Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.
A few days after the occurrence related in the preceding chapter, as
Adeline was alone in her chamber, she was roused from a reverie by a
trampling of horses near the gate; and on looking from the casement she
saw the Marquis de Montalt enter the abbey. This circumstance surprised
her, and an emotion, whose cause she did not trouble herself to inquire
for, made her instantly retreat from the window. The same cause,
however, led her thither again as hastily; but the object of her search
did not appear, and she was in no haste to retire.
As she stood musing and disappointed, the Marquis came out with La
Motte, and immediately looking up, saw Adeline and bowed. She returned
his compliment respectfully, and withdrew from the window, vexed at
having been seen there. They went into the forest, but the Marquis's
attendants did not, as before, follow them thither. When they returned,
which was not till after a considerable time, the Marquis immediately
mounted his horse and rode away.
For the remainder of the day La Motte appeared gloomy and silent, and
was frequently lost in thought. Adeline observed him with particular
attention and concern: she perceived that he was always more melancholy
after an interview with the Marquis, and was now surprised to hear that
the latter had appointed to dine the next day at the abbey.
When La Motte mentioned this, he added some high eulogiums on the
character of the Marquis, and particularly praised his generosity and
nobleness of soul. At this instant, Adeline recollected the anecdotes
she had formerly heard concerning the abbey, and they threw a shadow
over the brightness of that excellence which La Motte now celebrated.
The account, however, did not appear to deserve much credit; a part of
it, as far as a negative will admit of demonstration, having been
already proved false; for it had been reported that the abbey was
haunted, and no supernatural appearance had ever been observed by the
present inhabitants.
Adeline, however, ventured to inquire whether it was the present Marquis
of whom those injurious reports had been raised? La Motte answered her
with a smile of ridicule: Stories of ghosts and hobgoblins have always
been admired and cherished by the vulgar, said he: I am inclined to rely
upon my own experience, at least as much as upon the accounts of these
peasants; if you have seen any thing to corroborate these accounts, pray
inform me of it, that I may establish my faith.
You mistake me, Sir, said she, it was not concerning supernatural agency
that I would inquire; I alluded to a different part of the report, which
hinted that some person had been confined here by order of the Marquis,
who was said to have died unfairly; this was alleged as a reason for the
Marquis's having abandoned the abbey.
All the mere coinage of idleness, said La Motte; a romantic tale to
excite wonder: to see the Marquis is alone sufficient to refute this;
and if we credit half the number of those stories that spring from the
same source, we prove ourselves little superior to the simpletons who
invent them. Your good sense, Adeline, I think, will teach you the merit
of disbelief.
Adeline blushed and was silent; but La Motte's defence of the Marquis
appeared much warmer and more diffuse than was consistent with his own
disposition, or required by the occasion: his former conversation with
Louis occurred to her, and she was the more surprised at what passed at
present.
She looked forward to the morrow with a mixture of pain and pleasure:
the expectation of seeing again the young chevalier occupying her
thoughts, and agitating them with a various emotion:--now she feared his
presence, and now she doubted whether he would come. At length she
observed this, and blushed to find how much he engaged her attention.
The morrow arrived--the Marquis came--but he came alone; and the
sunshine of Adeline's mind was clouded, though she was able to wear her
usual air of cheerfulness. The Marquis was polite, affable, and
attentive: to manners the most easy and elegant, was added the last
refinement of polished life. His conversation was lively, amusing,
sometimes even witty, and discovered great knowledge of the world; or,
what is often mistaken for it, an acquaintance with the higher circles,
and with the topics of the day.
Here La Motte was also qualified to converse with him, and they entered
into a discussion of the characters and manners of the age with great
spirit and some humour. Madame La Motte had not seen her husband so
cheerful since they left Paris, and sometimes she could almost fancy she
was there. Adeline listened, till the cheerfulness which she had at
first only assumed became real. The address of the Marquis was so
insinuating and affable, that her reserve insensibly gave way before it,
and her natural vivacity resumed its long-lost empire.
At parting, the Marquis told La Motte he rejoiced at having found so
agreeable a neighbour. La Motte bowed. I shall sometimes visit you,
continued he, and I lament that I cannot at present invite Madame La
Motte and her fair friend to my chateau; but it is undergoing some
repairs, which make it but an uncomfortable residence.
[Illustration 03]
The vivacity of La Motte disappeared with his guest, and he soon
relapsed into fits of silence and abstraction. The Marquis is a very
agreeable man, said Madame La Motte. Very agreeable, replied he. And
seems to have an excellent heart, she resumed. An excellent one, said La
Motte.
You seem discomposed, my dear; what has disturbed you?
Not in the least--I was only thinking, that with such agreeable talents
and such an excellent heart, it was a pity the Marquis should--
What? my dear, said Madame with impatience. That the Marquis
should--should suffer this abbey to fall into ruins, replied La Motte.
Is that all? said Madame with disappointment.--That is all, upon my
honour, said La Motte, and left the room.
Adeline's spirits, no longer supported by the animated conversation of
the Marquis, sunk into languor, and when he departed she walked
pensively into the forest. She followed a little romantic path that
wound along the margin of the stream and was overhung with deep shades.
The tranquillity of the scenes which autumn now touched with her
sweetest tints, softened her mind to a tender kind of melancholy; and
she suffered a tear, which she knew not wherefore had stolen into her
eye, to tremble there unchecked. She came to a little lonely recess
formed by high trees; the wind sighed mournfully among the branches, and
as it waved their lofty heads scattered their leaves to the ground. She
seated herself on a bank beneath, and indulged the melancholy
reflections that pressed on her mind.
O! could I dive into futurity and behold the events which await me! said
she; I should perhaps, by constant contemplation, be enabled to meet
them with fortitude. An orphan in this wide world--thrown upon the
friendship of strangers for comfort, and upon their bounty for the very
means of existence, what but evil have I to expect? Alas, my father! how
could you thus abandon your child--how leave her to the storms of
life--to sink, perhaps, beneath them? alas, I have no friend!
She was interrupted by a rustling among the fallen leaves; she turned
her head, and perceiving the Marquis's young friend, arose to depart.
Pardon this intrusion, said he, your voice attracted me hither, and your
words detained me: my offence, however, brings with it its own
punishment; having learned your sorrows--how can I help feeling them
myself? would that my sympathy or my suffering could rescue you from
them!--He hesitated.--Would that I could deserve the title of your
friend, and be thought worthy of it by yourself!
The confusion of Adeline's thoughts could scarcely permit her to reply;
she trembled, and gently withdrew her hand, which he had taken while he
spoke. You have perhaps heard, Sir, more than is true: I am indeed not
happy; but a moment of dejection has made me unjust, and I am less
unfortunate than I have represented. When I said I had no friend, I was
ungrateful to the kindness of Monsieur and Madame La Motte, who have
been more than friends--have been as parents to me.
If so, I honour them, cried Theodore with warmth; and if I did not feel
it to be presumption, I would ask why you are unhappy?--But--he paused.
Adeline, raising her eyes, saw him gazing upon her with intense and
eager anxiety, and her looks were again fixed upon the ground. I have
pained you, said Theodore, by an improper request. Can you forgive me,
and also when I add, that it was an interest in your welfare which urged
my inquiry?
Forgiveness, Sir, it is unnecessary to ask; I am certainly obliged by
the compassion you express. But the evening is cold, if you please we
will walk towards the abbey. As they moved on, Theodore was for some
time silent. At length, It was but lately that I solicited your pardon,
said he, and I shall now perhaps have need of it again; but you will do
me the justice to believe that I have a strong and indeed a pressing
reason to inquire how nearly you are related to Monsieur La Motte.
We are not at all related, said Adeline; but the service he has done me
I can never repay, and I hope my gratitude will teach me never to forget
it.
Indeed! said Theodore, surprised: and may I ask how long you have known
him?
Rather, Sir, let me ask why these questions should be necessary.
You are just, said he, with an air of self-condemnation, my conduct has
deserved this reproof; I should have been more explicit. He looked as if
his mind was labouring with something which he was unwilling to express.
But you know not how delicately I am circumstanced, continued he; yet I
will aver that my questions are prompted by the tenderest interest in
your happiness--and even by my fears for your safety. Adeline started.
I fear you are deceived, said he, I fear there's danger near you.
Adeline stopped, and looking earnestly at him, begged he would explain
himself. She suspected that some mischief threatened La Motte; and
Theodore continuing silent, she repeated her request. If La Motte is
concerned in this danger, said she, let me entreat you to acquaint him
with it immediately; he has but too many misfortunes to apprehend.
Excellent Adeline! cried Theodore, that heart must be adamant that would
injure you. How shall I hint what I fear is too true, and how forbear to
warn you of your danger without--He was interrupted by a step among the
trees, and presently after saw La Motte cross into the path they were
in. Adeline felt confused at being thus seen with the chevalier, and was
hastening to join La Motte; but Theodore detained her, and entreated a
moment's attention. There is now no time to explain myself, said he; yet
what I would say is of the utmost consequence to _yourself_.
Promise, therefore, to meet me in some part of the forest at about this
time to-morrow evening; you will then, I hope, be convinced that my
conduct is directed neither by common circumstances nor common regard.
Adeline shuddered at the idea of making an appointment; she hesitated,
and at length entreated Theodore not to delay till to-morrow an
explanation which appeared to be so important, but to follow La Motte
and inform him of his danger immediately. It is not with La Motte I
would speak, replied Theodore; I know of no danger that threatens
him--but he approaches, be quick, lovely Adeline, and promise to meet
me.
I do promise, said Adeline, with a faltering voice; I will come to the
spot where you found me this evening, an hour earlier to-morrow. Saying
this, she withdrew her trembling hand, which Theodore had pressed to his
lips in token of acknowledgement, and he immediately disappeared.
La Motte now approached Adeline, who, fearing that he had seen Theodore,
was in some confusion. Whither is Louis gone so fast? said La Motte. She
rejoiced to find his mistake, and suffered him to remain in it. They
walked pensively towards the abbey, where Adeline, too much occupied by
her own thoughts to bear company, retired to her chamber. She ruminated
upon the words of Theodore; and the more she considered them, the more
she was perplexed. Sometimes she blamed herself for having made an
appointment, doubting whether he had not solicited it for the purpose of
pleading a passion; and now delicacy checked this thought, and made her
vexed that she had presumed upon having inspired one. She recollected
the serious earnestness of his voice and manner when he entreated her to
meet him; and as they convinced her of the importance of the subject,
she shuddered at a danger which she could not comprehend, looking
forward to the morrow with anxious impatience.
Sometimes too a remembrance of the tender interest he had expressed for
her welfare, and of his correspondent look and air, would steal across
her memory, awakening a pleasing emotion and a latent hope that she was
not indifferent to him. From reflections like these she was roused by a
summons to supper:--the repast was a melancholy one, it being the last
evening of Louis's stay at the abbey. Adeline, who esteemed him,
regretted his departure, while his eyes were often bent on her with a
look which seemed to express that he was about to leave the object of
his affection. She endeavoured by her cheerfulness to reanimate the
whole party, and especially Madame La Motte, who frequently shed tears.
We shall soon meet again, said Adeline, I trust in happier
circumstances. La Motte sighed. The countenance of Louis brightened at
her words. Do you wish it? said he with peculiar emphasis. Most
certainly I do, she replied: can you doubt my regard for my best
friends?
I cannot doubt any thing that is good of you, said he.
You forget you have left Paris, said La Motte to his son, while a faint
smile crossed his face; such a compliment would there be in character
with the place--in these solitary woods it is quite _outre_.
The language of admiration is not always that of compliment, Sir, said
Louis. Adeline, willing to change the discourse, asked to what part of
France he was going. He replied that his regiment was now at Peronne,
and he should go immediately thither. After some mention of indifferent
subjects, the family withdrew for the night to their several chambers.
The approaching departure of her son occupied the thoughts of Madame La
Motte, and she appeared at breakfast with eyes swollen with weeping. The
pale countenance of Louis seemed to indicate that he had rested no
better than his mother. When breakfast was over, Adeline retired for a
while, that she might not interrupt by her presence their last
conversation. As she walked on the lawn before the abbey, she returned
in thought to the occurrence of yesterday evening, and her impatience
for the appointed interview increased. She was soon joined by Louis. It
was unkind of you to leave us, said he, in the last moments of my stay.
Could I hope that you would sometimes remember me when I am far away, I
should depart with less sorrow. He then expressed his concern at leaving
her: and though he had hitherto armed himself with resolution to forbear
a direct avowal of an attachment, which must be fruitless, his heart now
yielded to the force of passion, and he told what Adeline every moment
feared to hear.
This declaration, said Adeline, endeavouring to overcome the agitation
it excited, gives me inexpressible concern.
O, say not so! interrupted Louis, but give me some slender hope to
support me in the miseries of absence. Say that you do not hate
me--Say--
That I do most readily say, replied Adeline in a tremulous voice;
if it will give you pleasure to be assured of my esteem and
friendship--receive this assurance:--as the son of my best benefactors,
you are entitled to----
Name not benefits, said Louis, your merits outrun them all: and suffer
me to hope for a sentiment less cool than that of friendship, as well as
to believe that I do not owe your approbation of me to the actions of
others. I have long borne my passion in silence, because I foresaw the
difficulties that would attend it; nay, I have even dared to endeavour
to overcome it: I have dared to believe it possible--forgive the
supposition, that I could forget you--and----
You distress me, interrupted Adeline; this is a conversation which I
ought not to hear. I am above disguise, and therefore assure you that,
though your virtues will always command my esteem, you have nothing to
hope from my love. Were it even otherwise, our circumstances would
effectually decide for us. If you are really my friend, you will rejoice
that I am spared this struggle between affection and prudence. Let me
hope, also, that time will teach you to reduce love within the limits of
friendship.
Never, cried Louis vehemently: were this possible, my passion would be
unworthy of its object. While he spoke, Adeline's favourite fawn came
bounding towards her. This circumstance affected Louis even to tears.
This little animal, said he, after a short pause, first conducted me to
you: it was witness to that happy moment when I first saw you surrounded
by attractions too powerful for my heart; that moment is now fresh in my
memory, and the creature comes even to witness this sad one of my
departure. Grief interrupted his utterance.
When he recovered his voice, he said, Adeline! when you look upon your
little favourite and caress it, remember the unhappy Louis, who will
then be far--far from you. Do not deny me the poor consolation of
believing this!
I shall not require such a monitor to remind me of you, said Adeline
with a smile; your excellent parents and your own merits have sufficient
claim upon my remembrance. Could I see your natural good sense resume
its influence over passion, my satisfaction would equal my esteem for
you.
Do not hope it, said Louis, nor will I wish it; for passion here is
virtue. As he spoke he saw La Motte turning round an angle of the abbey.
The moments are precious, said he, I am interrupted. O! Adeline,
farewell! and say that you will sometimes think of me.
Farewell, said Adeline, who was affected by his distress--farewell! and
peace attend you. I will think of you with the affection of a
sister.--He sighed deeply and pressed her hand; when La Motte, winding
round another projection of the ruin, again appeared. Adeline left them
together, and withdrew to her chamber, oppressed by the scene. Louis's
passion and her esteem were too sincere not to inspire her with a strong
degree of pity for his unhappy attachment. She remained in her chamber
till he had quitted the abbey, unwilling to subject him or herself to
the pain of a formal parting.
As evening and the hour of appointment drew nigh, Adeline's impatience
increased; yet when the time arrived, her resolution failed, and she
faltered from her purpose. There was something of indelicacy and
dissimulation in an _appointed_ interview on her part, that shocked her.
She recollected the tenderness of Theodore's manner, and several little
circumstances which seemed to indicate that his heart was not
unconcerned in the event. Again she was inclined to doubt whether he had
not obtained her consent to this meeting upon some groundless suspicion;
and she almost determined not to go: yet it was possible Theodore's
assertion might be sincere, and her danger real; the chance of this made
her delicate scruples appear ridiculous; she wondered that she had for a
moment suffered them to weigh against so serious an interest, and
blaming herself for the delay they had occasioned, hastened to the place
of appointment.
The little path which led to this spot, was silent and solitary, and
when she reached the recess Theodore had not arrived. A transient pride
made her unwilling he should find that she was more punctual to his
appointment than himself; and she turned from the recess into a track
which wound among the trees to the right. Having walked some way without
seeing any person or hearing a footstep, she returned; but he was not
come, and she again left the place. A second time she came back, and
Theodore was still absent. Recollecting the time at which she had
quitted the abbey, she grew uneasy, and calculated that the hour
appointed was now much exceeded. She was offended and perplexed; but she
seated herself on the turf, and was resolved to wait the event. After
remaining here till the fall of twilight in fruitless expectation, her
pride became more alarmed; she feared that he had discovered something
of the partiality he had inspired; and believing that he now treated her
with purposed neglect, she quitted the place with disgust and
self-accusation.
When these emotions subsided, and reason resumed its influence, she
blushed for what she termed this childish effervescence of self-love.
She recollected, as if for the first time, these words of Theodore: I
fear you are deceived, and that some danger is near you. Her judgment
now acquitted the offender, and she saw only the friend. The import of
these words, whose truth she no longer doubted, again alarmed her. Why
did he trouble himself to come from the chateau, on purpose to hint her
danger, if he did not wish to preserve her? And if he wished to preserve
her, what but necessity could have withheld him from the appointment?
These reflections decided her at once. She resolved to repair on the
following day at the same hour to the recess, whither the interest which
she believed him to take in her fate would no doubt conduct him in the
hope of meeting her. That some evil hovered over her she could not
disbelieve, but what it might be she was unable to guess. Monsieur and
Madame La Motte were her friends, and who else, removed as she now
thought herself, beyond the reach of her father, could injure her? But
why did Theodore say she was deceived? She found it impossible to
extricate herself from the labyrinth of conjecture, but endeavoured to
command her anxiety till the following evening. In the mean time she
engaged herself in efforts to amuse Madame La Motte, who required some
relief after the departure of her son.
Thus oppressed by her own cares and interested by those of Madame La
Motte, Adeline retired to rest. She soon lost her recollection: but it
was only to fall into harassed slumbers, such as but too often haunt the
couch of the unhappy. At length her perturbed fancy suggested the
following dream.
She thought she was in a large old chamber belonging to the abbey, more
ancient and desolate, though in part furnished, than any she had yet
seen. It was strongly barricadoed, yet no person appeared. While she
stood musing and surveying the apartment, she heard a low voice call
her; and looking towards the place whence it came, she perceived by the
dim light of a lamp a figure stretched on a bed that lay on the floor.
The Voice called again; and approaching the bed, she distinctly saw the
features of a man who appeared to be dying. A ghastly paleness
overspread his countenance, yet there was an expression of mildness and
dignity in it, which strongly interested her.
While she looked on him his features changed, and seemed convulsed in
the agonies of death. The spectacle shocked her, and she started back;
but he suddenly stretched forth his hand, and seizing hers, grasped it
with violence: she struggled in terror to disengage herself; and again
looking on his face, saw a man who appeared to be about thirty, with the
same features, but in full health, and of a most benign countenance. He
smiled tenderly upon her, and moved his lips as if to speak, when the
floor of the chamber suddenly opened and he sunk from her view. The
effort she made to save herself from following awoke her.--This dream
had so strongly impressed her fancy, that it was some time before she
could overcome the terror it occasioned, or even be perfectly convinced
she was in her own apartment. At length, however, she composed herself
to sleep; again she fell into a dream.
She thought she was bewildered in some winding passages of the abbey;
that it was almost dark, and that she wandered about a considerable time
without being able to find a door. Suddenly she heard a bell toll from
above, and soon after a confusion of distant voices. She redoubled her
efforts to extricate herself. Presently all was still; and at length
wearied with the search, she sat down on a step that crossed the
passage. She had not been long here when she saw a light glimmer at a
distance on the walls; but a turn in the passage, which was very long,
prevented her seeing from what it proceeded. It continued to glimmer
faintly for some time and then grew stronger, when she saw a man enter
the passage habited in a long black cloak like those usually worn by
attendants at funerals, and bearing a torch. He called to her to follow
him, and led her through a long passage to the foot of a staircase. Here
she feared to proceed, and was running back, when the man suddenly
turned to pursue her, and with the terror which this occasioned she
awoke.
Shocked by these visions, and more so by their seeming connection, which
now struck her, she endeavoured to continue awake, lest their terrific
images should again haunt her mind: after some time, however, her
harassed spirits again sunk into slumber, though not to repose.
She now thought herself in a large old gallery, and saw at one end of it
a chamber door standing a little open and a light within: she went
towards it, and perceived the man she had before seen, standing at the
door and beckoning her towards him. With the inconsistency so common in
dreams, she no longer endeavoured to avoid him, but advancing, followed
him into a suit of very ancient apartments hung with black and lighted
up as if for a funeral. Still he led her on, till she found herself in
the same chamber she remembered to have seen in her former dream: a
coffin covered with a pall stood at the further end of the room; some
lights and several persons surrounded it, who appeared to be in great
distress.
Suddenly she thought these persons were all gone, and that she was left
alone; that she went up to the coffin, and while she gazed upon it, she
heard a voice speak, as if from within, but saw nobody. The man she had
before seen, soon after stood by the coffin, and lifting the pall, she
saw beneath it a dead person, whom she thought to be the dying chevalier
she had seen in her former dream; his features were sunk in death, but
they were yet serene. While she looked at him, a stream of blood gushed
from his side, and descending to the floor the whole chamber was
overflowed; at the same time some words were uttered in a voice she
heard before; but the horror of the scene so entirely overcame her, that
she started and awoke.
When she had recovered her recollection, she raised herself in the bed,
to be convinced it was a dream she had witnessed; and the agitation of
her spirits was so great, that she feared to be alone, and almost
determined to call Annette. The features of the deceased person, and the
chamber where he lay, were strongly impressed upon her memory, and she
still thought she heard the voice and saw the countenance which her
dream represented. The longer she considered these dreams, the more she
was surprised; they were so very terrible, returned so often, and seemed
to be so connected with each other, that she could scarcely think them
accidental; yet why they should be supernatural, she could not tell. She
slept no more that night.