THE
LIBERTINE,
BY
CHARLOTTE DACRE,
BETTER KNOWN AS
ROSA MATILDA.
AUTHOR OF
_Hours of Solitude, Nun of St. Omer’s, Zofloya, &c._
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. IV.
Hail, wedded love, mysterious law; true source
Of human offspring, sole propriety
In Paradise of all things common else:
............... by thee
Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure,
Relations dear, and all the charities
Of father, son, and brother first were known.
MILTON.
How oddly will it sound, that I
Must ask my child forgiveness.
SHAKESPEARE.
_LONDON_:
PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.
1807.
THE
LIBERTINE.
CHAPTER XXV.
The nature of Angelo was such that his first sensations were ever the
most violent. The paroxysms of despair ceasing, he shed torrents of
tears over the breathless form of Gabrielle, he was no longer frantic, a
deep woe oppressed and rendered him incapable of worldly cares, he shut
himself up in her chamber, and would suffer no one to draw him thence.
For hours would he gaze on that pale countenance, calm, beautiful and
expressive, even in death. Sometimes involuntarily would he persuade
himself she breathed, and touch her cold hand, which breaking instantly
the delusion, he would start back with a shudder, and burst into tears.
Now sitting beside her, exhausted, worn out with incessant grief, he
would recline back and pursue a train of melancholy reflection, till he
lost himself; then suddenly springing up in alarm, imagine she called
him, as often during her illness she had been wont, and, looking within
the curtains, behold only the harrowing image of immoveable death. “Ah,
my God!” would he then exclaim, in a voice of anguish, “and can it
indeed be that my beloved is no more? the best, the loveliest, the most
angelic of women. Oh! wretch and fool that I must have been to have so
little understood her worth, to have neglected, outraged and forsaken
her as I did.”--Then, stung by remorse, the force of imagination would
cause him to utter, “Ah, her countenance assumes a stern look! she
accuses me. Is it not so? do I dream? Oh! no, no, she accuses me not;
sweet seraphic, uncomplaining as when living is that beauteous face;
sure she even smiles upon me!” Now gazing on her features from various
points of view, reason would resume her empire. He saw neither reproach,
nor smile, but the freezing fixedness of death alone, participating no
longer in mortal agitations. “Yet, oh! yet,” would he cry, “did I not
break her heart? did not her last breath tell me so?--Horror!--no, she
said not me; her heart, she said, was broken; but did not say by me--no,
no; yet, who then? Madness! madness, endless remorse must be mine! yes,
it was I who destroyed her, withered like the lightning’s blast her fair
blooming prospects, I blighted her innocent youth, I made a wretch of
her I should have worshipped,--who for me sacrificed all--yet she never
reproached me;--no--and in return, I persevered--I broke her heart!”
Then falling on his knees by her silent corpse, he would fling his arms
around it, hiding his face upon the covering which overspread her.
At length it became necessary to rouse the wretched Angelo from the
profound indulgence of a grief unmixed with other thoughts, by harrowing
intimations respecting the funeral of her he mourned. At first, on this
dreadful subject he could not listen, and such was the effect it
produced on him, it was thought imprudent at that juncture to pursue it;
but it was requisite that it should be again revived, and, in anguish of
heart inexpressible, was he compelled to give such directions as he
could, that the body of Gabrielle should be conveyed to London, there
to be interred in the family vault, and laid by the side of his mother.
Sad and mournful is the office to the survivor, with his heart still
bleeding at the fond and vivid retrospection of hours past in the
society of one beloved, in the animation of life and health--sad and
mournful for him is the office to superintend and direct the last cold
functions for those who are never to return, to perform with shuddering
soul those melancholy obsequies to their manes which usage requires, and
to know that it is indeed the _last_ tribute he can pay to the memory of
one, for whom his heart vainly pants to do more--oh, how much more!--but
who, cold, indifferent, sad, is unconscious even of that.
From that spot where, without a hope for herself, but in patient
acquiescence to the desires of others, the gentle Gabrielle had gone for
the renewal of health, was she removed a corpse, conveyed again to that
which she had quitted, and interred with funeral pomp in the same vault
where long had peacefully slept the parents of Angelo, and now received
a daughter to their bosoms, who honoured them even in death. Her funeral
was attended by all those friends of Angelo, but few in number indeed,
who had had an opportunity of knowing her--by these was she consequently
lamented, as she had been admired; for it was not in nature to know
Gabrielle, and be insensible to her singular perfections. Thus, though
it could not be said that a weeping multitude followed her to the grave,
the few who did, shed over it the tear of heartfelt sorrow, the tear
which most her hovering spirit prized.
Angelo, forlorn, despairing, heartsick, considering himself a bankrupt
in every happiness that life could now afford, refused, when the cold
remains of her he had at length truly loved and appreciated far as his
nature was capable, were laid in the earth, refused for many days to be
seen of any one; and when at length the intrusive officiousness of
friendship (so termed, but which is in reality only the impatience of
the vain and weak at sorrows, which, incapable of alleviating, they
consider it a tax to behold) compelled him from his cherished solitude,
he appeared for a short time again among them, but with a melancholy and
reluctance that soon rendered his society unsought by the many, and
unprized even by the few; for the world can grieve only for personal
misfortune, and fly from miseries not their own.
Solitude for a time was the only balm which the heart of Angelo did not
reject; there he could bring before him the fair image of Gabrielle,
when first in the bloom of youth and innocence he had beheld her; next,
as in Italy, when in the habit of a youth, she had hovered near him
unknown, his guardian angel.--Now forsaken, dying, he beheld her a
desolate wanderer, perishing in the streets of another land; then
raising for a while her languid head, but drooping it soon, never more
to revive; now her wasted form glided before him, with accusing air, and
now stretched on the bed of death no more to arise, he beheld the meek
devoted victim of his perfidy and crime. Thus the remorseful Angelo
passed his hours, till, as his grief became less powerful, his mind of
itself looked out for consolation; he yet sought it not in society, he
sought it not in a renewal of his former habits, he sought it not in
gaiety or amusement; and when again he opened his lattice on the world,
the remembrance of past scenes rushed so forcibly on his mind, that he
fled it in a paroxysm of renewed grief.
The house where Gabrielle had resided, it distracted him to enter; the
country where she died, had inspired him with unceasing horror; the
streets through which her sad remains had passed, wore the air of
depopulation; he felt an oppressive gloom over his soul, if by chance he
approached them; without her who was departed, all England appeared in
his eyes but a frightful wilderness, or the sad mausoleum of her whom it
entombed. Unable to rest, he determined on quitting it altogether, and,
the last injunctions of Gabrielle being ever present to his mind, to
bend his course towards Italy, in the faint hope that chance perhaps
might furnish him with some tidings of the fate of one, if not both his
children; or, at all events, in his present absolute uncertainty, it was
a spot as justly calculated as any other to authorise such a hope, and
might claim the preference of being first explored.
In pursuance of this idea, and deriving a melancholy pleasure from the
reflection that he was now on the point of obeying the dearest wishes of
his departed wife, and of performing to her sacred memory the promise he
had made, he hastily arranged every requisite previous to his departure,
and taking leave of Fitzarden, and a few only whom he esteemed his
friends, he embarked for Calais, having so far varied the commencement
of his route as to resolve on passing through Paris, previous to
visiting Italy; conceiving that by so doing, instead of crossing a
barren space of the Mediterranean, he multiplied his chances of
information upon a subject now the nearest to his heart.
He soon arrived at this hot-bed of frivolity, vice, and unmeaning
profligacy, where, as he had been before, and made a host of
acquaintances, he was presently surrounded, and forcibly dragged into a
vortex of dissipation. At first, as heretofore, every thing in the shape
of mirth or gaiety was hateful to him, but by degrees his mind yielded
to the attraction, and he further reconciled himself to something like
participation in the universal rage for idle amusement, in a country
where folly and fashion give the law, in the reflection that by so doing
could he alone hope for the remotest intelligence respecting those he
sought. Thus he roamed from theatre to theatre, from one party to
another, from town to country, in the environs among the gardens; yet of
those who were ever uppermost in his thoughts he discerned not the
smallest trace; and began to resolve on speedily quitting a place which
since it had ceased to inspire him with hope, inspired him only with
disgust.
It happened that a gay young nobleman, named St. Evremond, one with whom
he had formerly been in the habits of associating, called on him one
morning (while solitary in his chamber he was ruminating whether from
Paris he should go as he first intended to Italy, or otherwise to
Switzerland, in the vain hope that Madame Bertrand might be enabled to
give him some intelligence respecting his lost daughter), and perceiving
his extreme dejection, proposed to him an engagement for the evening to
accompany him to a fair Englishwoman, whom he had lately formed
acquaintance with, and whom Angelo, as he considered him more than half
an Englishman, might probably be pleased to converse with.
Having lost the best and loveliest of her sex, Angelo had not at this
juncture a thought to throw away on woman; but the name Englishwoman
caused in him an involuntary emotion, for it was in England that
Gabrielle had become his bride, and in England where now her cold
remains were laid; he could not avoid asking of the Marquis de St.
Evremond, what he knew concerning the female, and how long she had been
in Paris.
“She has been among us some time,” St. Evremond replied, “but I have not
known her long. I was introduced to her by de Vainville, my friend and
yours; all I know of her, is, that she supports a splendid appearance,
and is visited by most of our savoir vivre, both old and young, and by
many of our ladies, whose rank and situations are such as to give them a
license for doing what they please, and who can venture to set formal
rules at defiance. All are pleased with the society she contrives to
draw to her house, and with the choice entertainment, mirth, and gaiety,
that are always to be met with there; yet I believe I may confidently
assert, that no one knows, any more than myself, from _whence_ she
derives her sources, or even cares more than I do; pleasure being the
object of life, what matter how it is obtained?”
“True,” thought Angelo to himself, “Frenchmen do not care,” forgetting
at the moment that the observation was not applicable to Frenchmen
only, and not long since had been most decidedly so to himself. “Well,”
cried he aloud, “I will attend you then, for I have a curiosity to see
this fair one.”--“Ah! fort bien, au révoir,” cried the gay Marquis
running out of the room, “I have a thousand important things to perform,
and above all must hasten to the rehearsal at the opera, for I am every
thing there; so adieu.”
The evening found Angelo prepared for his destined visit; the Marquis
was true to his appointment, and they departed together. They soon
arrived at the elegant residence of this vaunted fair one, and were
ushered into an apartment richly furnished, gaily illuminated, highly
perfumed, and filled with a multitude of those gaudy butterflies, who
wander about in search of pleasure, indifferent, as St. Evremond had
aptly said, where or how it might be obtained.
“There,” cried he to Angelo as he entered, “there is the goddess of this
terrestrial heaven: do you not observe how she is surrounded, absolutely
encompassed by a crowd, yet towers above them all; do but regard,
Count--a majestic height!” Angelo looked forward, and beheld the tall
figure of a woman, fancifully but not tastefully attired, and who,
whatever might be the attractions of her form, could rank neither
delicacy, nor elegance among them. Her face was not towards them, and
St. Evremond promised his companion that he would presently make his way
and introduce him. But now the female turned, and was moving towards
them; St. Evremond called the attention of Angelo; he had already caught
a glimpse of a countenance not unfamiliar to him, and was turning
faint. She drew nearer; Angelo looked with all his powers of vision.
Bedaubed with rouge, covered with frippery, bloated and disfigured, but
not completely disguised, he beheld before him--the gorgon head of
Milborough! and, staggering with horror, would have fallen to the
ground, but that the Marquis caught his arm, and prevented him.
The abandoned Milborough had beheld him too, and as immediately
recognized him; for the moment she was petrified with alarm, but
promptly recovering herself, with her native effrontery and cunning, she
drew near, seeming wholly unconcerned.
“Count D’Albini,” exclaimed the Marquis, “you are not ill I hope--Allow
me to introduce you to our lovely hostess.”
“Your friend seems overcome, Marquis,” cried Milborough with an assumed
accent, half French half English, and determined to affect total
ignorance of Angelo, “Had you not better retire with him a few moments
into the next chamber?--there you will find refreshments and--”
At this daring insolence, rage took place of every other sensation in
the bosom of Angelo. “Wretch!” he exclaimed, seizing her by the arm,
indifferent to all around--“dare you affect not to know me?”
“Good Heaven, Marquis,” exclaimed Milborough, disengaging herself from
the wild grasp of Angelo, “for what do you bring a madman to my house?”
The Marquis slightly bowed, glanced towards Angelo, and shrugged his
shoulders with an embarrassed air.
“Woman!” resumed the half frantic Angelo, “beware how you tempt me too
far. I command you, instantly inform me, what have you done with my
son?”
The bronzed cheek of Milborough knew no blush, her unabashed eye
wandered round as seeming to ask indignant participation in the
countenances of those present, for the insult offered her; she read only
curiosity, indifference or a desire to remain neuter; and fearful then,
lest Angelo, as well she knew he could, should unmask her before those
with whom she desired to remain unsuspected, she assumed an air of
anger, blended however with some confusion, and turning towards him
demanded--“Pray, Count, for so I think the Marquis styled you, what do
you require of me?”
“My son, wretch!” returned Angelo, “and unless you would be instantly
exposed for what you are, give me immediate information of him.”
“Well,” cried Milborough, glancing round with a smile of affected
indifference, but which however was not reflected back by any of her
guests, “well, Count, if you have really any thing of importance to say
to me, as you appear so desirous; I will attend you in another
apartment--though really I think such conduct somewhat strange.” Then
waving her hand to invite Angelo forward, who indignantly followed her
from the crowded apartment, she led the way to a small antichamber at a
distance from the company.
Angelo, instantly shutting the door with violence, in a voice quivering
with rage repeated the question of “Where is my son?”
“How should I know?” returned Milborough; “do you think I hold him still
in leading strings?”
“Who but you, wretch, can know aught respecting him? Was it not you who
stole him from beneath my roof, when you basely robbed me beside of all
I possessed?”
“Bitter language, my Lord; I would advise you to be more sparing of
it.--Your son left your house with me indeed, but by his own consent,
nay by his wish.--As for the robbery you speak of, if such it pleases
you to call it, he had his share in that too;--but supposing he had not,
what then?--I thought you knew the world better than to suppose a woman
of discretion could think of remaining with you after you were ruined;
or when she quitted you, she would like a fool leave--.”
“Cease your diabolical jargon, shock not my ears with the promulgation
of your infamous principles; be their baseness your curse; the crimes
they lead you to, your punishment; I ask you of my _son_; tell me his
present destination--let all else rest.”
“That is more than I can undertake to do,” returned Milborough; “the
destination of your son is unknown to me, and has been for some time.”
“Abominable woman! this prevarication shall not avail you; if you do not
instantly say where you have secreted the youth, I will publicly expose
you, and bring you to punishment.”
Milborough burst into a loud laugh. “Why, what would you gain by that?”
exclaimed she; “no one here would believe you, and if they did, still
what would you gain? Besides, how can you directly prove any thing
against me? But make the attempt if you will, for the jest’s sake,--do,
and perhaps you will easily get over the small trifle of my proving that
your son was not merely an accomplice with me, but my chief agent in all
I did.”
“Monster! dare you speak of a boy! a child trepanned by your base arts,
as an accomplice? That shall avail you nought, nor shall any thing, but
a prompt and sincere acknowledgment respecting him.”
“Though I despise your threats, Count, from being aware of their
absurdity, in compassion to your seeming anxiety, I will condescend thus
far to inform you. The boy left England with me, I grant; he hated his
mother, you know.” Angelo’s heart swelled with rage and anguish, but his
desire to hear this female demon to an end kept him silent. “He came
with me to this place, and remained with me, even for some time; but
being a spirited youth, and much like his father in point of character,
that is, fond of novelty, he soon deserted from my banners to those of a
French Marchioness, whom, I presume, he preferred to me, because she
paid him more compliments, and, as he conceived, would be more indulgent
to him than myself, whom he considered, and ever had indeed, more as
mother than his natural parent.”
She paused, but finding Angelo remained silent, she resumed: “I would
spare you a recital of the rest, as you appear agitated; but a
waiting-maid belonging to this said Marchioness, who had paid your son
great attention, suddenly disappeared with all the jewels and most
valuable property of her mistress, and with her disappeared your son
likewise.--Whither they directed their course no one could imagine, but
they are certainly together, and the discovery of the one must throw a
light upon the other. Time, no doubt,” she added, with a malicious
smile, “will reveal your son to you, but I would advise you not to be
scrupulous as to the situation in which you may find him.”
The wretched father was penetrated with anguish; there was an air of
truth in the horrible relation of Milborough: yet if his son were indeed
so early lost, if already his young mind had yielded to vice, who had
been his betrayer? Before him stood the abominable wretch, the corrupter
of youth, the destroyer of innocence! glorying in her base and
iniquitous triumph.
“Monster and devil!” he passionately exclaimed,--“if what you say be
even true--to you, to you may he attribute all.”
“Or rather to yourself, my lord,” interrupted Milborough, “and no doubt
he will _repay_ you: but perhaps you wish for further information upon
the subject, or suspect the truth even of what I have told you; if so,
the injured Marchioness is in the other room, and will readily confirm
all.”
This was a proposition from which Angelo shrunk; when Milborough
perceiving that he hesitated, and desirous to plant the dagger deep as
she could in the father’s heart, observed that he might make inquiries
of the Marchioness as a person interested in the fate of the youth only,
without acknowledging any relationship between them. To this the
wretched Angelo, scarcely knowing what he did, gloomily assented;
Milborough led him with an assumed air of interest and consideration
towards the Marchioness, but at the same time with a triumph which she
kept secret.
“I take the liberty, Madame la Marquise,” she said addressing her, “to
request of you a favour--you will have no objection, I hope, to assure
this gentleman of the event that took place lately in your family
respecting the youth you so much admired, and received into your house;
who repaid you by eloping with your maid, having first in conjunction
with her, plundered you of every valuable you possessed: this gentleman
has some knowledge of the youth Felix, and cannot believe him capable of
an act so base and ungrateful.”
“Ah, Monsieur,” exclaimed the Marchioness, laying her hand upon his arm;
“do you know any thing of him? I wish indeed, what Madame has told you
were not true, as I in that case should be now in possession of my
jewels, and a sum of money which I was almost ruined in losing.” She
then proceeded, with the volubility peculiar to her nation, to detail
the particulars of her loss; enlarged upon the affection she had
conceived for the youth, “he was so beautiful, so animated;” then on his
ingratitude towards her; and concluded by again inquiring of Angelo if
he could give her any intelligence either of him or his companion.
What a situation for the proud indignant Angelo! what a situation for a
heartsick father, to listen to the dreadful confirmation of his son
having committed a robbery! to hear of his monstrous early depravity,
of his total want of even the commonest social principle, and to be
asked (was it in nature to support it?) if he could point him out, if he
could be the means to bring his own son to justice? His senses almost
failed him, a cold shudder ran through all his limbs. Nearly suffocated
with agonising emotion, he turned his burning eyes on the infamous
Milborough, who had been all this time enjoying with fiend-like malice
the tortures in which she saw him writhe. “Monster and Devil!” exclaimed
he, “this is thy work, this----”
Milborough with a significant smile placed her hand upon his mouth, and
taking him by the arm, drew him a few paces back, and whispered in his
ear, “’Tis I who _now_ say, beware how you tempt me too far. If you
utter another sentence calculated to injure me, I will instantly
declare you aloud for the _father_ of the young robber!”
Angelo started back, and gazed on Milborough as in wonder that such
frightful depravity could exist in human nature. He beheld the
countenance of the fiend, fierce, bold, exulting; he essayed to speak,
but could not;--so tremblingly alive was he to disgrace or exposition.
Milborough had touched a string which vibrated to madness; his strength
seemed equally with his power of speech to be failing him; scarcely
knowing what he did, he made a desperate effort to recal his waning
faculties, and breaking through the surrounding throng he rushed like a
maniac from the house.
Without the power of volition, without intention, or idea, mechanically
he traced the way to the hotel where he lodged--his mind was anarchy,
was despair. Incapable of remaining another night in a place where he
had been blasted by such an assemblage of horrors, where, above all, he
must breathe an atmosphere polluted by the breath of Milborough! he
summoned his servant, and bidding him follow as soon as possible, late
as it was, took his departure from Paris.