Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  Though every moment gave new strength to these unwelcome conjectures, D’Alonville would not give up the search; but as it was growing dark it was time to be satisfied, for he found no great temptation to pass the night in this comfortless abode. On the side of the hall opposite to him, he saw an open door; it led to a long cloister, lighted by narrow windows, which looked into a court so surrounded by high buildings, that it was almost as obscure as the place he was in; but he could just distinguish it to be the burying ground of the castle; and against the opposite wall was a monument and a cross; two or three other tombs, as it should seem of inferior magificence, were near it; but they were ancient, and half hidden by ivy. The contemplation of so gloomy a place was not much calculated to animate the wearied spirits of the anxious wanderer; he turned from it, and was about to go back to the hall, and from thence in search of other apartments, when he thought he heard a noise at the end of the cloister; it seemed at first, to be a low murmur, as of some person speaking — but listening again, he fancied, the second time, it was not a human voice, but rather, that of some animal, he supposed a dog. The place from whence it proceeded was so nearly dark, that he could distinguish nothing; but the low plaintive noise, like that a dog makes who is shut out from following his master, was now more distinct — He stepped eagerly forward, for he thought he had a clue to guide him to some human being; but his way was impeded by something which he did not perceive till his feet struck against it — he stooped to examine what it was, and shuddering, recoiled from the clay-cold touch of a corpse. Hardly proof against the encreasing horrors that surrounded him, he was almost involuntarily retreating towards the hall, when again a cry from the dog, and an impatient, though faint bark, as if the creature asked his assistance, determined him to discover where it was confined: a door was visible a few steps farther, by the light which came through the crevices; he stepped cautiously along, fearful of treading on the dead body, or on another, and at length reached the door — he listened while he felt about for the lock — and heard the dog again, who now scratched against the door, and repeated the mournful noise he had heard before; he found the lock, and with difficulty pushed the door open. He saw an almost circular room, which admitted light only from above; in it was one of those cages, in which it is said Louis the Eleventh was accustomed to confine the miserable objects of his revenge; and around it were several ancient machines of iron and wood, which D’Alonville took for the instruments of torture he had often heard of, but had never before seen. On the opposite side was a large hole in the pavement resembling the mouth of a well. The dog, who was so weak he could hardly move, came fawning towards D’Alonville as soon as he appeared; then crawled to the brink of this hideous chasm, and looking down, cried in a voice of distress; then again staggered towards D’Alonville, and again seemed to implore his assistance. He advanced and looked into the dark gulph; and it now occurred to him, that this was an oubliette , a kind of dungeon which he had often heard described; and it now struck him, that his friends had been pursued and surprised, and that the dead body he had found, as well as the master of this faithful animal, were among the victims who had perished in consequence of this discovery — perhaps one of them might be De Touranges, or St. Remi. His blood ran cold as he canvassed these sad possibilities, and he stood for some moments petrified with horror — In the mean time, the dog continued his importunities; till at length the poor animal, as if it gave itself up to despair, sighed deeply, and lay down; his head hanging almost over the brink of the pit. When it was thus calm, D’Alonville listened earnestly to hear if there was any noise within the gulph, for some living creature might be there: he fancied that he heard a low and tremulous groan: — he threw himself on the pavement, for the purpose of hearing more distinctly; and was soon assured, that some being existed within this frightful cavity. He called aloud, applying his mouth close to its edge— “Is any one within this dungeon?” — For some time his voice only returned to him in sullen echoes. He repeated the question yet louder; and listening with the most anxious attention, he heard an hollow and almost inarticulate sound from the dark bowels of the vault, “I die — help me for the love of God — It will be soon too late.”

  Animated by the humane hope of rescuing a fellow creature from a death so deplorable, D’Alonville no longer thought of himself; but collecting all his presence of mind, he again loudly demanded, what help he could give; and if the oubliette was very deep? by the distance from whence the voice seemed to come, he hoped it was not. The encreasing darkness made him dread left it would be impossible to rescue the wretched prisoner that night; and he seemed to be so exhausted that it was improbable he should live till morning. D’Alonville looked about to see if there was any thing he could let down; and a long coil of rope, probably the same as been used to bury the miserable being who implored his assistance, lay not far from the jaws of this grave of the living. D’Alonville asked, if he believed he had strength enough to help himself with it to ascend. The unfortunate wretch who was roused to exertion by this hope of deliverance, answered, that he though he could: — But D’Alonville doubting it, had the precaution to form a strong loop at one end, and to tie the other to a large iron ring which projected from the wall; for he feared his own strength would be unequal to the weight. The wretched man, exhausted as he had before appeared, seemed to have regained a portion of resolution; he secured the rope round him — D’Alonville exerted his whole force; and with incredible efforts he found he had got the unhappy sufferer so high, that he supported himself with his hands and knees against the rugged stones towards the mouth of the dungeon, here it was narrower than below. It would be difficult to describe what were the sensations of D’Alonville when he saw moving beneath him a human being whom he had thus rescued from destruction. Another effort brought him to the brink of the cavern — he stepped upon it — he was in safety — but he leaned against his benefactor, and, unable to speak, fainted away.

  D’Alonville recollected, that not knowing whither he was going, or how he was to fare, and very certain that he should be out all night, he had put a small bottle of cordial into his pocket at his leaving Merol, with a piece of bread. He endeavoured to make the apparently dying man swallow a few drops of the liquid; and in some minutes he revived; but he appeared equally incapable of giving any account how he came into that place, or of moving from it; yet the strange circumstances around him, and a crowd of frightful possibilities that crowded into his thoughts, made D’Alonville believe it more than time to attend to his own safety, as well as that of the poor creature with him; who appeared (though nothing could be judged from his dress, for he had only a shirt and hussars on) to be a man of inferior rank. In about a quarter of an hour he was enough recovered to relate, in a weak and broken voice, that he had been gard de chasse to the Marquis de Touranges — but having said so, he stopped, as if afraid of proceeding. — D’Alonville re-assured him, by protesting that he was the friend of the Marquis, and had come thither to meet him, and the Abb — St. Remi. Thus re-assured, the poor man, endeavouring again to recollect and explain himself, went on to relate, that he had been left with another huntsman and two women servants in the care of the castle, where they remained long unmolested, as they did not attempt to check the peasants in their depredations on the game, and the woods of their lord, which would have been to no purpose. That about two months before, they were surprised by the return of the Marquis, whom they had believed dead: that he concealed himself in the castle, occasionally, for some time, and many of his friends resorted to him by night; but that about ten days, or a fortnight before, some accident discovered their rendezvous to the municipality of Merol; who surrounded the castle, and took many prisoners, whom they carried away.

  “And were your Lord, and the Abbé de St. Remi, in the number of these prisoners?” enquired D’Alonville. “I believe they escaped,” replied the man; “but the confusion was so great that I do not certainly know. As I passed among the crowd without being noticed I remained in t
he castle five or six days afterwards, concealing myself as well as I could, and expecting a return of the officers; but I knew not whither to go; and had no other means of subsistence.”

  D’Alonville found something obscure and confused in this part of the poor man’s account; but in such a state, great precision could not have been expected, even if he had not been conscious; as perhaps he might be, that there was something to hide.

  After some hesitation, as if to recover his recollection, he proceeded —

  “While I was in hourly fear of being taken prisoner too, Sir, the peasants of the two small bourgs of St. Etienne, and la Chapelle du Bois, which are within two leagues, assembled in a body, and came to plunder the castle. I opposed them with two or three other persons whom I procured to stay with me; but we were overpowered by numbers. One of my companions was killed, and they threw me into the dungeon in revenge for the trouble I had given them; telling me, that I should stay there a day or two to see how I liked the place, where my ci-devant lord had it in his power to condemn to death any one who offended him. It is two days since I have been there. I have heard them since about the castle, and I exhausted myself in imploring their mercy in vain. They came not; and had you not found me by means of my faithful Diane, I must very soon have perished.”

  Though D’Alonville, amidst the terrifying circumstance, and the inevitable confusion of his own mind, thought he perceived that the account thus given was not strictly true; it was now no time to controvert its veracity — all hopes of rejoining his friends here were at an end; and nothing remained to be done but to take his departure as soon as possible, from a scene of desolation and murder, which the most undaunted heart could not contemplate without shrinking. The miserable shivering wretch, so recently rescued from the grave, where he had been buried alive, implored his protector not to forsake him; and the humanity of D’Alonville was too much awakened, to allow him to think of consulting merely his own safety, without attending to that of this unfortunate being. The idea of passing a night on the brink of the hideous cavity from whence this poor sufferer had arisen, and among the damps issuing from a chain of subterraneous vaults into which it led, with a dead body at the door, was extremely uncomfortable; and D’Alonville asked, if there was no part of the castle, where they could be less annoyed by these horrors; for to quit it before the break of day would have been hardly practicable, even if the wretched man had been able to set out, which he was not. Tho’ much restored, he was still feeble and trembling, the powers of his mind were evidently alienated by the powers of his mind were evidently alienated by the fear and famine he had suffered, and his spirits were so entirely depressed, that he clung to D’Alonville with the imbecility of age or infancy.

  A dead silence followed the questions D’Alonville had been asking; the man, quite exhausted, had thrown himself at his length on the pavement; his dog, resting his head on the knees of his master, seemed to be content that he had found him, and ready to share his fate. The encreasing obscurity of evening gave dreariness to every object; and what faint light there was, falling from the roof of this sepulchral like room, on the ghastly countenance, and emaciated form of the man, and the instruments of imprisonment and torture that were round the walls, made D’Alonville think it the most dreadful place he had ever been in, and this, the most terrible period of his life, since the hour when he apprehended the death of his father, without having the power of assisting him. That native courage and indifference to personal inconvenience, which had then supported him, were still the same; but he had no longer the same motives for their exertion. Discouraged not only by having lost sight of his friends, but by the fear of their having fallen into the hands of their persecutors, baffled in his generous hopes of serving and saving De Touranges, and seeing but little probability even of returning to England, or to Flanders, he would have sunk into despondence, had he not roused himself by the recollection of his father’s last injunction, and disdained to give up to the pilfering peasantry of an obscure district, a life which might yet be honourably lost in that service to which it had originally been dedicated.

  The half dead object on whom he looked with mingled emotions of pity and horror, threatened to be a very dangerous companion to him in returning to Merol, for it was very likely he might be known to be a very dangerous companion to him in returning to Merol, for it was very likely he might be know as a servant of the Marquis — yet to Merol it seemed necessary to return. D’Alonville, after some meditation, desired the man to recollect if he had no means of striking a light and whether the castle did not afford some kind of food which would give him the strength to quit it. Thus urged, self-preservation once more awakened the man to some activity. He said, he believed that he could find means to strike a light, but he did not imagine that the plunderers, who had been for so long time in possession of the castle, had left any thing eatable within its walls.

  D’Alonville now assisted him to rise, and bid him lean on his arm, while they explored, amid the almost total darkness that now surrounded them, the passages and avenues of this gloomy building.

  CHAPTER VII.

  “I have supped full, with horrors.”

  SHAKESPEARE.

  AGAIN the murdered body, which had before impeded his passage, made D’Alonville start, and pass it shuddering. The poor man seemed ready to faint; and fear seemed again to have taken such possession of him, that it was with difficulty he could be persuaded to go on. The wind groaned mournfully along the cloister, and muttered round the buttresses without. The man, in a low tremulous voice, entreated D’Alonville to stop— “Hark!” said he, “there is a noise — I hear them in the hall!” — Oh! Sir, we shall be murdered at last!” D’Alonville listened— “I hear nothing,” said he, “but the wind — Your past suffering have made you too apprehensive — let us, however, proceed cautiously; though I think it is most likely, that the persons who have robbed the castle retired in the evening with their plunder, and that they will not return till morning to renew their robbery.” Again they stopped and listened, but still heard only the wind; and the gard de chasse, a little re-assured by D’Alonville’s reason and resolution, proceeded with more courage.

  They entered the great hall; but it was by this time so dark, that they were obliged to feel their way, and D’Alonville expected every moment to find another corpse in his path. At length they reached a sort of anti-room, where the man felt for, and found closet, in which were materials for striking a light, and some pieces of candle. Thus furnished with the means of finding their way, they descended to the kitchen, an immense vault-like room, where the almost famished wretch, fortunately found enough to appease the hunger that devoured him: D’Alonville, wearied as he was, felt no disposition to eat, but he took a piece of bread, and again began to reflect on the strange situation he was in, and the necessity of quitting it as soon as possible; but the night was now so entirely obscure that he could not distinguish any object whatever without; he thought there was equal danger in remaining, or in going out with a light, if any lurking villains were about the caste; and he doubted whether it would be possible without a light to cross the morass. While he mediated the gard de chasse continued to devour whatever he could find, though he shared it with the faithful animal which had been the means of his preservation, and which appeared as much famished as his master. Unable to decide on what would be the safest method to pursue, D’Alonville at length asked the man his opinion and expressed his fears left the light should betray them. Terror, which had for a while subsided, again took possession of Rameau (which was the name of the garde gard de chasse) and he declared, that they had better incur any hazard than let any signs appear without that there were persons in the castle. His extreme pusillanimity, and the helpless reliance he seemed to have on D’Alonville, would have disgusted his protector, if the dreadful circumstances he had so lately been in, had not appeared an apology for every thing. D’Alonville bade him recollect how much their mutual safety depended on his resolutions and cal
mness; but he found him incapable of listening to any thing but his fears — Yet from the profound silence around the castle there seemed, at least, nothing to apprehend. The poor fellow was, however, absolutely delirious; and the eager manner in which he had devoured the food he had found, seemed to have deprived him of the little remaining reason he possessed, instead of recruiting his strength.

  In a situation so singular and deplorable D’Alonville knew not how to act. He could easily have gone alone from a place where certainly the morning ought not to find him; but his good nature and humanity repressed, as soon as it arose, the idea of abandoning to a fate as horrid as that from which he had rescued him, an unhappy man, whose sufferings he should in this case only have prolonged. The poor wretch was in an agony when D’Alonville spoke of the danger they were both in; yet when he bade him think how they could but escape those dangers, he seemed to be deprived of every ray of sense, and became a perfect driveller — His eyes were glaring and wild — his countenance pale and haggard — He could with difficulty walk — and D’Alonville was convinced, that if he left the castle, he should not be able to conduct him ten paces.

  At length he determined, as it was not yet more than ten o’clock, to insist upon Rameau’s lying down to sleep somewhere for an hour or two. He was almost convinced, that there were no persons around the castle at this moment; it was very improbable that any one would appear there before the break of day; and he hoped, if his luckless companion was restored to his senses by a few hours ret, that he should be able to see him in someplace of safety before this danger arose; which might, indeed, after all, be chimerical.