What deep wounds ever closed without a scar
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it; and they who war
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear
Silence, but not submission.
LORD BYRON.
Madame de la Tour at length proceeded:--"I have already told you, Luciè,
that De Courcy viewed, with uneasiness, the homage which was paid your
mother, though it did not exceed the usual devotion which Parisian
gallantry is wont to offer at the shrine of female loveliness. He must
have expected it; for no one could have been more conscious of her
beauty, or more proud of possessing it. But he persuaded himself, that
this adulation was too grateful to her; his affection was selfish and
engrossing, and he wished her to receive pleasure from no praises or
attentions but his own. She was, perhaps, as free from vanity as any
woman could be, young, beautiful, and admired as herself; and if not
indifferent to the admiration which her charms excited, it was but the
natural and transient delight of a gay and innocent mind; her heart was
ever loyal to her husband, and his society, his fond and approving
smile, were far more prized by her, than the idle homage of a world.
"The young Count de ---- was an object of particular dislike and
unceasing suspicion to De Courcy. They were distantly related; but some
slight disagreement, which had taken place at an earlier period, created
a coolness between them, which was never overcome. Your mother was aware
of this, and, had she more closely consulted her prudence, would,
probably, have avoided the attentions of one so obnoxious to her
husband's prejudices. But the Count was gay and agreeable, the
versatility of his talents amused her, and he seemed to possess many
amiable and brilliant qualities. His manners were courteous; his
attentions never presuming; and there was a frankness in his address,
which formed an agreeable contrast to the studied flattery of others
around her. Yet even the most distant civilities excited your father's
distrust; the Count became, every day, an object of more decided and
marked aversion, and your mother could not but feel herself tacitly
implicated in his displeasure. Grieved that he could doubt her
affection, or the rectitude of her heart, and relying confidently on the
purity of both, she resolved not to wound the Count's feelings, by
yielding to an ungenerous prejudice, and her conduct and manners
therefore continued unchanged.
"As spring advanced, your mother withdrew, almost entirely, from
society; but the Count de ----, among a few others, was a privileged and
frequent visitor at her house. One morning, De Courcy, contrary to his
usual custom, had urged her to accompany him on some short excursion;
and, equally surprised and gratified by the unexpected request, it was
with extreme reluctance that she felt compelled, from indisposition, to
decline it. Soon after his departure, however, I persuaded her to leave
her apartment, for a few moments, to look at some choice exotics, which
had just been brought to the house. She was still lingering to admire
them, when the Count de ---- was announced, through the negligence of a
servant, who had been ordered not to admit any visitors. It was too late
to retire, unobserved; and the usual greetings of civility were scarcely
exchanged, when De Courcy abruptly entered the room. He started, on
seeing his wife, who had so recently refused his request, on the plea of
illness, apparently well, and taking advantage of his absence, to admit
his supposed rival to an interview. Pale with emotion, he stood a
moment, as if rooted to the spot; his eye, which flashed with scorn and
anger, fixed alternately on each; then deliberately turned, and left the
house. The Count had met his gaze unmoved, and with an expression of
calm contempt; your mother, terrified by the storm of passion which his
countenance betrayed, fled precipitately to her own apartment. Ill as
she was, however, and trembling with apprehension, she exerted herself
to appear at dinner, hoping that the true explanation would appease her
husband's irritation. But he met her with a gloomy reserve, which
destroyed all hope of confidence; he did not allude to what had passed;
every trace of passion was gone, and she felt re-assured by a deceitful
calm, that only concealed the inward struggle.
"De Courcy left the house by day-light on the following morning; no one
knew whither he was gone, but we had heard him traverse his apartment
through the night, and were confident he had taken no repose. A few
hours of anxious suspense passed away, and your mother had just risen
from her sleepless pillow, when he suddenly entered her dressing-room. I
was alone with her, and never shall I forget the impression his
appearance made on me. His dress was disordered, his countenance pale
and haggard, and every feature marked with the deepest anguish. Your
mother rose with a faint exclamation, but instantly sunk again upon her
seat. He approached her, and took her hands, even with gentleness,
between his own, though every limb trembled with agitation.
"Luciè," he said, with unnatural calmness, and fixing his troubled eye
on her face; "I come to bid you a long,--long farewell!"
"What mean you, de Courcy?" she asked, with extreme alarm; "speak, I
conjure you, and relieve this torturing suspense!"
"My honor has been avenged!" he replied, with a hoarse and rapid
utterance; "and from this moment we part--forever!"
"Part! de Courcy, my husband!" she exclaimed, in a voice of agony; "tell
me, what"--
"The concluding words died on her quivering lips; the sudden conflict of
strong emotions could not be endured, and she sunk insensible on my
bosom. Frantic with alarm, I folded my arms around her, and, unwilling
to summon any witnesses, attempted to recall her senses, by
administering such restoratives as were fortunately within my reach. De
Courcy looked at her an instant, like one bewildered; then fiercely
exclaimed,
"She loves him! see you not how she loves him?"
"Wretched man!" I said, indignantly, "you have murdered her; go, and
leave us to our misery."
"My words seemed to penetrate his heart; his features relaxed, and,
before I was aware of his design, he took your mother from me, and laid
her gently on a couch. The tide of tenderness had rushed back upon his
soul, and every soft and generous feeling transiently revived. He stood
over her inanimate form, gazing on her with melancholy fondness till the
tears gushed freely from his eyes, and fell on her pallid features. At
that moment, as if revived by his solicitude, she half unclosed her
eyelids, and a faint glow gave signs of returning life. De Courcy
kissed her cold lips, and, murmuring a few words, which did not reach my
ear, he gave one last and lingering look, and turned precipitately to
leave the room.
"I had retreated from the couch, inexpressibly affected by a scene,
which I fondly hoped was the dawn of returning happiness. He stopped, as
he was passing me, and, wringing my hand with emotion, pointed to your
mother, and, in a voice scarcely audible, said,
"You love her, Justine; comfort her,--cherish her, as I would have
done,--God knows how fervently,--had she permitted me. Farewell, my
sister, forever."
Madame de la Tour was too much agitated to proceed, and even Luciè
willingly suspended the painful interest to indulge the natural emotions
which her parents' history excited. After a brief interval, Madame de la
Tour thus continued:
"You must suffer me to pass rapidly over the remainder of this sad tale,
my dear Luciè. It was long before your mother revived to perfect
consciousness; and the shock which she had received was only a prelude
to still deeper misery. The conduct of de Courcy was too soon explained.
Yielding to the fatal error, that she had given her affections to the
Count de ----, in the excitement of his passion, he sent a challenge,
which was instantly accepted. They met; and the Count was carried, as
his attendants supposed, mortally wounded, from the field of contest. De
Courcy, however, was spared the commission of that crime; for, though
the Count's life was long despaired of, a good constitution prevailed,
and he at length recovered.
"De Courcy had made all his arrangements on the preceding night; and,
immediately after his interview with your mother, he quitted Paris
forever. A letter was left, addressed to her, which strikingly portrayed
the disordered state of his mind, and feelingly delineated the strength
of his affection, and the bitterness of his disappointment. Robbed, as
he believed, of her love, the world had no longer any thing to attach
him; and he resolved to bury himself in some retirement, which the vain
passions of life could never penetrate.
"I will pass over the agonizing scenes, the months of wretchedness which
succeeded this separation, this sudden dissolution of the most sacred
and endearing ties. All attempts to discover De Courcy's retreat were
unavailing, though it was long before your mother could relinquish the
delusive hope, that he would be again restored to her. We returned to my
father's house; but there every thing reminded her of happier days, and
served to increase her melancholy. Your birth was the only event which
reconciled her to life; but her health was then so precarious, we dared
not flatter ourselves, that she would be long continued to you. Her
physicians recommended change of air, and I accompanied her to a convent
on the borders of the Pyrenees, where she had passed a few years in
early childhood; and she earnestly desired to spend her remaining days
within its peaceful walls.
"The good nuns welcomed her to their humble retreat, in the midst of a
wild and romantic solitude; and, with unwearied kindness sought to
alleviate the sufferings of disease. For three months, I watched
unceasingly beside her; a heavenly resignation smoothed the bed of
sickness, and her wearied spirit was gently loosed from earth, and
prepared for its upward flight. You were the last cord that bound her to
a world which she had found so bankrupt in its promises, and this was
too strong to be severed, but by the iron grasp of death. As the moment
of her departure approached, she expressed a wish to receive the last
offices of religion; and a messenger was sent to a neighbouring
monastery of Jesuits to request the attendance of a priest. One of the
brotherhood soon after entered the little cell, and the nuns, who were
chanting around her bed, retired at his approach.
"I retreated unobserved, to a corner of the room, fearing she would not
live through the last confession of her blameless life. A dim lamp, from
which she was carefully screened, shed a sickly gleam around the
apartment; and, even in the deep silence of that awful hour, the low
and labored whispers of her voice scarcely reached my ear. Suddenly I
was startled by a suppressed, but fervent exclamation from the monk,
instantly followed by a faint cry from your mother's lips. I flew to the
bed; she had raised herself from the pillow, her arms were extended, as
in the act of supplication, and a celestial glow irradiated her dying
features. The priest stood in an attitude of eager attention: his cowl
was removed; and, judge of my sensations, when I recognized the
countenance of De Courcy!"
"My father!" exclaimed Luciè; "that priest"--
"Wait, and you shall know all;" interrupted Madame de la Tour. "That
priest was indeed your father; he had taken the vows of a rigid order,
and Providence guided him to the death-bed of your mother. I pass over
the scene which followed; it is too hallowed for description. Suffice it
to say, the solemn confession of that dreadful moment convinced him of
her innocence, and her last sufferings were soothed by mutual
reconciliation and forgiveness. Your father closed her eyes in their
last sleep, and pressing you for an instant to his heart, rushed almost
frantic from the convent.
"On the following day, my father sought De Courcy at the monastery,
hoping to draw him back to the world by the touching claims of parental
love. But he had already left it, never to return; and the superior had
sworn to conceal his new abode from every human being. Before leaving
the convent, on the night of your mother's death, he confirmed her
bequest, which had already given you to my eldest sister, then a rigid
Catholic. But my father soon after became a convert to the opinions of
the Hugonots, to which we also inclined; and my sister's marriage with
M. Rossville confirmed her in those sentiments. She thought proper to
educate you in a faith which she had adopted from deliberate conviction;
and, as your father had renounced his claims, she of course felt
responsible only to her own conscience. Every effort to find him,
indeed, continued unavailing; years passed away, and by all who had
known him he was numbered as with the dead.
"But your father still lived, Luciè, and the recollection of his injured
wife forever haunted him; her misery, her untimely death, all weighed
heavily on his conscience, and he sought to expiate his crime by a life
of austerity, and the most constant and painful acts of self-denial and
devotion. Yet the severest penance which he inflicted on himself was to
renounce his child, to burst the ties of natural affection, that no
earthly claims might interfere with those holy duties to which he had
consecrated his future life."
"Just heavens!" said Luciè, with emotion; "could such a sacrifice be
exacted? dearest aunt, tell me if he yet lives, if I am right"--
"He does live," interrupted Madame de la Tour; "he received permission
to quit his monastery only to fulfil a more rigid vow, which bound him
to a life of unremitting hardship; and, after a severe illness, that for
several weeks deprived him of reason, he at length reached this new
world, where for nearly twenty years"--
"Father Gilbert!" exclaimed Luciè, starting from her seat in powerful
agitation.
"Yes," said a deep, solemn voice; and the dark form of the priest, who
had entered unnoticed, stood beside her; "my child, behold your father!"
"My father!" repeated Luciè, as she rushed into his extended arms, and
sunk weeping upon his bosom.