Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  CHAPTER VII.

  Principio muras, obscuraque limina porte

  Qita greffum extuleram, repeto et vestigia retro

  Observata sequor per noctem, et lumine lustro.

  VIRG. Æneid, II.

  AT the time appointed D’Alonville attended at the place where Mademoiselle Bessola had artfully hinted to him that he might meet her. He found her there, and prevailed on her at the door of the church to make with him a tour round another part of the town; and did not keep her long in suspence as to the purport of his business with her. Bessola, who had expected a declaration of love, seemed to be very much mortified at finding that the Chevalier merely meant to enquire after a parcel of old musty parchments; and when he expressed his concern, that he could not learn any thing that related to what was of so much consequence to her lady, she replied, “I am sorry, Sir, too, as I with my lady well; but I dare say these deeds, or whatever your call them, that there is such a racked about, are only the old Baron’s pedigrees of twenty mile long, that carry back his quarterings beyond the flood, as they have told me. If that is all I suppose there will be no great harm if they are never found again. The Abbe Heurthofen has told me sometimes in confidence that, in his opinion, these great families are no better than we ourselves, and that the subjection we are in to them—” “The Abbe Heurthofen!” exclaimed D’Alonville, interrupting her, “He holds these doctrines, does he?” “Oh Lord, yes, Sir,” replied Bessola, “and a great many others, of which you have very little notion; why Sir, he has been telling us lately—” D’Alonville listened eagerly to hear what Heurthofen had been inculcatin, when the damsel was interrupted in her discourse by Heurthofen himself, who suddenly came out from the door of an obscure house near which they were passing, as little wishing to be seen, as those who met him; but he was so near them that neither could escape. He spoke with some warmth, and without immediately regarding the persons who were thus in his path, to two or three strange figures enveloped in mantles, who hurried away. Heurthofen too, casting a significant glance at D’Alonville and his companion, concealed himself from their farther observation by hastening down a dark passage near the place. D’Alonville, who knew that his conference with Bessola might be misinterpreted, was only concerned on her account; and he was the more concerned, as she herself seemed to be much alarmed, and very apprehensive of the construction Heurthofen might put upon her, being thus observed traversing the streets of an evening with the Chevalier D’Alonville. Disappointed, equally perhaps on both sides, they parted before they reached the hotel of Madame de Rosenheim. Bessola, whom D’Alonville had flattered into some degree of good humour promising before she left him, that she would endeavour to gather from the childrens’ maid, who had lived longer in the family, such particulars as she could recollect relative to the subject of his enquiry. With this promise D’Alonville was compelled to be content for that night; and his Quixotism had by this time determined him to set out the next day at all events. A wish to revisit the spot of earth where his father lay buried, mingled itself with his eager desire to shew his gratitude to the family of Madame de Rosenheim; and these two motives were strong enough to make him disregard any dangers that might threaten him, in the execution of his design. He was, however, too solicitous for its success to omit any precaution that might enable him to get through it; and early in the morning he set about procuring the dress of a Flemish peasant. This was easily had, and he had just returned to his lodgings, after making the purchase, when that servant of Madame D’Alberg’s, who usually attended on her children, entered his apartment. This woman, who was older, and of a very different disposition from Bessola, gave him a great deal of information; she said, that having been often attending on the two little girls of whom the Baron was passionately fond, she had sometimes followed them into his room, when he had been busied among papers, and as the children ran about after him, she had seen him deposit papers in a strong closet in the anteroom to the chapel, which communicated by a private passage with his study; of which closet he always kept the key himself. The room was hung with coarse arras, which concealed the closet; but from her account, and the marks she made upon a card he gave her, he thought he perfectly understood where to look for it, and even hoped from her description, that if the castle of Rosenheim was, as there was reason to believe, in possession of the French patriots, this place might have escaped their plunder. The woman having told him all she knew, began to exert her powers of speech in describing all the dangers of his undertaking. He answered, that she was mistaken, in supposing he had determined to go himself, but that it was true, that being aware of the consequence the recovery of these deeds were to a family he had been so much obliged to, he was thinking of every method likely to contribute to that end. And he requested his eloquent informer to say nothing to her ladies of his enquiries, as he should explain to them himself his reasons for making them, witthout without which explanation they might appear extraordinary. The woman, with whom D’Alonville had always been a great favourite, promised too observe his directions, and withdrew full of admiration for the “brave pretty creature,” who she was persuaded meant to throw himself again into the midst of his enemies. As she went home, she pondered on what he had said to her; and determined, notwithstanding her promise to the contrary, to inform her ladies that she suspected the Chevalier D’Alonville had some intention of returning to the castle of Rosenheim; and this information she failed not to give; relating much that he had said to her, and more that she had fancied. Madame de Rosenheim was convinced, that should D’Alonville do this, he would go to his death and without being of the least use to her, sacrifice a life which might hereafter be useful to his country and honorable to himself; she therefore consulted with Madame D’Alberg in what way to prevent his rash attempt, and they agreed, that it would be proper to beg immediately to see him. But as their messenger was leaving the hotel, a letter was delivered to Madame D’Alberg, together with a small box. — The letter was as follows:

  MADAME,

  “When you read this, I shall be some miles on my journey towards Rosenheim. I could not learn how much the interest of your family was concerned in the recovery of those papers, which your generous solicitude for my father and me certainly occasioned your leaving there without feeling it an indispensable duty to attempt regaining them. If I fail, I fail in a cause which will consolate me in imprisonment, or even in death; If I succeed, I shall at least have made one attempt to express more than in mere words, the everlasting gratitude of my heart, and the respect and veneration with which I have the honor to be, Madame, your most obliged, and most devoted servant,

  LE CHEVALIER D’ALONVILLE.”

  Coblentz, 9th Nov. 1792.

  P.S. “The box I take the liberty to leave under your care, contains the croix worn by my father, and a small locket set with diamonds, of little value, which I used to wear round my neck — precious to me, because it contains a lock of my mother’s hair. As it is necessary for me to go in the disguise of a peasant, I will not risk being discovered by carrying these things about me — In your hands they will be safe; but, if I do not return in two months, you may conclude that my attempt has failed, and that my unhappy life is at an end — In that even may I entreat you, should it be possible, to send these memorials of a brother and nephew she loved, to Madame de Mount Basil, the only sister of my father.”

  The perusal of this letter filled the Baroness and Madame D’Alberg with concern. The former had an affection for the young and interesting stranger, as if he had been her son; and she could not think without terror and regret of the danger to which he exposed himself. Madame D’Alberg, though she said less, felt equal concern; but there was no remedy; and they were obliged to wait the event with patience. A few days after the departure of D’Alonville, Count D’Alberg arrived; and the whole family, Heurthofen still being one of it, removed to Vienna. Madame de Rosenheim related to the Count on his first arrival all the circumstances of their precipitate retreat from Rosenheim, and t
he danger they encountered on their way. He listened with the generosity and sensibility natural to his temper, to that part of her narrative that related to D’Alonville. He expressed himself much interested for a young man who had shewn so much tenderness to his father, and so much resolution in the service of his friends, and most heartily concurred in wishing his safe return, when he assured Madame de Rosenheim he would use all his interest in his favor. But after a day or two he seemed to have lost all these favourable impressions. He received with coldness and even with dislike every mention of D’Alonville, and at length became evidently impatient when ever Madame de Rosenheim spoke of him; while Madame D’Alberg perceived this change, and who perhaps guessed from whence it arose, ceased to speak of him at all. The Baroness, however, whom no caprice of others could divert from what she felt to be her duty towards her young friend, left at the hotel where she had lived at Coblentz directions where she was to be found at Vienna, together with a most pressing invitation to him to come to them there, and assurances that the Baron de Rosenheim would have infinite pleasure in being of service to him.

  D’Alonville in the mean time journeyed on foot and alone towards Rosenheim. He had been at the college at Doway, and afterwards in garrison at Lisle, and he knew the patios of the peasantry of the French and German frontiers. Animated even to enthusiasm by the hope of succeeding in his enterprize, the difficulties with which it was attended served only to make him pursue it with equalardour and caution. The second day brought him into the country where the soidisant patriot army was encamped. He continually fell among parties of them, but passed as a peasant, not without frequent attempts on their part to enlist a young man, whose height and figure made him so fit for a soldier. After two or three of these recountres he was perfectly master of their jargon, and telling some plausible story to each as he was interrogated, he passed without any adventure that materially retarded his course, till he arrived about noon on the fifth day at a village, which he thought he remembered, as being the first they had passed after they left Rosenheim. It was here that the country bore the most dreary aspect and presented all the horrors of the seat of war. The borough or large hamlet where he now was, had been just evacuated by a party of Sans Culottes, who had left to the miserable inhabitants hardly any other possession than their lives; and consternation and dismay appeared on the countenances of the few, who could not quit their ruined houses, because they knew not whether to go. D’Alonville, overcome with fatigue, and desirous of obtaining some information of the state of the castle before he proceeded thither, obtained leave of an unhappy widow, who with her children had remained in their plundered dwelling, to lie down for a few hours on the floor of one of her rooms, on a little dirty straw, the only bed that was left to her and her family. He told her, that he only requested her indulgence for a few hours till he was able to go on, and would pay her whatever he could afford for the accommodation she granted him. This amounted to nothing more than the straw bed, a piece of black bread, a few roots, and water; with which, however hunger and fatigue enabled him to make an hearty meal. His hostess, of whom only he ventured to enquired, informed him that the village and castle of Rosenheim were near two leagues distant; that she had heard the French had a detachment there, but she knew no more; and had probably found it so hard to support her own portion of calamity, that she had no time to enquire into what had befallen others. D’Alonville slept for two hours, and then, as he determined approach Rosenheim in the dusk of the evening, he paid for his coarse fare, and proceeded on his way. The evening came on before he got to the end of the first league; but was not yet dark, unless among the woods, which are here extensive; he followed the high road through them, but he met nobody: on his coming out of the last, he had just light enough to discern that the plain on which he entered had lately been the scene of skirmish. The bodies of men, to whom neither the conquerors or the conquered had afforded the rites of sepulture, and many horses lay scattered over the ground; the dreary silence was broken only be the hollow cries of the owls from the wood; and there was just that degree of light that served to lend artificial to the real horrors with which D’Alonville was surrounded, for the objects appeared indistinct, and uncertain. Near the middle of the plain, which was a fort of common field of about a mile over, he paused, and looking around him, endeavoured to recollect where he was. He though the remembered such a place within sight of the castle of Rosenheim; and casting his eyes towards the quarter where he supposed its scite was, with higher grounds behind it, he fancied he was right, though the hills and woods upon them appeared now only a mass of shadow, in which he could not distinguish the spires and towers of the castle; but the persuasion that he was so near the place he fought, gave him spirits to proceed with redoubled activity; and he walked another hour, by which time the few stars that could pierce the gloom of a November night, were his only guides. He found, however, without much difficulty, the road which, striking out of that to the village, led up among the woods to one of the castle gates. Though he was now within two hundred yards of the castle, and it was not yet a time of night when its inhabitants, whoever they were, were likely to be retired to rest; all was so perfectly quiet that D’Alonville began to believe, that if the enemy had been masters of it, they had abandoned it, and that some of the inhabitants of the village below had again taken possession of it for their ancient lords. — In this flattering hope, which promised him the easy execution of his design he walked on. He arrived at the area of the castle, if castle that might be called which had been reduced by fire to an almost shapeless mass of ruin. The strong wall within the fosse had been beat down; the fosse was so far filled with the materials, that it cold be passed over — the towers and battlements, half fallen, exhibited only a scene of desolation. The ruins yet smoked; and a dull heat and smell of smothered fire proceeded from them; the smell indeed had struck D’Alonville a considerable way off; but he imputed it to the burning of some village, which he supposed had, like too many others, been fired by the contending armies.

  A moment he stood amazed and aghast; hardly believing what he saw: for all around him had the gloomy uncertainty of an horrible dream. He listened to hear if the fire yet crackled beneath the smouldering walls; but it had exhausted its rage, and only the low murmurs of the wind that groaned among the hollow ruins, and the water that rippled around the fosse, interrupted the dreary stillness. D’Alonville turned his eyes towards that part of the castle which had overlooked the garden, where he had so lately deposited the sad remains of his only parent; but from the place where he was broken buildings, and the dim light of heaven appearing through dismantled windows, and walls perforated by fire.

  Without much reflecting on his purpose, he would have made his purpose, he would have made his way to the garden side; but a path which had formerly led round on that part which had formerly led round on that part of the hill, was now choaked with impassable masses of fallen stones; he saw no way of getting to any other part of the ruins, than by descending the way he came, and attempting the high road from the village on the other side; for, without much discrimination as to the reason or utility of what he was about to attempt, he felt an invincible desire to explore the crumbling remains of this venerable edifice; though he was convinced his mission was now hopeless. In pursuance of this wish, he returned by the same road that had brought him thither, arriving at the foot of the hill, turned into that which he imagined must lead him to the high road that passed through the village. Thither he found his way, but the houses, though not in ashes as he expected to see them, seemed to be almost all deserted. Desolation in its various forms appeared to have swept away at once the household of the seigneur, and the humble families of his vassals. D’Alonville recollected how, at a former period, and in still greater distress than he now felt, he had wandered among these cottages, entreating shelter for his father and that he was then repulsed; yet he forgave the people who had at that time denied him assistance, through fear of the very evil that was since come upon
them; and he wished to hear the sound of a human voice. He thought he might obtain some information relative to the destruction of the castle above, if he could find a peasant yet in the village; but he knew that to attempt entering houses, whose inhabitants, if any still remained, were probably in unceasing alarms for their lives, the only possession which remained to them, were in vain. while he deliberated, what to do, he saw a faint light from the lower windows of the very cottage where he had on is former melancholy journey received directions how to reach the castle — he approached the door — he listened — and fancied he heard in a flow in a particular cadence, a woman’s voice as if lulling a child to sleep, or attempting to soothe it. Being after a moments pause confirmed in this conjecture, he ventured to rap softly at the door; the same voice enquired who was there; and D’Alonville answering in the language of the country, “a friend,” was bid to come in. He entered the cottage, or rather cabin, and saw sitting near a few dying embers, a woman, who held one infant on her knees, while another lay sleeping on the ground on a few shreds of woollen that had once been a blanket; a rush light was fixed to the side of the chimney by an iron, and the whole appearance of the miserable room presented ideas of famine and despair. The woman, who seemed wholly occupied by the child in her arms, did not immediately look up, but when D’Alonville approached her, she turned, and seeing a stranger, shrieked; and in a tone of piercing anguish exclaimed that the enemy were returned. D’Alonville made haste to re-assure her; he protected that he was an unhappy young man, who had himself been driven from his home, who had lost his father, and was now — He stopped, however, on recollecting that it would be better not to say for what he was come; he therefore added, that he was come thus far to regain if he could his own country; and requested her to inform him whether he was likely to proceed to the edge of the French frontier in safety.