Clermont/Chapter 32
CHAP. VII.
Wild hurrying thoughts
Start ev'ry way from my distracted soul
To find out hope, and only meet despair.
The habitation of Lafroy's friend stood about half a league from the forest;—it was a lonely and sequestered cottage, built by the side of a river, and shaded by fine old trees, above which a range of lofty mountains raised their proud heads. On reaching it, Lafroy seated Madeline on a little bench before it, and desired her to continue there till he had settled every thing relative to her journey with his friend: he then unlatched the door, and entered the cottage; in less than half an hour he returned to her, accompanied by an elderly man.
"Well, Mademoiselle, (said he, as he approached her) I have settled every thing, I hope, to your satisfaction. My friend has kindly promised to attend you to Paris, and is now going to L———, which is about two leagues off, to procure a proper conveyance for you."
"You must thank your friend for me (said Madeline, rising) for I have not language to express the gratitude I feel for his promised protection."
"My friend Oliver is a good soul (cried Lafroy), and does not require thanks."
"No! (exclaimed Oliver), I do not, indeed!"
"I think you had better now retire to a chamber, and try to take some repose, ere you commence your journey," said Lafroy.
"Do, Mademoiselle (cried Oliver), my daughter will be happy to attend you."
"I have taken care (said Lafroy, in a whispering voice to her), to guard you against all impertinent curiosity. I told a plausible story about you, and expressly desired that no one but Oliver's daughter should attend you;—she is a good girl, and has promised to make up a bundle of her clothes for you to take to Paris; when once there, you can easily procure others.—Excuse me if I ask, whether you do not want your purse replenished?"
"No, (replied Madeline), I do not; I have money enough, I am sure, to defray the expenses of my journey, and the sale of some valuable trinkets I have about me will, I hope, enable me, without inconvenience, to rejoin my father."
"As to the expenses of your present journey, they are already defrayed (said Lafroy); do not, my dear young lady, speak upon the subject; the money I acquired in your family can never be better expended than in the service of any one belonging to it."
"I cannot express my feelings (cried Madeline, melting into tears); 'tis only Heaven, Lafroy, that can properly reward your humanity."
"I must now bid you farewell, my dear lady (said Lafroy); if I stay much longer from the Castle I fear being missed, and my absence at this juncture would, I make no doubt, excite suspicion.—farewell! May Heaven and all its holy angels for ever watch over you!"
"Stop for one instant (cried Madeline, catching his arm). Oh! Lafroy! I entreat—I conjure you—the moment a letter arrives from my father, to forward it to me. I shall be all impatience—all agony—all distraction—till I hear of his safety, and know where or when I may rejoin him!"
"Rest assured (said Lafroy), that I shall do every thing you can wish. Once more, my dear young lady, farewell! Oliver has a letter to deliver to my aunt, which I wrote in the cottage; I am confident she will do every thing in her power to make you happy."
Madeline mournfully shook her head.—"Alas! (she cried to herself) any effort to make me happy will now, I fear, be unavailing."
"Come, Mademoiselle (said Oliver, as Lafroy turned from her), you had better step into the house."
"I will (replied Madeline, as with streaming eyes she still pursued the steps of Lafroy); but first tell me how long you think it will be ere you return with a carriage."
"About three hours, I think, (said Oliver); I shall ride to L—, and will, you may assure yourself, make as much haste as possible."
He now led her into the house, and conducted her to a chamber, at the door of which he left her, telling her, as he retired, that he should send his daughter Theresa to her with a light and supper. Left to herself, Madeline, instead of indulging tears and lamentations, tried to suppress both, and regain some little degree of composure.—"I am embarked upon a stormy sea (said she), and I must resolutely brave its dangers if I hope to gain a port of safety."
She every instant expected Theresa, but the minutes passed away without bringing her; this was a circumstance Madeline did not by any means regret, as solitude and silence best suited her present feelings. She continued a considerable time deeply ruminating over past events, when she was suddenly awakened from her reverie by strains of soft music from without the house; they were strains at once tender and solemn, and while they delighted, affected her to tears.—She went to a window, but just as she had gently opened it, for the purpose of more distinctly hearing them, they entirely ceased. The beautiful prospect, however, which the window commanded of the opposite mountains and the river, prevented her withdrawing immediately from it. It was a prospect to which the beams of a rising moon, and the stillness of the night gave additional charms—a stillness which (to borrow a description from a much-admired work) rendered the voice of the mountain waterfalls tremendous, as they all, in their variety of sounds, were re-echoed from every cavern, whilst the summits of the rocks began to receive the rays of the rising moon, and appeared as if crowned with turrets of silver, from which the stars departed for their nightly round.
"Ah! (cried Madeline, to whose recollection the present scene brought those she had been accustomed to), perhaps at this very moment my father gazes upon a landscape as sublime and beautiful as the one I now behold, with sadness, at the uncertainty of his Madeline ever again enjoying with him the works of nature."
She ceased, for again she heard the soft breathing of the oboe, though at a considerable distance from the house.
Thro' glades and glooms the mingl'd measure stole,
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,
Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
In hollow murmurs died away.
The pensive pleasure which communicated itself to the feelings of Madeline, as with deep attention she listened to the enchanting strains, was soon interrupted by the now unwelcome appearance of her long expected visitor.
"Dear Mademoiselle! (cried she, as Madeline turned from the window to receive her), dear Mademoiselle! (as she laid down a little tray with refreshments) I hope you will have the goodness to excuse my not coming to you before, but I would not come to you till I brought you something to eat; do pray sit down and try this omelet! I flatter myself you will find it good."
"I am afraid (said Madeline), I have been the cause of a vast deal of trouble to you."
"Of pleasure, instead of trouble (replied the little voluble Theresa); but, Lord! Mademoiselle (continued she, going to it, and putting it down), how could you bear the window up so cold a night?"
"I opened it (said Madeline, as she seated herself at the table), for the purpose of listening to the most enchanting music I ever heard. Pray who plays so divinely on the oboe?"
"My brother," replied Theresa.
"Your brother! (repeated Madeline, somewhat surprised), why he seems a perfect master of music."
"Yes, that he is (said Theresa), and of many other accomplishments too. Lord! if I had but the key of that cabinet; for you must know, Mademoiselle, we are now in his room; it being the best in the house, my father procured it for you, I could show you such drawings of his as would I dare say astonish you: there is one hangs just over your head, a view of some fine place he saw, for he has been a great traveller."
Madeline stood up to examine it; but, Oh! what was her surprise, what the feelings of that moment, on beholding the landscape which de Sevignie had sketched of her native valley.
"Are you sure (cried Madeline, looking wildly at Theresa), are you sure your brother drew this landscape—are you sure it is not a copy instead of an original?"
"Very sure indeed (replied Theresa); he told me himself he had drawn it, and I know he would not utter a falsehood."
"Yes (cried Madeline to herself), 'tis evident de Sevignie is the son of a cottager, and every thing which before appeared strange and mysterious in his conduct, is now explained. Oh! de Sevignie, had no false pride restrained you—had you candidly, explicitly confessed your situation, what happiness might now have been our's! for well am I convinced that neither my father nor my friend would have objected to our union when once thoroughly assured of your worth."
"What is your brother's name?" asked Madeline, wishing to remove every doubt, as to what she suspected, from her mind.
"Henri de Sevignie Melicour. Melicour is the name of his family, and he was called Henri de Sevignie after a great gentleman who stood godfather to him, and by whose desire he received so different an education from the rest of his family."
"And did he do nothing more than desire him to be well educated?" said Madeline.
"Why—yes—he made him handsome presents at times, and enabled him to travel and keep fine company; and I believe that lately he would have made a certain provision for him, but that they have disagreed."
"Disagreed!" repeated Madeline, in an agitated voice.
"Yes—Henri's patron wants him to marry some great young lady, who has fallen desperately in love with him, and he has positively refused to do so.
"Who is the lady?" asked Madeline, in a voice scarcely intelligible.
"I really don't know, Ma'am; if I did, I would tell you; but my father never entrusts me with a secret, lest I should blab it; though I am sure I should never think of doing so; and so 'tis only by listening here, and listening there, I ever come to the knowledge of any thing. Poor Henri! my father has also quarrelled with him, because he has rejected this great offer: 'tis a cruel thing to do so; for, to be sure, it is but natural to suppose he would accept it, if he could; but when a person is already in love, what can one do?"
"In love! (repeated Madeline), do you think your brother is in love?"
"Yes, I am sure he is."
"But how sure: did he ever tell you he was?"
"No—but one can easily guess he is, by the alteration in his looks and manner.—Lord, he is grown so pale, and so melancholy, he mopes about the whole day by himself; and at night he wanders away to the bleak mountains, where he passes whole hours playing that melancholy music, which almost breaks one's heart to hear."
"It does indeed," said Madeline with a deep sigh.
"Bless me, Mademoiselle, how pale you look; let me give you a glass of wine."
Madeline felt almost fainting, and took one in silence; after which, recovering a little, she begged Theresa to leave her—"I will lay down upon the bed (cried she), and try to rest myself till your father returns."
"Well, Mam'selle (said Theresa), since you desire it, I will bid you good night; but had I not better draw the window-curtains, and leave you a light?"
"No, (replied Madeline), I prefer the shadowy light of the moon to any other; good night, as soon as your father comes back, let me be called."
Theresa promised she should, and retired.
"Oh! de Sevignie, dear, unhappy de Sevignie! (exclaimed Madeline the moment she was left to herself), what an aggravation of my misery is the knowledge of your wretchedness—is the conviction of its being experienced on my account?—Yes, I well recollect your telling me, that it was on my account your youth was wasted, your hopes o'erthrown, your prospects blasted!—Yet, notwithstanding your sufferings, I could cruelly, unjustly condemn you, and expose you to the censure of others; falsely and rashly I judged your conduct, and for ever shall I regret my doing so.
"It was him no doubt (she continued), whom I beheld near the monumental pillar of Lord Philippe; from his vicinity to the castle, he must have heard of the occurrences which took place there, and he wandered to the forest perhaps from a hope of seeing me.
"What would he feel if now acquainted with the reverse in my situation? what will he not feel when he hears it—when he hears that his Madeline was sheltered beneath the roof of his father? But perhaps the latter circumstance he may never learn;—if it would add to his misery, Oh! may he never hear it!—Oh! may sorrow and unavailing regret be removed from his heart;—may his hopes be revived, his prospects rebrightened, and may———!" She paused—she could not bring herself to wish him united to another—could not bring herself to wish that he should take another to his heart, and expunge her for ever from it. "And yet am I not selfish (cried she), in still desiring to retain his regard? our union is now impossible; for was he even to see me again (which 'tis very improbable he ever will), and offer me his hand, I would reject it;—reject it, because I could not now in dowry with my heart, bring any thing but simple wishes for his happiness. My destiny is fixed; the lonely solitude of my father shall be my home: and should he descend before me to the grave, the remainder of my days I'll pass within a cloister."
Exhausted by fatigue and agitation, she threw herself upon the bed, but sleep was a stranger to her eye-lids: she wept bitterly—wept o'er her misfortunes—yet wept with a kind of pleasure at the idea of her tears falling upon the pillow on which, perhaps, de Sevignie had often sighed forth her name.
The day was just dawning, when she heard the rumbling of a distant carriage. She directly started from the bed, and the next instant Theresa entered the chamber.
"My father is come, Mademoiselle (said she), and impatient for you to be gone; I have brought you a hat, and given him a bundle of things for you."
Madeline, as she tied on the hat, thanked her for her kindness and attention; and then with a fervent, though silent prayer for the happiness of de Sevignie, whom she never more expected to hear of, or behold, she quitted the chamber.
Oliver was waiting for her in the hall; he told her he had left the chaise at the opposite side of the river, but that they had only to cross the bridge, which was but a little way above the cottage, to reach it. He offered her his arm, which, weak and trembling, she accepted, and in a few minutes found herself within the carriage.
From their quitting the cottage to their arrival in Paris, nothing happened worth relating; they were three days travelling to it, and entered it when it was almost dark. The dejection of Madeline was not in the least abated; nor could the busy hum of voices, the bustle in the streets, or the rattling of the carriages, for a moment divert her attention from her sorrows.
After going through a considerable part of the town, the chaise stopped, and Oliver exclaimed, "We have at length reached the habitation of Madame Fleury." Madeline directly looked from the window, but could only distinguish a black wall. Oliver desired the postilion to alight, and knock at a small door he pointed to:—the postilion accordingly obeyed, and in a few minutes the door was opened by a female; but what kind of female it was too dark for Madeline to perceive.
"Is Madame Fleury at home?" asked Oliver.
"Lord, that she is (said the woman); it is many a good day since my mistress has been out at so late an hour as this."
"I'll step in before you (cried Oliver to Madeline), and present Lafroy's letter; as soon as she has read it, I will come back for you."
He accordingly left the carriage. In about fifteen minutes he returned to it—"Madame Fleury (said he, as he opened the chaise door), is impatient to see you."
He handed Madeline across a spacious court; and they entered a hall so long and badly lighted by one small lamp, that Madeline could not perceive its termination. Here Madame Fleury waited to receive her. She took her hand, and as she led her into an old fashioned parlour, scarcely less gloomy than the hall, welcomed her to the house. "I shall be happy, my dear (said she), to render you every kindness in my power, not only on my nephew's account, but your own; for your countenance is itself a letter of recommendation."
Madeline attempted to express her thanks, but an agony of tears and sobs—an agony excited by the idea of the forlorn situation which had thus cast her upon the kindness of strangers, suppressed her utterance; and, sinking upon a chair, she covered her face with her hands.
"Come, come (said Madame Fleury, tapping her upon the shoulder), you must not give way to low spirits. Come, come (continued she, going to the side-board and bringing her a glass of wine), you must take this, and I'll answer for it you'll be better."
It was many minutes, however, ere her emotions were in the least abated. As soon as Oliver saw her a little composed, he declared he must be gone. Madame Fleury asked him if he could not stay the night? he replied in the negative, saying he had some relations in Paris whom he wished to visit; and as he meant to leave it the ensuing morning, no time was to be lost.
Madeline conjured him to remind Lafroy of his promise, which he solemnly assured her he would; and she saw him depart, though the father of de Sevignie, without the least regret; for neither in his looks or manner was there the least resemblance to his son, or any thing which could conciliate esteem.
As her composure returned, she was able to make observations upon her companion—observations by no means to her advantage; and she felt, that if she had been at liberty to choose a protector, Madame Fleury would have been the last person in the world the choice would have devolved upon. Like Oliver, neither her looks or manner were in the smallest degree prepossessing; the first were coarse and assured, the latter bold and vulgar.
Almost immediately after the departure of Oliver, she ordered supper; and as they sat at table, attended by an elderly female servant, dirty and mean in her appearance, Madame Fleury tried to force consolation as well as food upon Madeline.
"You must not, my dear (cried she), as I have said before, give way to low spirits; there is nothing hurts a young person so much as melancholy—it destroys all vivacity; and what is a young person without vivacity? why a mere log. You must reflect, that when things are at the worst, they always mend; and that a stormy night is often succeeded by a fine day. Come, take a glass of wine (continued she, filling out a bumper for herself, and another for Madeline), it will cheer your heart. Nothing does one so much good when one's melancholy as a little wine: I speak from experience; I have led a dismal life, one that has hurt my spirits very much for some years past. My nephew, I suppose, told you about the gentleman to whom this house belongs."
Madeline bowed.
"Well, upon his quitting it, for the purpose of travelling, all the servants were discharged; and ever since, that poor woman and I (pointing to the servant), have led the most solitary life imaginable, just like two poor lonely hermits." (Madeline could not forbear smiling at those words; very like hermits indeed, thought she, as she cast her eyes over the table, which was covered with delicacies.)—"Just like two poor lonely hermits, fasting and praying," said Madame Fleury, with a deep sigh.
It may easily be supposed that Madeline soon grew tired of conversation of this kind; her timid heart shrunk from the attentions of Madame Fleury, instead of expanding to receive them; yet she condemned the strong prejudice which she had conceived against her.—"I will try to conquer it (said she to herself), because it is unjust—unjust to dislike a person merely because they have been cast in one of the rough moulds of Nature, and their manners, in consequence of the difference of education, are unlike mine."
Madame Fleury seemed inclined to sit up to a late hour, which Madeline perceiving, she pleaded fatigue, and begged permission to retire to her chamber. Madame Fleury instantly rising, took up a light, and said she would conduct her to it. Madeline followed her down the hall, at the bottom of which was a folding door, that on being opened, discovered a spacious stair-case.—"This appears to be a very large house," said Madeline, as ascending the stairs, she beheld numerous passages and doors.
"Oh, quite a wilderness of a house (replied Madame Fleury); I am sometimes a year without seeing half the apartments."
"I wonder you are not afraid to live in it (said Madeline), without more servants."
"Why all the valuable things were removed from it on the desertion of its master, so that prevents my having many fears; besides, I take good care to see all the doors secured before I go to bed."
The room allotted for Madeline was spacious, but dirty and ill furnished; nor was there aught within it that gave evidence of better days, except a few faded portraits, large as the life, which still hung against the brown and dusty wainscot.
"Is your chamber near this?" asked Madeline, as she cast her eye around.
"Oh, yes, I shall be your neighbour; so don't be uneasy," replied Madame Fleury. Madeline assured her she would not; and then, anxious to be alone, begged she might no longer detain her.—"Good night then, my dear (said Madame Fleury); I shall call you when it is time to breakfast."
Madeline looked behind the window-curtain ere she locked the door; she then recommended herself to the protection of Heaven; and, worn out both by bodily and mental fatigue, repaired to bed, where she slept till her usual hour of rising.
When dressed, she drew up the window curtain; but how different the prospect she beheld from the prospects she had been accustomed to; instead of sublime mountains towering to the clouds, or rich meadows, scattered over with flocks and herds, she now beheld high and dirty walls, which completely enclosed a small spot of ground planted with a few stunted trees. She sighed, and a tear stole from her to think she might never more enjoy the sweets of Nature, or mark
——————how spring the tended plants,
How blows the citron grove, what drops the myrrh,
And what the balmy reed—how Nature paints
Her colours—how the bee sits on the bloom
Extracting liquid sweets.
Her melancholy reflections were soon interrupted by the voice of Madame Fleury; she immediately opened the door, and, after the usual salutations of the morning were over, accompanied her to breakfast, which was laid out in the room where they had supped the preceding night, and which, like the chamber of Madeline, looked into what Madame Fleury called the garden.
After breakfast she rose, and told Madeline she must leave her—"I go every morning to church (cried she); while I am absent, you can amuse yourself with reading; you'll find some books in that closet," pointing to one at the end of the room.
Madeline thought it odd her not being asked to accompany her to church; and she was just on the point of requesting permission to do so, when she recollected, that perhaps Madame Fleury might have some places after the service was over to call at, which she did not wish to bring her to; she therefore timely checked herself, and said she would either walk in the garden, or read.
As soon as she was alone, she examined the books, but she found none that pleased her; and even if she had, her mind was too much disturbed to permit her to derive amusement from them; she therefore went into the garden, where, deeply ruminating o'er past events, she heeded not the lapse of time, and was astonished when the maid came out to inform her that her mistress had been returned some time, and dinner waited. Madeline hastily followed her into the house, but on reaching the parlour, she involuntarily started back on perceiving a young man with Madame Fleury.
"Bless my soul (said Madame Fleury, laughing immoderately), bless my soul (cried she, taking the hand of Madeline), you look terrified. Well, you are the first girl I ever saw frightened at the sight of a young man; let me introduce my nephew to you, and you'll find you have no reason to be afraid of him;—Dupont, this is Mademoiselle Jernac," the assumed name Lafroy had chosen for Madeline."
Dupont saluted Madeline with much politeness, and expressed his regret at having caused her any disagreeable surprise: she bowed, and endeavoured to recollect herself, in order to avoid the coarse raillery which her confusion excited in Madame Fleury, and permitted him to lead her to the table.
When they were seated at it, Madame Fleury began to sound the praises of her nephew;—"I can assure you, Mademoiselle (cried she) when you know him better, you will like him much; he is a good soul, I cannot help saying so, though to his face: he is secretary to a nobleman of high rank and consequence; and, though from his situation he might be conceited and dissipated, he is neither the one nor the other, nor disdains to come now and then, and take a snug dinner with his old aunt." While she was speaking, Madeline could not help attentively regarding Dupont, whose face appeared familiar to her; but where or when she had seen the person whom he resembled, she could not possibly recollect.
Dupont was young, handsome, and rather elegant; yet almost the moment Madeline beheld him, she conceived a prejudice against him;—his gentleness seemed assumed, and there was a fierceness, a boldness in his eyes, which at once alarmed and confused her.
When dinner was over, Madame Fleury proposed cards. Madeline immediately rose, and, declaring she never played, desired leave to retire to her chamber.
"No, (cried Dupont, also rising and taking her hand, whilst he gazed upon her with the most impassioned tenderness), we cannot let you go; we'll give up cards; we'll not think, not act, but as you like."
"I should be sorry, Sir (cried Madeline coldly, and withdrawing her hand), that the inclination of any person was sacrificed to mine; at present I am much better calculated for solitude than society, and must therefore again entreat Madame Fleury's permission to retire to my room."
"Then you will entreat in vain I assure you (cried she); I have no notion of letting you go to mope about by yourself."
"If you thus restrain me, Madam (said Madeline, who every moment grew more anxious to quit Dupont), you will prevent me from having the pleasure of thinking myself at home."
"True (cried Dupont), where there is restraint, there can be no pleasure; permit Mademoiselle Jernac, therefore, Madame (addressing his aunt) to leave us, since she is so cruel as to desire to do so; perhaps our ready compliance with her wishes will at some other time incline her to be more propitious to our's."
"Well, you may go, child (said Madame Fleury); but indeed 'tis only to oblige my nephew that I let you."
Dupont led Madeline to the door, where, in spite of all her efforts to prevent him, he imprinted a kiss upon her hand.
Her heart throbbing tumultuously, she hastily ascended the stairs; she saw, or fancied she saw, looks exchanged between the aunt and nephew which terrified her: stories of designing men and deceitful women rushed to her recollection; and she trembled at the idea of her forlorn situation—at the idea of being solely in the power of strangers, without a being near her to protect her, if protection should be necessary. She wished to know whether she was in an inhabited part of the town, which the darkness of the hour she had arrived at Madame Fleury's prevented her ascertaining, that in case there was a necessity for quitting her present residence, she might have a chance of easily procuring another; and accordingly determined to avail herself of the present opportunity, and explore her way, if possible to the front of the house. The gallery in which her chamber stood, was terminated by a door, which she softly opened, and discovered a winding passage: without hesitation she entered it, and proceeded till stopped by another door; this she opened with difficulty, for the key was rusty, and for a long time resisted all her efforts to turn it: when at length she had succeeded, she found herself in a chamber as spacious as her own, but stripped of all the furniture except a bare bedstead. She stepped lightly to a window, and to her great mortification, found herself still at the back of the house; she directly turned away, and was hastening from the room, when, carelessly glancing her eye over it, a stain of blood upon the floor filled her with horror, and riveted her to the spot. "Oh! God, (she cried, while her arms dropped nerveless by the side), what dreadful evidence of guilt do I behold!" A heavy hand fell upon her shoulder; she shrieked—and, starting, beheld Madame Fleury—"What, in the name of wonder, brought you hither?" demanded she in rather an angry voice.
"I did not conceive there was the least impropriety in examining the apartments," said Madeline.
"Impropriety, why no; but then you might have told me you were curious. Come, let us quit this chamber; I hate it."
"Have you reason to hate it?" asked Madeline, her eyes still fastened upon the blood-stained floor. She felt the hand of Madame Fleury tremble.—"Why to tell you the truth, (said she, going to the bedstead and sitting down), my nephew, Dupont, (speaking in an agitated voice), once met with an ugly accident in it; he fell and hurt himself so much, we thought he never would have recovered; the stains of his blood are still upon the floor; nothing would take them out."
"Blood sinks deep!" said Madeline in a hollow voice, and raising her eyes, she fixed them upon Madame Fleury.
"Pray let us leave this chamber," cried her companion, rising in visible confusion. She seized the arm of Madeline, and drawing her from it, locked the door, and put the key into her pocket. "I came up (said she, as they proceeded to the chamber of Madeline), to ask you whether you would not choose a book, and if I should not send you some coffee."
"No (replied Madeline), neither a book nor coffee; all I desire is to be left without interruption to myself to-night."
"I am afraid you are a fanciful girl," said Madame Fleury.
"Would to Heaven I was only affected by fancies!" exclaimed Madeline with fervour.
"Well, since you wish to be alone, I will leave you (cried Madame Fleury), nor shall you again be interrupted."
"In doubting Madame Fleury (said Madeline, when left to herself), do I not doubt Lafroy, of whose fidelity I have received such proofs, that to harbour a suspicion of him, makes me feel guilty of ingratitude. Oh! surely (she continued, and her mind grew composed by the idea), he never would have confided me to the care of his relation, had he not been convinced she was worthy of the trust; and, in giving way to my present fears, I torment myself without a cause. Every thing may be as Madame Fleury has stated; her nephew may have been hurt in the chamber; and his attentions to me may be dictated by what he imagines politeness. I will then exert myself (she cried); I will combat my fears, nor to the pressure of real evils add those of imaginary ones."
To reason herself out of her fears was not, however, as easy as she imagined; they still clung to her heart, and she wished, fervently wished, that she had never entered the residence of Madame Fleury. She determined the next morning to ask to accompany her to church—"I shall then (said she), know what kind of neighbourhood I am in, and whether there is any convent near the house, to which I could fly in case any thing disagreeable again occurred in it."
As soon as it grew dark, the maid brought her a light, which she kept burning all the night. She was scarcely dressed in the morning, when Madame Fleury tapped at the door to inform her breakfast was ready. Madeline immediately opened the door, and attended her to the parlour, where, to her great vexation, she found Dupont.
"So, so (said his aunt, as if a little surprised by seeing him), you are here! what, I suppose you could not rest till you had paid your devoirs to Mademoiselle?"
"I should be sorry (said Madeline, with some degree of haughtiness), to place to my own account a visit which I neither expected nor desired."
"And yet you would be right in doing so," cried Dupont.
Madeline made no reply, but addressed herself on some indifferent subject to Madame Fleury.
After breakfast, which was rendered extremely disagreeable to Madeline by the looks and attentions of Dupont, Madame Fleury rose, and said it was time to go to church. "I hope, Madam (cried Madeline, also rising), you will permit me to accompany you this morning."
"No, indeed I shall not (exclaimed she); you can be much better employed at home, for my nephew will stay with you."
There was something in those words which shocked Madeline so much, that for a moment she had not the power of utterance.—"I can assure you, Madam, then (said she), that if you do not let me go, I will confine myself to my chamber until your return."
"That is, if my nephew is such a fool as to permit you."
Madeline could no longer restrain herself. "If this is the manner in which you mean to treat me, Madam (she exclaimed), you cannot be surprised if my continuance with you is of short duration. 'Tis not (she continued, with increasing warmth), the mere shelter of a roof that I require—'tis kindness, 'tis protection, 'tis the attentions which sooth the sorrows of the heart, and lighten the pangs of dependence;—except assured of my receiving these, your nephew, Lafroy, I am confident would never have entrusted me to your care; and candidly and explicitly I now tell you, I shall withdraw myself from it, if longer subjected to freedoms I abhor."
Madame Fleury only replied to this speech by a contemptuous smile; then turning on her heel, she darted out of the room, and shut the door after her. Madeline attempted to follow her, but was prevented by Dupont, who, seizing her hand, dragged her back to a seat. She grew terrified, but tried to conceal her terrors. "I insist on your releasing me immediately, Sir," said she.
"I cannot (cried he), I cannot be so much my own enemy."
"Though Madame Fleury has forgot what is due to her sex, I hope (resumed Madeline), you will not forget what is due to your's; to insult an unhappy woman, is surely a degradation to the character of a man."
"I do not mean to insult you (replied Dupont); my honourable addresses cannot surely insult you?"
"Your honourable addresses!" repeated Madeline, surveying him with mingled surprise and contempt.
"Yes—I love, I adore you; and now entreat you to accept my hand and heart."
"I shall not say I reject them (replied Madeline), because I do not think you serious in offering them; I cannot believe that any man in his senses can offer himself to a woman he scarcely knows."
"I am serious, by all that is sacred!" cried he with vehemence.
"Then believe me equally serious (said Madeline), when I assure you, that could you with your hand and heart offer me the wealth of the universe, I would reject them. You are, no doubt, acquainted with my unhappy story—Oh! do not, therefore (she continued), do not render unpleasant the asylum your aunt has afforded me, by persevering in attentions which never can have the desired effect."
"Perseverance does much (said Dupont); I will try it."
"To my torment then, and your own disappointment you will try it," cried Madeline.
"How can you be so inflexible?" said he, looking on her with the most passionate tenderness.
Madeline grew more alarmed than ever by his manner. "If you have generosity, if you have compassion (exclaimed she), you will now let me retire."
"Well (said he), to show my readiness to oblige you, however I may mortify myself by doing so, I will now let you leave me; but ere you go, suffer me to say I never will drop my suit."
Anxious to leave him, Madeline made no reply. Her first impulse on quitting the parlour, was to fly directly from a house in which she was exposed to insult and persecution; but a moment's reflection convinced her of the impracticability of such a measure at present, when in all probability Dupont was upon the watch: she therefore determined not to attempt escaping till a more favourable opportunity for that purpose offered. Still anxious, before that opportunity occurred, to discover in what kind of neighbourhood she was, instead of repairing to her chamber, she hastily turned into a long passage off of the great stair-case, in which several doors appeared.