There was no human being with whom Montmorency himself associated, or
permitted his daughter, save the female inhabitant of a cottage,
situated a little way down the rock on which his own was built. This
female, though amiable, and by no means arrived at an age when the
pleasures, if any, of life have with some lost their zest, lived in
almost total seclusion, justly considering herself superior to the many
that courted her society, among whom were not wanting certain
independent Mountaineers, who boasting of their bit of cultured ground,
their flock of sheep, and their cows, as the great ones of the world
boast of their gold, did not think they presumed too highly in
soliciting her hand. But the good Madame Bertrand had no desire to
change her present freedom for the controul of a husband; neither did
her experience in a married life render her wishful to enter again that
state. She, therefore, mildly declined all overtures, and resisted even
the earnest entreaties of Pierre Boffuet, the most ardent and
persevering of her admirers, to regard his suit with more complacency
than those of his contemporaries. This worthy female, the steadiness and
rationality of whose character operated in her favour with Montmorency,
was occasionally a guest at his cottage; but soon discovering his
fondness for solitude, and almost hatred of society, her visits were
sparing, and never long. During the stay of Angelo there, she had
appeared but once; since his departure, however, she had been
frequently, because her observation easily informed her, that some
secret grief lay heavy at the heart of Gabrielle, and her penetration
led her to fear that the departed guest was not unconnected with it.
Often in her walks with the silent and wretched girl did she long, with
the kind solicitude of friendship, to hint at her apparent unhappiness,
in order, if possible, to invite her confidence, not from an idle or
unworthy curiosity, but in hopes that she might be enabled to administer
some consolation.
What would not the forlorn Gabrielle have given for courage to repose
her dreadful secret in the bosom of friendship? but shame, horrible
shame, prevented her. Often some complaint, often a word relative to the
subject of her misery, hovered on her lips, but in the same instant her
heart beat with the increasing throb of agony, her cheek became dyed
with a burning crimson, and her tongue, refusing to perform the
terrible office of divulging her disgrace, cleaved, parched and
trembling, to the roof of her mouth. In the covert of the woods, in the
most solitary paths, did she then alone dare to vent the lamentations of
her despair.
A little before his departure, Angelo, in one of those moments of
fondness, (which amid the horrors that surrounded, still presented
themselves before her with increased fascination, and dazzled, as a
bright distant flame in a gloomy forest, her deluded eyes,) had given
her a medallion, surrounded with diamonds, which presented on one side
the portrait of his mother, on the other that of his father, and opening
with a spring, disclosed within his own, designed for him when a boy,
with his name, age, and date of his birth on the opposite side. In
giving to Gabrielle this valuable pledge of affection, valuable from
him, because he prized it, and valuable from the correct likenesses it
gave of parents that he remembered with the tenderest regret; he had
said, on taking it from his bosom, where he had ever worn it, “You, my
dear Gabrielle, are the only girl I ever loved; therefore, you alone
shall possess the thing which I value most in the world. It was given to
me by a dear, lamented mother, who idolized me, a little before her
death; because it bore my picture, she had ever treasured it in her
bosom, and on presenting me with it, said, ‘Never, Angelo, part with
this but to one _you_ love as _I_ love you.’ She loved me to excess,
Gabrielle,--as I love you now, therefore do I bestow her gift upon you.
Yet loving you as I do, I would not give it you, were I not certain,
that thus I do not part with it, and it will still be mine through
you.”
Gabrielle took the offering with respect, and answered, “I swear,
Angelo, that I will never part with this, but to one _I_ shall love as I
do you;” thereby implying, that she would keep it for ever, as she could
not conceive the possibility of ever loving a human being as she did
him. Angelo understood her, and accepted, with an expressive smile,
homage so grateful to his feelings. On his portrait (for though she
often gazed with respectful interest upon those of his parents, the
medallion was almost always open to gaze upon his,) did she now breathe
those tender confessions of an unabated love, once timidly whispered to
the original; on those adored eyes, which she fancied regarded her with
an answering look of love, as in happier deluding days, shed bitter
tears, that were concealed from all others, and to that beloved image
alone, impart her plaints, her anguish, and remorse.
The fourth month of the absence of Angelo now drew towards a close; the
cheeks of Gabrielle became haggard and pale, and the increasing change
in her slender elegant figure it became necessary to conceal. Great was
her terror, as she perceived that no precaution would be long sufficient
to elude the anxious observation of a father; and though, in the
dreadful anticipation of discovery, shame nearly weighed her to the
earth, still she dreaded less the confusion to herself than the raging
anguish that, well she knew, would be inflicted upon him.
One night that they were sitting together, Montmorency, as usual,
reading, and Gabrielle employed by his side, repressing with her utmost
efforts those tears that rose incessantly to her eyes, Montmorency,
without looking up, said, “Gabrielle, my child, a draught of water.”
Gabrielle, rising hastily, filled out some water, and presented it to
her father, while scarcely could she look upon his venerable and pensive
countenance, without her deep anguish bursting forth. She stood beside
him holding the glass; Montmorency put forth his hand, took it from her,
and as he was raising it to his lips, his eyes glanced involuntarily
over her figure. Suddenly, like the lightning’s flash, the alteration
struck him; his eyes shot rapidly from the figure to the face of his
daughter, and his fingers became nerveless; the glass fell to the
ground, and, incapable of giving utterance to his dreadful sensations,
his parched and trembling lips murmured only, “Gabrielle!”
“My father!” cried Gabrielle, unable to say more, as Montmorency, his
eyes still rivetted in horror upon her, sank back in his chair, and
gasped for breath.
Some minutes elapsed in this fearful state of mutual agony. Montmorency
recovered first; he struck his forehead in despair!--the whole truth
flashed at once upon his aching brain!--Clasping his hands together, he
suddenly exclaimed, in a voice which struck horror to the heart of
Gabrielle,
“Poor girl; poor girl; _thou_ art not to blame.”
It was the manner of his delivering these words, more than the words
themselves; it was the wild expression of his countenance, which
conveyed so dreadful a sensation to the heart of Gabrielle.--She
ventured, trembling, to take his hand, and kneeling at his feet, bent
down upon it her fearful face. Montmorency laid his other hand upon her
head, and again repeated, “Poor girl, poor girl.”
Gabrielle raised her eyes; she beheld those of her father, not gazing
upon her, but stretched on vacancy.--Alarm seized her soul; she started
up--she threw her arms round his neck, and cried, “Oh, has my father
then nothing to say to his miserable child?”
Still Montmorency repeated only, “Poor girl, poor girl!” still his eyes
remained fixed, nor did a single tear refresh the burning glare of
madness which they wore. The terror of Gabrielle increased; in vain she
now tried every means to excite his feelings; in vain endeavoured to
call forth some emotion, to draw him, if possible, from this dreadful
insensibility, more frightful than the wildest grief. Useless was every
effort, and compelled to resign the task, she seated herself beside him
in hopeless anguish.
At length it occurred to the unhappy girl, that if her father would be
prevailed on to retire to bed, that rest and tranquillity might restore
him. She took his burning hand, “My father, shall I lead you to your
room?” she said, while her quick tears dropt upon the hand she held;
Montmorency, however, seemed insensible to them, and in a faultering
voice, she repeated her question. He then slightly started, and arose as
it were mechanically; Gabrielle led him to his room, and assisted
him;--he suffered her aid, but spoke not; she kissed his hand as she
retired, for his cheek, she dared not, nor did the voice of Montmorency
call upon her to return.
Though Gabrielle left the room, it was only from the idea, a terrible
one indeed, that her presence disturbed the spirits of her father,
which, perhaps, might regain some composure in her absence; for
herself, she thought not of bed, but determined to watch during the
night in an adjoining chamber. She sat down accordingly as near the door
as possible, solitary, forlorn, and in a state of mind that language is
powerless to describe. In a short time, unable to rest tranquil, she
gently opened his door, and on tip-toe listened;--by his breathing she
knew that he slept, and, for this happy circumstance, in a transport of
gratitude she kneeled on the threshold, and kissing the ground, returned
thanks to that supreme and merciful being whom, though deeply she had
offended, she still tremblingly adored. Still, however, she resolved to
remain awake, lest the sleep of Montmorency should be short, or he
should require some assistance which she would not be near to
administer.--Frequently, during the night, she anxiously listened; he
still slept, and towards morning, worn out by grief and fatigue, for
this was not the only sleepless night which for months past had been the
portion of Gabrielle, she fell into a disturbed slumber.
Soon she wakened in alarm, dreaming her father called, and flew to his
chamber. What terror seized her, when she beheld the bed empty; she
hastened from the cottage into the garden, and with comparative joy
descried him winding down the rock, with footsteps slow and solemn. His
cheek was pale, his eyes were fixed on the earth, and his arms were
folded on his bosom.--Gabrielle ran towards him, and, with humiliated
love, offered him her arm. Montmorency stopped a moment, looked at her,
sighed deeply, and shaking his head, as if to refuse her proffered
assistance, walked on.
The tender, yet reproachful look, the expression of deep despair and
anguish with which he regarded her, was too much for the already
harrowed feelings of the wretched Gabrielle, and she burst into tears.
Instantly Montmorency stopped again, gazed on her with pity, and put
forth his hand. In an instant Gabrielle was by his side, he spoke not,
but accepted the renewed offer of her arm.
During the whole of this miserable day, Montmorency uttered not a word;
the next passed the same, and the next, and the next; a certain number
of hours he slept; sometimes he walked, and sometimes he sat in a fixed
attitude for hours together. He took scarcely any nourishment, and never
at stated hours. A week, a month elapsed, yet still no change; and the
wretched daughter at length acknowledged to herself with horror, that
the mind of her father was verging on confirmed melancholy madness.
In this dreadful situation the good Madame Bertrand was her only
consolation. Now, no longer at leisure to feel for herself, or if she
did, hailing her shame and confusion as expiatory pangs, she no more
refused to acknowledge what was indeed incapable of further concealment;
she confided then, without reserve, the whole of her unhappy secret to
this sympathising and only friend, who promised, and who determined to
render her every assistance in her power. Together they watched over
Montmorency, together attended him; but vain were all their cares; he
seldom repaid them by even a look of recognition, much less a word.
It was the spring of the year, when Angelo had arrived at Meillerie, and
the charms of the innocent Gabrielle were as fair, and more blooming
than the spring itself. It was now autumn; the season had lost its
loveliness, and was succeeded by storms; she too was divested of her
richest beauty, and of halcyon serenity of mind. Already had she passed
two months of the third æra that was to usher into life a friendless
being, whose existence would be owing to her crime, and who might, oh!
dreadful thought, live to reproach her as the cause. The progress of
time, by presenting more forcibly to her mind the view of her guilt,
increased her wretchedness and remorse, whilst the daily afflicting
sight of her father’s situation pointed every pang with redoubled
anguish.
The silence of Montmorency, with the slight exception of now and then a
vague exclamation, had for long been uniform; during the day he
wandered, heedless of the weather, among the slippery rocks, sometimes
accompanied by Gabrielle, sometimes by Madame Bertrand; when, however,
they judged from his manner, and his frequently changing his path, that
their society was displeasing to him, or considered by him as a
presumptuous restraint, they affected to leave him to himself, but still
followed and watched him at a distance. As evening drew in he returned
home, and, seating himself silently by the fire, either mechanically
took a book, or folding his arms upon his breast, fell into an uneasy
slumber. He appeared not to take note of any thing that was passing
around him; his air was usually wild, or abstracted, and though
Gabrielle could not bear to entertain the terrible idea that he had
utterly forgotten her, she often more than feared that he did not always
know her.
That once proud and noble countenance which seemed to disdain, as it
repelled the thought of outrage, that high and towering figure, which
looked contempt upon inferior beings, and over which was diffused a
sacred majesty which _commanded_ respect, now how changed! Where was the
expression of those features? pallid, wasted, wan, no bright
intelligence, no fierce consciousness of superiority; his very face
bespoke, even in the wreck of intellect, the deep humiliation of his
soul. His moody eyes, now burning with a wild melancholy lustre, seemed
as if desirous to pierce through space, or, oftener bent on the ground,
seemed fearful to raise them on the light; over that once open, and
unshrinking front, now furrowed and contracted, the silver hair hung
scattered and wild; his figure, no longer haughty and erect, attired in
disorder, bent listless and inane; scarcely sensible he seemed of
existence; had he been more so, he would have desired death.
At length, one evening, after sitting for several hours in moping
melancholy, he fell into a deep sleep, that lasted a considerable time.
On awakening, the first object he beheld was his daughter, leaning over
him in anxious solicitude; he fixed his eyes upon her, but no longer
with that wild stare they had of late worn. When he looked towards her,
he gazed on her a few moments, and started, as if now first beholding
her altered form; then, passing his hand across his eyes, he said, “Ah,
poor girl! I remember--no, no, I do not blame thee,--the fault is mine,
all mine; I _feel_ it here,” he added, laying his hand on his
heart;--“but you forgive your father,--he little thought”--he pressed
his hand on his forehead, for a moment, as in confusion, then
resumed,--“fool,--fool, that I was;” then again, regarding her steadily,
he exclaimed,--“how unjust, to blame thee, poor girl!--come to my arms,
then, come, and let us mingle our tears together.”
So saying, he stretched forth his arms; the overpowered Gabrielle rushed
into them, and once more her head reposed on the paternal bosom. Too
happy, at this joyful return of something like rationality, to remark
the unconnectedness and incoherence of some parts of his speech, she
wept the sweetest tears that for long she had shed, and wished even that
he could shed some likewise; but her wish was vain; for though
Montmorency had said, “let us mingle our tears together,” still was his
cheek unwet, and his eyes tearless.
By degrees, Gabrielle recovered sufficiently to gaze upon her father;
the sight of his countenance shocked her, for there was not in it the
feeling air of recovered reason, but, notwithstanding all he had said, a
fixed and dreary vacuum, a stern insensibility, that bore no testimony
to the words he had uttered. In vain Gabrielle endeavoured to rouse him;
if he for a moment appeared affected by her efforts, a smile which
seemed rather only a relaxation of the muscles, than an emanation from
the heart, was the only evidence of it. Still she fondly flattered
herself with the hope that, though for the present confused, his mind
would ultimately recover its tone, as he had certainly evinced strong
symptoms of recollection.
In a few moments Montmorency spoke again. Pressing his hands upon his
temples, he said, “I have been ill, Gabrielle,--very ill; have I not?”
The tears of Gabrielle were her only answer; “I feel still ill,” he
pursued, “a dreadful weight, an oppression here,”--laying his hand upon
his breast.
“Let me conduct you to your chamber, my father,” faultered Gabrielle.
“Come, then, my love! Once you were my little love, and my pleasure,” he
added, with a mournful smile.
“Come, my father;” sobbed Gabrielle, unable to return any answer to his
painful remark, “come,” and placing her arm under his, she assisted him
to rise.
“No, no;” said Montmorency, in a low voice, as his eyes glanced over
her form; “no, no, poor girl, I want not your assistance;” and
trembling he rose, leaning but slightly upon the slender arm of
Gabrielle.
She led him to his chamber; when he reached the side of his bed he
stopped, as if exhausted, and said, looking upon his daughter,
“Gabrielle, I know what would cure me.”
“What, my father?” eagerly asked Gabrielle.
“The bursting of my heart!” he answered, with an air of frightful
calmness.
Gabrielle felt her blood chill: “Yes,” he pursued, “my heart has become
too big for my breast;--its bursting would relieve me, and I should, of
necessity, be cured; yes, yes,” he repeated rapidly to himself, as if
convinced of the rationality of his observation; and Gabrielle, with
dismay, perceived that his senses were relapsing into chaos. At length
she persuaded him to retire to bed, and when his head was on the pillow,
she seated herself by his side to watch, determined that during the
night she would not leave him.
Montmorency soon fell into a disturbed slumber, which continued for
about three hours; at the end of that time he started up, and looked
eagerly around; he beheld his daughter beside him, and fixing his eyes
upon her, he said, “Gabrielle, my child, bring me my sword.”
Montmorency possessed a sword indeed, but in their peaceful secluded
residence being useless, it had long been hung unnoticed against the
wall; his request, at this period, that it should be brought him,
struck Gabrielle with a mingled sensation of hope and alarm; hope,
though it implied mischievous ideas on one hand, yet announced a power
of recollection on the other. She, therefore, without evincing terror,
replied, “your sword, my father, wherefore do you need it?”
“To relieve my heart,” he cried, emphatically; “or I shall never be at
ease.”
Gabrielle shuddered, and arose; she bent over him, and laid his head
upon her bosom. “Compose yourself, my beloved father,” she said, in a
broken voice, “your heart will yet recover without the aid of your
sword.”
Montmorency looked at her, and faintly shook his head; then, as if in
sudden resentment, lifting it from her bosom, he cast himself back on
the pillow, and muttered, “Never shall I be well till my heart bursts;
and the cruel girl refuses me my sword.”
Gabrielle durst not reply; drowned in tears, she seated herself again by
the side of the bed, and sleep once more overpowered the unhappy
Montmorency.
Morning at length dawned; that morning, whose splendid sun he was doomed
never more to behold.--Montmorency opened his eyes, and said, in a faint
inward voice, “Raise me, Gabrielle.”--Gabrielle, tremblingly
obeyed.--The dim light, which shone through the vine-entwined lattice,
revealed to her the pale face of her father, already marked with the
insignia of ruthless death; he rested for an instant on her bosom, then,
with a convulsive shudder, started from it; he pressed, with all his
strength, his hands upon his breast; his whole frame violently trembled;
he became cold as ice, and turning his dimly-glazed eyes upon his
daughter, as a deep sigh burst from and seemed to relieve his heart--he
cried,--“Oh, my God!--at length I am easy,--my heart has burst!--Did I
not, did I not tell you, I should never be at ease till then?”--Violent
struggles seized him, and the dews of death gemmed his forehead.--The
wretched Gabrielle alone, incapable of rendering him any assistance,
could scarcely restrain him in his bed. At length he became calm; his
struggles subsided; a ray of perfect recollection beamed through his
mind; he regarded his weeping daughter with a mournful
air.--“Gabrielle,” he murmured, “my heart is broke!--Dear girl, I
forgive thee! Heaven look down with mercy, and forgive us both!” The
last words were scarcely formed upon his lips; he could say no more,
but his closing eyes were still turned upon his daughter, with an
expression such as shewed that reason had returned in his last moments,
to harrow up the fleeting soul, and double the agony of death. He made a
feeble movement for the hand of Gabrielle, who now knelt beside him;
with his cold damp hand he tremblingly raised, and placed it upon his
eyes, from which the sight was waning fast, as though he would have
said, “Thou shalt close my eyes.” Short and tremulous breathings heaved
his breast, they became fainter and fainter,--irregular,--now for a
moment they ceased,--and now they ceased for ever!
For a few minutes after the last breath had issued from the lips of
Montmorency, Gabrielle, her trembling hand still placed over his eyes,
neither spoke nor moved, for she believed that her father was sinking
into sleep, and feared to disturb him; at length she ventured softly to
remove her hand; the fixed features struck a fearful anguish to her
soul. She gazed upon him, and still dreading to admit the terrible
conviction, placed her hand near his mouth; she felt no breath;--upon
his heart she felt no movement;--a piercing and distracting shriek
escaped her lips; she rushed wildly towards the door, but ere she could
reach it, overpowered with unutterable horror, sank insensible on the
floor.