Clermont/Chapter 18
CHAP. VIII.
And art thou—of that sacred band?
Alas! for us too soon, tho' rais'd above
The reach of human pain, above the flight
Of human joy.
The well-known accents of Father Bertrand recalled the fainting spirits of Madeline; never were sounds before so delightful to her ear. She uncovered her face, started up, and exclaimed, "Gracious Heaven! is it possible! do I really behold Father Bertrand!"
"My dear young lady (said the good old man, with his usual mildness), what is the matter;—is our beloved benefactress worse?"
"No, I trust and believe not (replied Madeline); her sleep has been long and tranquil."
"If she is not worse then—if you did not come to call me to her, what could have brought you to the hall?"
Madeline, as briefly as possible, informed him; and in doing so, notwithstanding she wished to conceal it, in order to avoid the imputation of folly, betrayed the fright he had given her.
The good father was too well acquainted with human nature not to know, that the present hour was an improper one for reasoning with her against the weakness which exposed her to it. He determined, however, from a wish of promoting the happiness of a young creature, which he knew nothing would so materially injure as superstition, to take another opportunity of admonishing her against it.
He informed her, that his continuing the night in the Castle was owing to the express desire of the Countess; "but instead of going to bed (proceeded he), I procured the key of the library, well knowing, from the violence of the storm, that I could not sleep." He sighed as he spoke, and his eyes were involuntarily raised to Heaven.
Madeline looked at him with pity and reverence.
"Poor Caroline (said she to herself) is now present to his thoughts; Oh! what must have been his excruciating anguish at the time of her death, when even now, though so many years have passed since that event, his regret is so poignant."
"Never (cried she, addressing him), never again may I hear a storm so tremendous! I fear we shall have melancholy accounts tomorrow of the mischief it has done."
"I hope not (replied the Father); he, whose mighty spirit walks upon the careering winds, will, I humbly trust, prevent their fury from being destructive."
Madeline now enquired whether he heard the noise which had so much alarmed her and her companions. He replied in the affirmative, but said it had come from the gallery instead of the hall, and that he would now go up, and try to discover the cause of it, accompanied by Madeline. He accordingly ascended, and they soon discovered that it had been occasioned by the fall of the Countess's picture.
"Do you now, my child (said the Father), retire, and try to take some repose; for your spirits have been much agitated. I rejoice to hear that the rest of our noble friend has been so good; 'tis a favourable symptom; may the morning light witness the realization of the hopes it has inspired!"
"Heaven grant it may!" fervently rejoined Madeline. She then bade the good man farewell, and begged he would, on descending to the hall, try whether the light she had dropped was extinguished.
The moment she re-entered the dressing-room, Agatha and Floretta eagerly enquired if they were right in their conjectures. She assured them they were not, and then informed them of the cause of their alarm.—This excited little less consternation than if she had told them the armour was fallen;—so prone is superstition to dress up every circumstance in the garb of terror.
The dawn was now peeping through the shutters; the lights were therefore put out, and Agatha and Floretta then again began to slumber before the fire. They were soon, however, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, which came with such violence against the doors, as almost to burst them open.
"Heaven defend us! (said Agatha), the storm grows worse, instead of better."
"Hark (cried Madeline, with a wild expression in her countenance, and laying her hand upon the arm of Agatha)—Hark!—there surely was a groan mingled in that blast."
"No, Mam'selle (said Agatha), 'tis only the howling of the wind."
"Again! (exclaimed Madeline);—Oh Heavens! (starting from her chair) 'tis the voice of the Countess!"
She rushed into the chamber, followed by her companions. The curtains of the bed were hastily drawn back, and the Countess was discovered in a fit: a scream of mingled terror and anguish burst from Madeline, and sinking on her knees, she clasped the nerveless hands of her friend between her's.
Agatha and Floretta used every effort to recover their lady, and at length succeeded. On opening her eyes, she turned them round with a wild stare, as if forgetting where she was, or by whom surrounded. Her recollection, however, appeared soon to return; her eyes suddenly lost their wildness, and were raised for some minutes to Heaven.—She then looked at Madeline, and spoke, but what she said was unintelligible: she seemed sensible of this herself, by mournfully shaking her head. Gently disengaging one hand from Madeline, she pointed it towards the door, looking earnestly in her face as she did so, as if to say, she wished her to bring some person to her.
"Father Bertrand!" cried Madeline, starting up.
A faint smile from the Countess was an affirmative; and she was flying from the chamber, when she was suddenly stopped by a deep groan.
"Has she relapsed?" cried she with a trembling voice, and a despairing look, again advancing to the bed.
"Never to recover, I fear," said Agatha, bursting into tears.
"'Tis too true! (cried Floretta), she is gone for ever."
Madeline grew sick; she could not weep; she could not speak; she could scarcely breathe; her sight grew dim; her head grew giddy; and the objects that she could discern seemed swimming before her. The grief and consternation of her companions prevented them from noticing her, till they saw her catching at a bed-post for support.—They then directly hastened to her assistance, and supporting her to a chair, opened a window. The keenness of the morning air, together with the water they sprinkled on her face, somewhat revived her, and a shower of tears came to her relief.
Agatha, whom her death-like coldness, and ghastly paleness greatly alarmed, would have led her from the room, but she resisted the effort, and tottering to the bed, threw herself upon it, and bedewed the pale face of her dear, her invaluable benefactress with tears of unutterable, of heart-felt anguish. Agatha now desired Floretta to ring a large bell, which hung in the gallery. This in a few minutes collected all the servants, and they came crowding into the room, preceded by Father Bertrand, and apprised by the sudden alarm of the melancholy event which had happened.
Few scenes could have been more distressing than that now exhibited by the old domestics, as they wept round the bed of their beloved lady, under whose protection they had passed the prime, and trusted to have closed the evening, of their days.
"Oh my friends and fellow-servants! (cried Agatha, whom grief made eloquent), our happiness in this world is gone for ever;—but 'tis a comfort to think, that, from the common course of nature, none of us can expect much longer to continue in it."
"My friends (said Father Bertrand, collecting all his spirits to his aid, and wiping away the tear which had bedewed his pale cheek), my friends (looking round him with the most benign compassion), moderate those transports of grief, by patiently acquiescing in the will of the Almighty; endeavour to deserve a continuance of some of his blessings.
"Peace (continued he, advancing to the foot of the bed, and kneeling before it, while his arms folded upon his breast, and his head gently reclined, seemed to denote that submission to the divine will which he preached to others), peace to the soul of the departed; and may we all, like her, be prepared for our latter end!"
"Let all (cried Agatha, as he rose from his knees) whose services are not required, now retire from the room."
Father Bertrand approached Madeline, who still lay, with her face covered, upon the bed; he took her hand, and entreated her to rise, but she had neither power to refuse nor to obey. Perceiving her situation, he ordered her to be taken up, and carried into the next room; he was shocked beyond expression at the alteration which grief had effected in her appearance; her cheek and lips had lost all tinge of colour, and her eyes appeared too dim for her to distinguish any object.
Restoratives were administered to her, and by degrees the tears, which extreme agony had suspended, again began flowing, and somewhat relieved her.
Father Bertrand sat by her in silence; he knew the tribute of affection and sorrow must be paid, nor did he attempt to check it, till the first transports of the latter, by indulgence, were a little abated. He then addressed her in the mildest accents of consolation:—
"Oh! my daughter (he said), let the assurance of the felicity to which the spirit of your friend has departed, comfort you for her loss; life at best is but a state of pilgrimage. God, no doubt, to prevent our too great attachment to a state which we must resign, has chequered it with good and evil, so that few, after any long continuance in it, can, if possessed of reason and religion, regret a summons from it. To the Countess it was a happy release; her virtues had prepared her to meet it with fortitude, and her sorrows with pleasure; she knew she was about appearing before a merciful Being, who would reward the patience with which she bore those sorrows—sorrows that corroded the springs of life: so far am I permitted to say, in order to try and reconcile you to her loss, but the source of them I am bound to conceal. Endeavour (he proceeded) to compose yourself; Madame D'Alembert may soon be expected, and it will be some little comfort to the poor mourner to receive your soothing attentions. I am now compelled to retire to the convent, but at the close of day I shall return with some of my brother monks to say mass for the soul of the departed. farewell! (rising as he spoke) may the blessing of heaven rest upon you, and peace soon revisit your heart!"
He had scarcely left the room ere Agatha entered it. "Had you not better lay down Mam'selle (said she, in a voice broken by sobs); for my part I can hold up no longer; as soon as I have given orders about what is to be done I shall go to bed, and I little care if I never rise from it." The melancholy accent in which these words were pronounced, redoubled the tears of Madeline.
"We have lost indeed (cried she) the kindest, the best of friends; never can we expect again to meet with one like her."
The door now softly opened, and Floretta made her appearance; she came with a message of condolence from the physician, who had just arrived, to Madeline, and a request to know whether he could in any manner be serviceable to her.
"No (replied Madeline, mournfully) he cannot."
"The Notary has accompanied him (resumed Floretta) and he desired me to tell you that had he imagined the Countess so near her end, he would, notwithstanding the weather, have come hither yesterday."
"Alack—(cried Agatha) I grieve he did not; my Lady's kind intentions towards you will never now be fulfilled."
The idea of their being frustrated could not, in the present state of Madeline's mind, excite one sigh. Pale, faint, exhausted, she at last complied with the request of Agatha, and retiring to her chamber, threw herself upon the bed; but not even for an instant did sleep shed oblivion over her sorrows; she found the words of the Poet true, that
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where fortune smiles, the wretched he forsakes,
Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsully'd by a tear.
Rather fatigued than refreshed by laying down, she arose in about an hour, and opening a window, seated herself by it; for there was a faintness over her which she thought the air might remove. The heaviness of the sky was now dispersed; the sun looked out with refulgent glory, and the winds, whose fury had scattered the lawn with shattered boughs of trees and fragments from the chateau, were hushed into a calm; the trees, still surcharged with rain, displayed a brighter green, "and glittering as they trembled, cheered the day;" while the birds that sprung from amidst them, poured forth the softest notes of melody; but not that melody, not the blessed beams of the sun which it seemed to hail, could touch the sad heart of Madeline with pleasure.
"Ah! (she cried) after such a night as the last, how soon on the morning would my dear benefactress, if she had been spared to us, have gone forth to enquire what mischief was done, and give orders for repairing it! Oh! ye children of poverty and distress—ye, like the unhappy Madeline, have lost a mother."
Madeline knew not the strength or tenderness of her attachment to the Countess till she was deprived of her; in losing her, she lost all hope of comfort; for to none, as to her, could she impart the fears, the wishes, the expectations, which had so long, and still at times, agitated her heart; and which, by being concealed, she knew would fatally corrode its peace. Yet not for the tenderness which had poured balm upon its sorrows, not for the counsel which had regulated its impulses, not for the wisdom which had guarded its inexperience, did she lament alone; exclusive of all consideration for herself she bitterly wept the death of her benefactress, and imagined, was she but alive again, her own tranquillity would in some degree be restored, though the next moment she should be transported to an immeasurable distance from her.
The circumstances which occasioned her death, heightened the grief of Madeline for it, and the flattering hopes she had conceived of her amendment, from her uninterrupted rest, also aggravated her feelings.
She continued alone a considerable time; at length Agatha entered with some coffee. "I see Mam'selle, (cried she) that like me you could not rest; I might indeed as well have staid up as gone to bed."
"No, (said Madeline, looking mournfully in her face) I could not rest."
"Pray Mam'selle, (cried Agatha, as she laid the coffee on a little table before her) pray Mam'selle, do not take on so badly; though you have lost a good friend, you have still a kind father to love and to protect you; not like me, who in losing my lady, have lost my only friend. Ah, Mam'selle! (dropping into a chair opposite Madeline) 'tis a grievous thing for a poor old soul like me, to be neglected and forlorn."
"You will never be deserted or forlorn, I trust, and believe (cried Madeline); the noble daughter of your dear departed lady will never, I am convinced, desert any one that she loved."
"She is a noble lady, indeed (said Agatha) but——"
"But what?" eagerly interrogated Madeline, on her suddenly pausing.
"Nothing, Mam'selle, (replied Agatha, sighing; then as if to change the discourse) do pray, Mam'selle (she continued) try and eat some breakfast; indeed, if you do not take more care of yourself, than you at present seem inclined to do, you will probably bring on a fit of sickness; and what a grievous thing would it be for my poor young lady on arriving, to find, not only her mother dead, but you unable to give her any comfort."
"Alas! (said Madeline) whether well or ill, I fear I shall be equally unable to give her comfort."—Agatha again pressed her to take some breakfast, but grief had destroyed all inclination for doing so, and the housekeeper soon left her to her melancholy meditations.—At the usual dinner hour they were again interrupted by the re-entrance of Agatha, who came to entreat her to descend to the dinner parlour. "Do, pray do, dear Mam'selle (she said); if you eat nothing, it will even do you good to stir a little."
Madeline had felt so forlorn whilst by herself, that she did not refuse this entreaty, and accordingly went down stairs; but when she entered the parlour—that parlour where she had first been welcomed to the chateau—where she had been embraced as the adopted child of the Countess—where she had passed with her so many happy hours, the composure she tried to assume vanished; she involuntarily started back, and bursting into tears, would have returned to her chamber, had not Agatha prevented her; the pathetic entreaties of the faithful creature at length prevailed on Madeline to sit down to the table, where she also insisted on Agatha's seating herself; but she could not eat—she could only weep.
The sorrowful looks of the servants—the solemn stillness which reigned throughout the chateau, so different from its former cheerfulness, augmented her tears. Agatha judged of Madeline by herself, and thinking those tears would be a relief to her overcharged heart, she did not attempt to stop them. They sat together till the close of day, when Agatha entreated her to retire to her chamber, and try and take that rest which she had been so long deprived of, and so materially wanted.
Madeline was convinced she could not sleep; but she did not hesitate to return to her chamber, at the door of which Agatha left her. Scarcely had she entered it, ere she resolved on going to her benefactress's, and indulging her sorrow by weeping over her remains. She accordingly proceeded thither; but when she reached the door, she paused, and shuddered at the solemn scene before her.
The chamber was hung with black, and a black velvet pall was thrown across the bed, which formed a melancholy contrast to the rich crimson curtains. Before the bed several rows of large wax tapers burned, and cast a gleam upon the face of the Countess that increased its ghastliness. Awe-struck, Madeline wanted resolution to enter; and it might perhaps have been many minutes ere she could have summoned sufficient for that purpose, had she not beheld Agatha and Floretta sitting in a remote corner of the room. She then, with light and trembling steps, approached the bed. The moment she cast her eyes upon the inanimate features of her friend, the composure, which sudden awe had inspired, gave way to her affliction.
"Is she gone? (she cried, looking round her with an eye of wildness, as if forgetting the scene of the morning—as if doubting the reality of what she saw); Oh! too surely—too surely she is (she continued, wringing her hands together); and who, in this wide world, can supply her loss to Madeline? Oh, most excellent of women! (kneeling beside the bed, while tears streamed in torrents down her cheeks); Thou—friend to the friendless—'tis now I feel the full extremity of grief; the sorrow, which I so lately deemed excruciating, seems light, seems trivial, in comparison of that which I now feel. Had you died (she went on, after a momentary pause, and as if the dull cold ear of death could have heard her pathetic lamentations), had you died according to the common course of nature, though my loss would have been equally great, my grief, I think, would not have been so poignant. To die by such horrible means (she added, with a kind of scream in her voice, and starting up as if she saw that very moment the poignard of the assassin pointed at her own breast); to die by such horrible means, is what overpowers me. Oh why—why did I not follow you the fatal night you went to the chapel?"
"Dear Mam'selle (said Agatha, rising and approaching her), try to compose yourself; no grief, no lamentations can recall my blessed lady."
"Oh! Agatha (cried Madeline), 'tis not a common friend; 'tis a mother I lament;—she was the only person from whom I ever experienced the tenderness of one. Do you not wonder (she continued, grasping the arm of Agatha) how any one could be so wicked as to injure such a woman—a woman who never, I am confident, in the whole course of her life, injured a mortal; whose hand was as liberal as her heart, and whose pity relieved, even when her reason condemned the sufferer? Would you not have thought, Agatha (again bending o'er the bed, from which she had a little retreated) that the innocence of that countenance might have disarmed the rage of a savage? What a smile is there still upon it; it seems to declare the happiness which is enjoyed by the spirit that once animated it!"
"My dear young lady (said Agatha, in a low voice), recollect yourself;—remember the promise you gave my lady in the chapel, never to mention or allude, by any means whatsoever, to the transaction that happened there."
"I thank you, Agatha (cried Madeline), for awakening me to recollection; never should I have forgiven myself, had I broken my promise. I will in future endeavour to have more command over my feelings." She still, however, remained by the bed, holding the arm of Agatha.
"And to this cold, this ghastly, this inanimate state, must we all, one day come!" she cried.
"Yes (replied a hollow voice behind her, the voice of Father Bertrand, who, unperceived, had entered some minutes before, accompanied by some of his brother monks, for the purpose of saying mass for the soul of the departed); the crime of disobedience has doomed us to that state, and the paths of fame and fortune lead but to the coffin and the grave."
He now proceeded to inform Madeline of the purpose for which he had entered.
"If (cried he) you think you can, without interrupting, attend to our solemn rites, and join in our orisons, remain; if not, retire to your chamber."
"I do think I can (replied Madeline); I also think, that, by staying, my mind will be composed."
Some of the most ancient of the domestics now entered, and the sacred service was begun, and ere concluded, the turbulence of Madeline's grief was abated: when over, Father Bertrand, who was tenderly interested about her, insisted on her retiring to her chamber, and gave her his benediction as she withdrew.
Overcome by fatigue, both of body and mind, she repaired to bed; but the sleep into which she sunk was broken and disturbed by frightful visions, and she arose pale and unrefreshed, at the first dawn of day, to seek some of her fellow-partners in affliction. To describe her feelings this day would be but to recapitulate those of the preceding one. They were now, as they were then, alternately perturbed, alternately calm; and Father Bertrand, whose sympathy and counsel alone caused that calm, was convinced time only could restore them to their wonted state. She this day performed the painful task of acquainting her father with the melancholy loss they had sustained, which she did as follows:—
To M. Clermont,
"WHERE shall I find words to soften the melancholy tidings I have to communicate. Oh! my father, vainly would I try for expressions to do so; no language, no preparation I could use would mitigate them to you; but what I find it impossible to do, your own reason and religion will, I trust, perform.
"Heaven has been pleased to recall our estimable friend, my dear and lamented benefactress, to itself. The dawn of yesterday saw the seal of death impressed upon those eyes which scarcely ever opened but to cheer her family, or witness some good deeds of her own performing. So short was her illness, so unexpected her dissolution, that I feel myself at times quite bewildered by the shock, and tempted to think, that what has lately happened is but the dream of my own disordered imagination.
"Is she dead? I repeatedly ask myself;—the Countess de Merville dead? she whom but a few days ago I beheld so apparently well and happy? Alas! the gloom of every surrounding object gives a fatal affirmative to those self-questions.
"I wander to her favourite apartments, as if to seek for her, who never more will re-enter them; and start back, chilled and affrighted by their neglect and desertion, as if it was unexpected. Oh, my father, what a change has a few days produced! The sound of social mirth no longer enlivens the Castle; a death-like stillness reigns throughout it, scarcely ever interrupted but by the wind sighing through its long galleries, as if in unison with the grief of its inhabitants.
"Things without appear almost as dreary as they do within. The fury of a late storm has scattered the lawn with broken boughs and fragments from the chateau, and thus given the place an appearance of desolation saddening in the extreme. The poor peasants, too, who are employed within the wood, appear (to me at least) quite altered. They seem to pursue their labours with reluctance, and, often suspending them, look towards the Castle with a melancholy air, as if to say the comforts that cheered their toils, and supported their strength, died with its honoured and lamented owner.
"Their loss, indeed, is unspeakable;—not content with relieving the objects chance threw in her way, she herself explored the recesses of poverty, and, like a ministering angel from heaven, dispensed charity and compassion wherever she went. She delighted too in contriving little pastimes which should give relaxation to labour, and smiled to see the rough brow of industry smoothed by pleasure, and the peasants sporting on the sod which they had cultivated.
"This morning, as I stood at an upper window, which overlooked the old trees that waved before it, and saw the distant fields already beginning to wear the yellow tinge of Autumn; I recollected the manner in which she had planned to celebrate the conclusion of the ensuing harvest: she was to have given a feast and a dance upon the lawn to all her tenants, and I was to have mixed in the latter with the peasant girls. Alas! little did I think, when she spoke to me about it, that, ere the period destined for it, she would be laid within the narrow house of clay.
"To quit this place directly, to return to you, my dear father, and mingle those tears with your's, which should embalm her memory, would be my wish, had she not requested, almost in her last moments, that I might continue here to receive Madame D'Alembert, who is shortly expected, and also to give her my company while she staid, or whenever she came to the chateau alone—a request which the gratitude of your heart will not, I am convinced, permit me to disobey;—yet, alas! little benefit can she derive from my society. How can I comfort—how try to reconcile her to a loss which I feel myself nothing earthly can supply to me? But, perhaps, she may derive a melancholy pleasure from the company of a person who is a real mourner; I feel myself, that those of the Countess's family who are the most afflicted, are those to whom I am the most attached.
"It will, I am sure, impart to you the same satisfaction it has done to me, to know that, to the last, my beloved, my estimable benefactress, bestowed upon me those proofs of affection and esteem, which long since excited a gratitude in my heart, death or the loss of reason only can remove. The very morning on which she died so unexpectedly, her generous intentions towards me were to have been put into execution; that they were unfulfilled will, I am confident, be to you, as to me, a small source of regret, compared to that which we feel for her death. I am not now worse with respect to fortune than when she took me under her protection: the luxuries I enjoyed with her have not vitiated my taste, or rendered me unable to support with contentment the humble situation I am destined to. No, my dear father, her lessons and my affection for you guarded me against such perversion of disposition; and as I will still strive to deserve the protection of heaven, so I trust I shall obtain it, and never feel the pressure of worldly want. Do not suffer any apprehensions about my health to disturb your mind; my body has not sympathized as much as you might have supposed with my mind; I am not ill, indeed, though a little fatigued; but there is nothing now (alas! I sigh as I say so) to prevent my taking repose.
"I now regret more than ever the departure of my good friends, Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter; had they continued at V———, I am sure, on the first intimation of the melancholy event which has happened, they would have flown to the castle; and their society, I think, would a little have alleviated my feelings. When I sat down, I did not imagine I could have written above a few lines; but now I find that in writing to, as well as in conversing with, a beloved friend, one is insensibly drawn on, and comforted by being so.
"I have now, however, written almost to the extent of my paper; and as I have nothing of sufficient consequence to say to make me begin a new sheet, I shall bid you, my dearest father, farewell. Write as soon as possible, I entreat you; if you say (which I know you will not, except it is the case) that you are well, and somewhat composed after our great loss, you will give ease to my heart.
"I shall receive pleasure from hearing that our faithful Jaqueline, and all our good neighbours, are well: to all who may be so kind as to inquire after me, present my best wishes. Once more farewell! and believe me
"Your truly dutiful and affectionate child,