordingly confessed his having occasioned the death of a young girl, called Adelaide St. Pierre; his having assassinated the Countess de Merville, and poisoned her house-keeper, Agatha, for fear of her betraying him; after which confession he shortly expired.
Madeline was so shocked by hearing of his crimes, that it was many minutes ere she had power to move. At length the fond caresses of her father and attentions of de Sevignie, restored her in some degree to herself.
Her father then informed her he had sought her for the purpose of bringing her to the castle, in order to assist him in breaking the affair to Madame D'Alembert. "Though all affection for her husband must long since (cried he), have been destroyed by his unworthy conduct, I am yet convinced, from her feelings, she will be shocked to hear of his dying by his own hand. His confession I mean carefully to conceal from her; for to know her mother was murdered—murdered by her husband, would, I am confident, entail horror and wretchedness upon her days."
Madeline now hastened to the castle, and D'Alembert's death was communicated with the utmost caution to Madame D'Alembert;—it filled her with horror; but, as St. Julian had said, all affection for him having long before ceased, every hope was entertained of the melancholy impression which it made upon her mind being soon erased. On his father it had the most dreadful effect, the moment he heard it; the proud disdainful silence which he had observed from the first discovery of his baseness, vanished, and he vented his misery in groans and exclamations, accusing himself of being the cause of his son's destruction. Every attention which humanity could dictate was paid him, but paid in vain. Attentions from those he had injured, rather aggravated than soothed his feelings; and in about two days after his son's death, he declared his resolution of renouncing the world. He accordingly withdrew from the castle of Montmorenci to La Trappe, the most rigid of all the religious houses in France, where he soon ended a miserable existence. Immediately after his departure Lafroy was dismissed, having first, according to the promise that was made him, received a handsome provision, which, by giving him the power of gratifying his inordinate passions, soon occasioned his death. Josephe, his iniquitous brother, was compelled to retire from the
vicinity of the castle; but though he deserved punishment and misery, the Marquis was too generous to permit him to feel any inconvenience in consequence of this measure. Claude and Blanche, alike penitent, were, by their own desire, sent to the places from whence they originally came, amply secured from the ills of poverty. Thus did the Marquis and his sons fulfil every promise they had made, and by the mercy they extended to others, proved their gratitude to heaven for that which they had themselves experienced.
As soon as tranquillity was restored to the inhabitants of the castle, the nuptials of de Sevignie and Madeline were solemnized; after which they accompanied Madame D'Alembert, (who with her friend Madame Chatteneuf and her party, had only waited to see them united, ) to the Chateau de Valdore. Without mingled emotions of pain and pleasure Madeline could not re-enter it, nor could de Sevignie, without experiencing similar ones, behold the walks where he had often wandered to watch for Madeline, and despairingly sigh forth her name. A constant intercourse was kept up between the families of Madame D'Alembert and Madame Chatteneuf, in the course of which Count Durasso, who from the first interview had been captivated by her graces, made the impression he wished upon the heart of Viola. To the softness of the Italian he united the vivacity of the French, and was in every respect worthy of her. Till the happy period which united them, de Sevignie and Madeline divided their time alternately between the Castle of Montmorenci and the Chateau de Valdore.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 328
