In the morning she arose early, and again perused the Marchese's letter. He had mentioned nothing of the melancholy story which Agatha had imperfectly related, nor of the large estates he had succeeded to in consequence of it. But this being an event in which she was not immediately concerned, any information on this subject might be deemed unnecessary.
As soon as the nurse and child arose, Madame de Rubine again took the infant into her arms, whose complexional delicacy and beauty equally attracted her admiration and astonishment. Whilst she continued to gaze upon its sweet innocent countenance, it appeared conscious of her attention; the soft sentiment of pity was already ripening into affection, and she perceived, if she parted with it, it would be with reluctance. She considered likewise it would a companion for Enrîco, and that much domestic comfort might reasonably expected from this lovely object of her compassion, the stillness of uninterrupted retirement, particularly during the time of her separation from Enrîco; which, however painful the reflection was, she was convinced in the present state of affairs indispensably requisite, as he must endeavour, by every necessary exertion, to secure promotion and independence in that department, which would eventually prove the least repugnant to his feelings and inclinations. These suggestions determined her to accept the proposals made to her by the Marchese; and, having acquainted Agatha with her intention, she addressed a few lines to him in return, in which she expressed her astonishment at this singular and unexpected adventure; at the same time assuring him that, having consented to take the child under her care, she was resolved to fulfil, in every respect, the part of a parent; that he might also depend upon her secrecy in the affair, and as he had offered her an asylum, which nothing but the welfare of the children could have induced her to accept, she must desire that he would never attempt visit them in their retirement, as she should consider an interview of that kind as highly improper.
Agatha, being impatient to return from her embassy, besought permission to depart; which being granted, the carriage that had conveyed her hither, and was left at a small inn near the cottage, was immediately ordered. She then took an affectionate leave of the infant; and, after many tender adieus and good wishes to Madame de Rubine, set forwards on her journey.
CHAPTER II
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort.
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit.
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
-SHAKESPEARE
Nothing material happened at the cottage till near a fortnight after the departure of Agatha, when Paoli, her husband, and the distinguished favourite of the Marchese, came to conduct Julie and the children to their destined abode. He also brought a letter from his lord, in which he expressed his entire approbation of her conduct; assuring her, at the same time, that if the secret, with which she was partially entrusted, remained inviolable, she might depend upon his friendship and protection, and expect on his part the most scrupulous attention to her desire, concerning his not visiting the retreat he had chosen for her, which was a castle on a German estate, beautifully situated near the Rhine. He also informed her, that he had given orders for every necessary preparation to be made against her arrival; and that he intended to remit her a considerable sum quarterly, which would be more than sufficient to defray every expense; and requested, that she would acquaint him, at the return of Paoli, if any part of the arrangement, which he had formed for her establishment, should not be agreeable to her wishes. He also desired that, immediately on her arrival in Germany, she would name the infant, which name he left entirely to her decision, and as to her son, she might depend upon his honour to fulfil the promises already made.
When Madame de Rubine had perused this epistle, she questioned the steward respecting her new situation, and inquired whether any servants were sent thither by the Marchese, or whether he expected her to provide them.
Paoli assured her that every thing was in readiness for their reception; that two servants were already there, an elderly woman and a man, who had been some years in the service of his lord, at the castello St Aubin, and who were either to remain or to return, as she thought proper. The appearance of Paoli did not prejudice his fair auditress much in his favour. His deportment was stern, harsh, and forbidding, and she thought in the character of his brow she read determined villainy. He seemed to behold, with the most scrutinizing eye, her every look and action, forming in the whole of his behaviour a striking contrast with the tenderness and artless simplicity of his wife. She felt uneasy in his presence, and earnestly longed for the time of his dismission to arrive. The consequence he assumed, from the known partiality of the Marchese, bordered on rudeness, and he frequently obtruded himself into her presence contrary to the rules of good breeding, which, however, he affected to understand. He seemed to possess an infinite deal of cunning, and to be every way formed for intrigue and dark design. Being unwilling to resent this want of address, she endeavoured, as much as possible, to divert her mind from the uneasiness his unpleasant society occasioned, by nursing her little charge, and listening to the childish simplicity of Enrîco.
The ensuing week was now fixed for their departure, and Madame de Rubine and Dorothée were busily employed in making every necessary arrangement for their journey. The few household goods she possessed, which were of the simplest kind, were divided among the neighbouring poor, by whom she was tenderly beloved.
After a residence of near four years in this beautiful retreat, the amiable Julie found she could not bid it adieu without extreme reluctance. In these calm and peaceful shades she had taken refuge from the censure of a rash unfeeling world; and had in some degree gained a tranquillity and composure of mind, which she once believed it impossible ever to recover. She had endeavoured to reconcile herself to her misfortunes, and to check, as much as in her power, the natural sensibility of her disposition, which she was convinced was too acute to admit of lasting comfort.
She knew that true happiness was only to be found in the bosom of religion and virtue, and the warmth of her affection led her to indulge in that glow of religious enthusiasm, which elevates the soul beyond every earthly pursuit, and renders it susceptible of the most worthy impressions. On the evening preceding their departure, she wandered once more along that beautiful valley she was now soon to quit for ever; and casting her eyes over the clear expanse of waters, heaved a sigh at the recollection that she might probably, in that situation, never behold it more. To part from these scenes, to which she had been long inured, was like parting from a beloved friend, which, though only known in the moments of sorrow, were still dear to her. The sun had long sunk beneath the horizon, yet she still continued her walk. It was now the gay season of the vintage, but the rural sports were over, the shepherd's pipe was silent, and nothing was heard from the mountains but the distant sound of the mournful sheep-bell, and at intervals the rustling of the leaves, that faintly sighed in the evening gale. Every object on which she gazed, wore that soft and tender melancholy so congenial to her feelings, and impelled her with an irresistible charm to linger in her favourite walks. The large plane-tree, which had so often afforded her shelter, the bank on which she used to sit selecting flowers for the playful Enrîco, were objects of regret; and it was not till the shades of night were perceptibly stealing upon the meek grey of the twilight, that she recollected the impropriety of wandering so far from her cottage alone, and at so late an hour. The danger to which this imprudent conduct had exposed her, precipitated her steps, and she was surprised on finding she had strayed so much farther from her little retreat, than she had at first imagined. As she advanced, it became so much darker that she was irresolute whether to proceed, or to call at one of the huts of the peasants to procure a guide; but recollecting that there were several others on the road leading to her home, she ventured to continue on her way. On arriving at the side of the wood, near to which the cottage was situated, the moon, bursting from a cloud in its meridian splendour, partly dissipated her fears; and the m
elodious song of the nightingale, who was concealed in the inmost recesses of the wood, again arrested her steps. As she listened, the strain swelled still louder, and more plaintive; and she thought there was a pathos in the note she never remembered to have heard before. It seemed the language of complaint, and the frame of mind she was then in heightened the tender sensation of pity that the lay inspired. Sitting down on a bench, which she had formed under the shade of a chestnut, she took out her pencil, and wrote the following lines, which have certainly but little poetical merit, yet sufficiently evince that her griefs, though softened by time and the comforts of religion, had made an impression too great ever to be perfectly erased.
SONNET TO THE NIGHTINGALE
Hail, chantress sweet, who lov'st in woodlands drear.
And shades unseen beneath the pale moon's ray.
To pour thy sorrows in eve's listening ear.
And charm the nightly wanderer's lonely way;
Say, is it love that wakes the melting song?
Or pity's tender throe, or wan despair?
If such thy woes, ah! yet the strain prolong.
Still let thy wild notes float upon the air;
Yet spring's next visit shall, sweet bird, restore
Those ravag'd joys that wake the thrilling lay.
Sad mem'ry's open'd wounds shall bleed no more.
And happier love adorn the future day:
But not on me can spring one charm bestow.
Or make this pensive breast with her wild raptures glow.
Madame de Rubine had been absent on her evening walk so much longer than usual, that Dorothée, beginning to be alarmed, was going in search of her; but was agreeably surprised on seeing her safely seated under her favourite tree. Having again reminded her of the lateness of the hour, which she had recently ceased to recollect, she thanked the affectionate girl for her attention, and returned to the cottage.
After a night spent in broken slumbers she arose, and every thing being in readiness for their journey, and Paoli impatiently waiting with the mules, they prepared to depart.
At first she was much alarmed at the necessity of the children travelling without a carriage; but the steep and craggy mountains they had to ascend rendered that mode of conveyance impossible. The mule on which Dorothée and the infant were seated, was led by a peasant; Julie guided her own, and poor Enrîco was reluctantly left to the care of Paoli.
Having slowly descended the hill, on which the cottage was situated, they travelled along the beautiful and picturesque borders of the lake, and without any material occurrence, arrived at Lausanne, where the party was compelled to stop for a few days, being fatigued with the ruggedness of the road, and the unpleasant motion of the animals destined to convey them to their new abode. After this salutary revival, they recommenced their journey along the finely cultivated mountains between Lausanne and Vevay. The scenery of this country, which perhaps is scarcely to be equalled, the mildness of the season, and the wild harmony of the birds that inhabited the branches of the pines, withdrew the attention of Madame de Rubine from the unpleasant conversation of Paoli, which was gloomy, morose, and artful. Chagrined at his behaviour, she avoided mentioning any thing relative to the Marchese, and interrogated him as little as possible as to their future residence. Dorothée and Enrîco were less disposed to silence; they saw much in the novelty of the objects presented to them to attract their admiration, and expressed it with all the simplicity of youth and nature. In the evening they arrived at a small post-house on the road, which was merely a cottage, though from its casual situation it had acquired some importance. As soon as the host appeared, Paoli inquired of him whether he could accommodate a party of travellers and mules with lodgings for the night. The good man seemed doubtful, and, after some minutes" conversation with his wife, informed them, that they had but two beds fit for the reception of strangers, and that one was already in use. "This is unfortunate, indeed," cried Julie, perplexed at this unexpected disaster, "as it is impossible to proceed any further tonight with two children, and one an infant." "I am heartily sorry," replied the host, with much apparent concern; "but what can be done in the affair? There is a gentleman in the best bed, who is so ill that my heart has ached for him ever since he has been here; and as to his daughter, poor young creature! She has taken no rest night or day since their arrival; and if he dies, which will probably be the case, she will certainly die with him!" "It is no matter who is ill," interrupted Paoli, haughtily, "we have no leisure to hear affecting stories; if we cannot procure beds here we must go on." "For heaven's sake," cried Julie, "do, if possible, contrive somewhere for the children to sleep; as to Dorothée and myself, we will submit to any thing if you will endeavour to accommodate them." The host, pleased with the gentle manners of Madame de Rubine, which derived no inconsiderable advantage from being contrasted with the callous moroseness of the steward, assured her, that he and his wife would sit up themselves rather than they should suffer such an inconvenience; and if she would accept of their bed, which was indeed a very common one, in addition to that reserved for the use of their guests, it would give him pleasure to have it in his power to oblige them. This proposal Paoli would willingly have accepted; but Julie's delicacy objected to making this temporary disarrangement, observing that a night's rest was too valuable to those who were condemned to arduous employment, to be sacrificed to the service of strangers. Her arguments were, however, powerfully overruled by the host, who did not fail to convince her, that his wife and himself were better able to sustain the loss of a nights repose than they who had undergone the fatigue of a long and tedious journey. After a little gentle reluctance, which the countenance of Paoli sternly reproved, she ventured to dismount, and was conducted into a small but decent room, enlightened with a blazened fire, which the hostess had just kindled for their reception, made of the dried stalks of the vine. The appearance of neatness and cheerfulness, which reigned throughout this humble dwelling, animated the drooping spirits of Madame de Rubine, who was now relieved from apprehension respecting the children, for whom she experienced the most tender concern and solicitude Paoli himself seemed to lose something of his natural gloom; he even condescended to converse with the landlord on the manners of the country, its verdure, and of the mode of cultivating the mountains. The hostess now appeared; who, spreading a clean coarse cloth upon the table, assured her quests, that had she known of their arrival, she would have prepared them a more comfortable meal. Their daughter, a pretty looking girl, apparently about eighteen, then entered with a small number of boiled eggs, some bread, chiefly composed of rye, and the vin du coté, which was all the house afforded The bloom of Madelina, which was the name of the host's daughter, could not fail to attract the attention of our travellers. She was not tall, but elegantly shaped; her eyes possessed all the vivacity and fire which is chiefly ascribed to the Gallic brunette, mingled with a certain expression of softness and sensibility, which added much to her native loveliness. Her fine fair hair, which was remarkably luxuriant, fell in curls about her neck, and shaded a forehead of the finest proportion, which was simply ornamented with a neat straw hat and black ribbons; the mode of dress which prevails, without individual exception, among the mountain nymphs of Switzerland. As soon as Dorothée had conveyed her young charges to bed, Julia questioned the landlady about the gentleman her husband mentioned, in terms so replete with compassion, being desirous of knowing whether he was indeed so ill as he had been represented, and if he had received any assistance from medicine. Alas! Madame," replied the hostess, "he seems to care for no advice but that of his ghostly confessor; and as to Mademoiselle his daughter, she has scarcely partaken of any refreshment since she has been here, and weeps continually. There is none but herself to attend upon her father; and though I have frequently offered my assistance, she has seldom accepted the proposal." "What a comfortless situation!" cried Madame de Rubine, much affected by the landlady's simple eloquence. "Ill from home, and without assistance, a young woman too, h
is only attendant! Can you not inform me from whence they came, and whither they are going and is it not possible we may be of service to them? The unfortunate have an irresistible claim on our protection, and may we not obey the impulses of inclination when they, are consistent with duty?" The hostess replied, "that she knew nothing more of them than that their names were La Roque; that they arrived at the inn about four days ago, since which time the poor gentleman had been so ill, that, though his disorder was somewhat abated, his recovery was still very doubtful. That his daughter seldom quitted his apartment except it was to prepare something of refreshment for her father, and seemed herself to be sinking under the calamity!" "This is very singular," cried Madame de Rubine, "that a gentleman, and an invalid, should travel into a distant country attended only by his daughter! There must be something in this circumstance of a very peculiar nature; I wish it was possible to know more of it. Do commend me to the lady, and tell her, though a stranger, I feel interested in her distresses, and should be happy to have it in my power to alleviate them. Surely ceremony in an affair of this nature may be dispensed with." "I will go to her instantly," returned the hostess, "poor young lady! I am sure so kind a message will comfort her. But would it not be better, Madame, if you was to take a night's rest before you visit them? You seem weary, and such a scene will, I fear, be too much for you." "We must not selfishly consider our own ease," replied Julie, "when with a little exertion we may render ourselves useful to others; besides, I have heard too much already to be able to sleep, and, as we are travelling in haste, we must pursue our journey to-morrow at an early hour." Whilst this conversation passed concerning the unfortunate La Roque, Paoli was silent; but his looks sufficiently expressed his disapprobation of her conduct. The luxury of doing good was a luxury unknown to him. Totally devoid of benevolence himself, he did not believe it really existed in the heart of another; and whilst Madame de Rubine was indulging the fond and not delusive hope, that she might soften with her tenderness the pang of misfortune, he was revolving in his mind what secret purpose of her's this was to answer, and reflecting whether it was not possible that treachery might not be concealed under the veil of humanity. From the infamy of his own conduct he formed his opinion of others; and when he could not make the intentions and actions of the greater part of the world wear a colour dark as his own, he believed himself outdone in cunning, and gave them credit for a superior degree of duplicity. In a few minutes the hostess returned with the warmest acknowledgments of gratitude from the gentleman and his daughter, with an earnest desire of thanking her personally for her attention. "Monsieur," added she, "has just awaked from a fine refreshing sleep, and seems better; if you will permit me, I will show you the room." She then conducted Julie up stairs, and having led her into the interior of the apartment, introduced her as the kind stranger, and withdrew. The young lady, who, notwithstanding the paleness of her looks, and the disorder of her dress, appeared extremely lovely, stepped forward to receive her, closing at the same time her missal, having been recently engaged in devotion, which she replaced by a small image of the Virgin, that adorned one of the angles. As her fair visitor began to unfold the reasons that had actuated her to this singular mode of procedure, she endeavoured to express the high sense she had of the obligation; but an impulse of gratitude stifled her utterance, and the words she would have articulated died upon her lips. She then gently undrew the curtain and having removed a stool, on which was placed a lamp and a crucifix, led her to the side of the bed. As she advanced, the invalid, attempting to raise himself, held out his hand to receive her; then gazing upon one of the most affecting Countenances he had ever seen with mingled surprise and admiration "May I ask, Madame," cried he, "to whom I am indebted for this unexampled benevolence, and what angel has directed you to sooth with your kindness the most forlorn and unhappy of men?" Julie having returned this compliment to her sensibility with her usual grace, apologized for the liberty she had taken; to which she assured him she was not instigated by a principle of idle curiosity, but from having cherished the idea that she might possibly have it in her power to alleviate his sufferings. She had been informed, she added, that he had at present no medical assistance; and as business of a peculiar nature rendered it necessary for her to quit the post-house early on the following day, she intended, with his permission to send a physician to attend him, from the nearest town. "You are too, too good, Madame," cried the amiable young stranger speaking through her tears; "but my father, I fear, will never consent to it. I have urged the necessity of it without ceasing; yet he is deaf to my entreaties." "Why, my child," interrupted La Roque, "should I endeavour to prolong a life only productive of evil? Have I not been an unnatural parent, a cruel husband? Yes," resumed he, fixing his hollow eyes upon a small picture, which was fastened round his neck with a black ribbon, "my Helena! My much injured Helena! I was thy murderer!" Then heaving a profound, convulsive sigh, he sunk again upon the pillow. "Oh! my father," replied Mademoiselle, in a voice rendered tremulous by emotion, "how unjust, how cruel are these self-accusations! And why will you thus aggravate affliction by remorse? Reflect how conducive to health is serenity of mind, and for my sake, if not for our own, embrace the means of recovery: for though retched at present from circumstances not in our power to prevent, let us look forwards with comfort and hope to better days." Madame de Rubine, who, during these pathetic exclamations had regarded Mademoiselle La Roque with a gaze of earnest inquiry, endeavoured, by the most forcible arguments she could summon to her aid, to reconcile him to the application of means to accelerate his recovery, not only for the sake of his child, who would feel so severely his loss, but from a principle of duty; assuring him, at the same time, that, if he absolutely rejected her proposal, she should depart with extreme reluctance. Finding, from the expressive looks of the invalid, that what she had advanced was not totally disregarded, she ventured to ask, why they travelled without a servant? and requested permission to inquire in the village for a suitable person to attend them. "Your generosity, Madame," returned La Roque, "is unbounded; and language can but feebly express the warmth of my feelings on this occasion. The servant who attended us from home was murdered by a party of banditti about nine leagues from this place, whilst we narrowly escaped with our lives! I was then ill, and the grief and apprehension this melancholy accident excited, increased my fever, which, I have some reason to hope, is now abating. Was your residence at the inn to be prolonged, I might possibly be induced to venture upon a story long and mournful; but thus much I will unfold: My real name is not La Roque; we are taking refuge from the vilest, the most infamous of men-a wretch, who has been long resolutely determined to accomplish my destruction!" "May I ask," cried Julie, with apparent astonishment, "who is this persecutor, and what are his intentions?" "His intentions are," returned La Roque, "to the murder of a son to add that of a father; and was there a greater fiend than himself, I would address him by that name, it is the Marchese de Montferrat." As he uttered these last words, Julie started, and turned pale. She had, however, presence of mind to conceal her emotion, and bade him proceed. "It would detain you too long, Madame," replied La Roque, "and my spirits are unequal to the task; but should we ever meet again you shall be thoroughly acquainted with the history of my misfortunes." "That we should ever meet again is, I fear, too improbable to be depended upon," cried Madame de Rubine, hesitatingly; "yet I feel much interested in your narrative. May I ask where is your intended residence?" "In one of the convents on the borders of Germany," returned Mademoiselle La Roque, "when my father's health will allow us to travel. "Then it is not impossible, as I am myself going to reside in Germany, and may be fortunate enough to succeed in my inquiries." "If then," cried the invalid, "you will so far honour me as to visit the convent, the name I mean to take is Father Francisco; and should my disorder prove fatal, my daughter will be there as sister Maria." Mademoiselle La Roque, who was sitting by the side of the bed attending earnestly to this discourse, wept as he reverted to the danger of his si
tuation. The idea of parting was not become familiar to her, and covering her face with her handkerchief, she sobbed aloud. Madame de Rubine, whose heart "was so finely tuned, and harmonized by nature", that it vibrated at the slightest touch of human calamity, endeavoured to console her young friend, by a assurance that her fears were ill-founded respecting her father, who was visibly in a state of convalescence; signifying also her intention of sending a physician and a servant to attend him. Having removed some slight objections that were offered by invalid, in opposition to her benevolent proposal, she arose to depart; and taking the hand of Mademoiselle with the tenderness and familiarity of an old acquaintance, she informed her, that she would join in her prayers for the recovery of Monsieur La Roque, and would spare no effort to discover the convent to which they were retiring. After many grateful adieus on the part of the strangers, his daughter following Julie out of the apartment, requested the favour of her name, that by mutual inquiries they might hasten second meeting. Not immediately prepared to reply, she hesitated, blushed, and was silent. The impropriety of mentioning a name she was soon to disown, was too evident; to be absent from her thoughts, and the embarrassment she had already discovered, filled her with new confusion. Yet aware of the necessity of framing a reply, she evaded the question, by informing her, that she would avail herself of every possible means of learning their place of abode, and would then take the earliest opportunity of acquainting her with every circumstance she was permitted to disclose. Though harassed and fatigued with traversing the mountains, Julie's mind was too much discomposed by this strange unexpected adventure to allow her to hope for repose. The story she had heard was imperfect, yet the villainy of the Marchese was evident; and she reflected with terror on the certainty that she had thrown herself upon the protection of a man capable of the most deliberate cruelty. She wished that her curiosity had either been gratified or unexcited; but was resolved to commence her inquiries immediately on her arrival in Germany. La Roque had mentioned their having fallen into the hands of banditti, who had murdered his servant, and that his daughter and himself had escaped with difficulty: consequently they must have been plundered by these lawless wretches, and probably had nothing left to defray their expenses, which accounted in some measure for his having no person to attend upon him. With sensation of exalted pleasure, peculiar to the noble and disinterested mind, she recollected she was empowered to assist them; but this was an affair that required to be conducted with the greatest delicacy imaginable, and she was for some time irresolute in what manner to proceed. At last, however, she thought of a expedient which would prevent every unpleasant consequence that might otherwise arise from her benevolent intention—She had lately received fifty ducats, the quarterly portion of her income; which, on mature deliberation, she determined to inclose in a paper and leave to be delivered by the hostess after her departure from the inn. Then advancing slowly towards the stairs, she paused for a moment to listen if Paoli was yet retired. Finding all was silent, and remembering the lateness of the hour, and that he was probably in bed, she ventured to proceed towards the kitchen, where she discovered the host, his wife, and Dorothée, sitting by a cheerful fire. Having asked for a pen and ink, which was instantly procured, she returned to her room, and framing an elegant apology, in which she folded up the ducats, gave it to the landlady, with orders to deliver it to Mademoiselle immediately on her quitting the inn. In the morning she arose early, and having satisfied the kind host for his civility, put another piece of gold into the hands of his wife, desiring her to provide a servant to attend upon La Roque and his amiable daughter, and then hastened to join the rest of the party, who had already mounted their mules. After they had each taken leave of the hospitable cottagers, they pursued their journey towards the Castle of Elfinbach which was the name of the mansion selected for them by the Marchese de Montferrat.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 330
