Full many a melancholy night
He watch'd the slow return of light,
And sought the powers of sleep;
To spread a momentary calm
O'er his sad couch, and in the balm
Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep.
WARTON.
The MS. found by Adeline the preceding night had several times occurred
to her recollection in the course of the day; but she had then been
either too much interested by the events of the moment, or too
apprehensive of interruption, to attempt a perusal of it. She now took
it from the drawer in which it had been deposited, and, intending only
to look cursorily over the few first pages, sat down with it by her
bed-side.
She opened it with an eagerness of inquiry which the discoloured and
almost obliterated ink but slowly gratified. The first words on the page
were entirely lost, but those that appeared to commence the narrative
were as follows:
O! ye, whoever ye are, whom chance or misfortune may hereafter conduct
to this spot--to you I speak--to you reveal the story of my wrongs, and
ask you to avenge them. Vain hope! yet it imparts some comfort to
believe it possible that what I now write may one day meet the eye of a
fellow-creature; that the words which tell my sufferings may one day
draw pity from the feeling heart.
Yet stay your tears--your pity now is useless: lone since have the pangs
of misery ceased; the voice of complaining is passed away. It is
weakness to wish for compassion which cannot be felt till I shall sink
in the repose of death, and taste, I hope, the happiness of eternity!
Know, then, that on the night of the twelfth of October, in the year
1642, I was arrested on the road to Caux,--and on the very spot where a
column is erected to the memory of the immortal Henry,--by four
ruffians, who, after disabling my servant, bore me through wilds and
woods to this abbey. Their demeanour was not that of common banditti,
and I soon perceived they were employed by a superior power to
perpetrate some dreadful purpose. Entreaties and bribes were vainly
offered them to discover their employer and abandon their design; they
would not reveal even the least circumstance of their intentions.
But when, after a long journey, they arrived at this edifice, their base
employer was at once revealed, and his horrid scheme but too well
understood. What a moment was that! All the thunders of heaven seemed
launched at this defenceless head! O! fortitude! nerve my heart to----
Adeline's light was now expiring in the socket, and the paleness of the
ink, so feebly shone upon, baffled her efforts to discriminate the
letters: it was impossible to procure a light from below, without
discovering that she was yet up; a circumstance which would excite
surprise, and lead to explanations such as she did not wish to enter
upon. Thus compelled to suspend the inquiry, which so many attendant
circumstances had rendered awfully interesting, she retired to her
humble bed.
What she had read of the MS. awakened a dreadful interest in the fate of
the writer, and called up terrific images to her mind. In these
apartments!--said she; and she shuddered and closed her eyes. At length
she heard Madame La Motte enter her chamber, and the phantoms of fear
beginning to dissipate, left her to repose.
In the morning she was awakened by Madame La Motte, and found to her
disappointment that she had slept so much beyond her usual time as to be
unable to renew the perusal of the MS.--La Motte appeared uncommonly
gloomy, and Madame wore an air of melancholy, which Adeline attributed
to the concern she felt for her. Breakfast was scarcely over, when the
sound of horses' feet announced the arrival of a stranger; and Adeline
from the oriel recess of the hall saw the Marquis alight. She retreated
with precipitation, and, forgetting the request of La Motte, was
hastening to her chamber: but the Marquis was already in the hall; and
seeing her leaving it, turned to La Motte with a look of inquiry. La
Motte called her back, and by a frown too intelligent reminded her of
her promise. She summoned all her spirits to her aid, but advanced,
notwithstanding, in visible emotion; while the Marquis addressed her as
usual, the same easy gaiety playing upon his countenance and directing
his manner.
Adeline was surprised and shocked at this careless confidence; which,
however, by awakening her pride, communicated to her an air of dignity
that abashed him. He spoke with hesitation, and frequently appeared
abstracted from the subject of discourse. At length arising, he begged
Adeline would favour him with a few moments' conversation. Monsieur and
Madame La Motte were now leaving the room, when Adeline, turning to the
Marquis, told him she would not hear any conversation except in the
presence of her friends. But she said it in vain, for they were gone;
and La Motte, as he withdrew, expressed by his looks how much an attempt
to follow would displease him.
She sat for some time in silence and trembling expectation. I am
sensible, said the Marquis at length, that the conduct to which the
ardour of my passion lately betrayed me, has injured me in your opinion,
and that you will not easily restore me to your esteem; but I trust the
offer which I now make you, both of my _title_ and fortune, will
sufficiently prove the sincerity of my attachment, and atone for the
transgression which love only prompted.
After this specimen of common-place verbosity, which the Marquis seemed
to consider as a prelude to triumph, he attempted to impress a kiss upon
the hand of Adeline, who, withdrawing it hastily, said, You are already,
my Lord, acquainted with my sentiments upon this subject, and it is
almost unnecessary for me now to repeat that I cannot accept the honour
you offer me.
Explain yourself, lovely Adeline! I am ignorant that till now I ever
made you this offer.
Most true, Sir, said Adeline; and you do well to remind me of this,
since, after having heard your former proposal, I cannot listen for a
moment to any other. She rose to quit the room. Stay, Madam, said the
Marquis, with a look in which offended pride struggled to conceal
itself; do not suffer an extravagant resentment to operate against your
true interests; recollect the dangers that surround you, and consider
the value of an offer which may afford you at least an honourable
asylum.
My misfortunes, my Lord, whatever they are, I have never obtruded upon
you; you will, therefore, excuse my observing, that your present mention
of them conveys a much greater appearance of insult than compassion. The
Marquis, though with evident confusion, was going to reply; but Adeline
would not be detained, and retired to her chamber. Destitute as she was,
her heart revolted from the proposal of the Marquis, and she determined
never to accept it. To her dislike of his general disposition, and the
aversion excited by his late offer, was added, indeed, the influence of
a prior attachment, and of a remembrance which she found it impossible
to erase from her heart.
The Marquis staid to dine, and in consideration of La Motte, Adeline
appeared at table, where the former gazed upon her with such frequent
and silent earnestness, that her distress became insupportable; and when
the cloth was drawn, she instantly retired. Madame La Motte soon
followed, and it was not till evening that she had an opportunity of
returning to the MS. When Monsieur and Madame La Motte were in their
chamber, and all was still, she drew forth the narrative, and trimming
her lamp, sat down to read as follows:
The ruffians unbound me from my horse, and led me through the hall up
the spiral staircase of the abbey: resistance was useless; but I looked
around in the hope of seeing some person less obdurate than the men who
brought me hither; some one who might be sensible to pity, and capable
at least of civil treatment. I looked in vain; no person appeared: and
this circumstance confirmed my worst apprehensions. The secrecy of the
business foretold a horrible conclusion. Having passed some chambers,
they stopped in one hung with old tapestry. I inquired why we did not go
on, and was told I should soon know.
At that moment I expected to see the instrument of death uplifted, and
silently recommended myself to God. But death was not then designed for
me; they raised the arras, and discovered a door, which they then
opened. Seizing my arms, they led me through a suite of dismal chambers
beyond. Having reached the furthest of these, they again stopped: the
horrid gloom of the place seemed congenial to murder, and inspired
deadly thoughts. Again I looked round for the instrument of destruction,
and again I was respited. I supplicated to know what was designed me; it
was now unnecessary to ask who was the author of the design. They were
silent to my question, but at length told me this chamber was my prison.
Having said this, and set down a jug of water, they left the room, and I
heard the door barred upon me.
O sound of despair! O moment of unutterable anguish! The pang of death
itself is surely not superior to that I then suffered. Shut out from
day, from friends, from life--for _such I must foretell it_--in the
prime of my years, in the height of my transgressions, and left to
imagine horrors more terrible than any, perhaps, which certainty could
give--I sink beneath the--
Here several pages of the manuscript were decayed with damp, and totally
illegible. With much difficulty Adeline made out the following lines:
Three days have now passed in solitude and silence: the horrors of death
are ever before my eyes, let me endeavour to prepare for the dreadful
change! When I awake in the morning I think I shall not live to see
another night; and when night returns, that I must never more unclose my
eyes on morning. Why am I brought hither--why confined thus
rigorously--but for death! Yet what action of my life has deserved this
at the hand of a fellow-creature?--Of----
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
O my children! O friends far distant! I shall never see you more--never
more receive the parting look of kindness--never bestow a parting
blessing!--Ye know not my wretched state--alas! ye cannot know it by
human means. Ye believe me happy, or ye would fly to my relief. I know
that what I now write cannot avail me, yet there is comfort in pouring
forth my griefs; and I bless that man, less savage than his fellows, who
has supplied me these means of recording them. Alas! he knows full well,
that from this indulgence he has nothing to fear. My pen can call no
friends to succour me, nor reveal my danger ere it is too late. O! ye,
who may hereafter read what I now write, give a tear to my sufferings: I
have wept often for the distresses of my fellow-creatures!
Adeline paused. Here the wretched writer appealed directly to her heart;
he spoke in the energy of truth, and, by a strong illusion of fancy, it
seemed as if his past suffering were at this moment present. She was for
some time unable to proceed, and sat in musing sorrow. In these very
apartments, said she, this poor sufferer was confined--here he--Adeline
started, and thought she heard a sound; but the stillness of the night
was undisturbed.--In these very chambers, said she, these lines were
written--these lines, from which he then derived a comfort in believing
they would hereafter be read by some pitying eye: this time is now come.
Your miseries, O injured being! are lamented where they were endured.
_Here_, where you suffered, I weep for your sufferings!
Her imagination was now strongly impressed, and to her distempered
senses the suggestions of a bewildered mind appeared with the force of
reality. Again she started and listened, and thought she heard _Here_
distinctly repeated by a whisper immediately behind her. The terror of
the thought, however, was but momentary, she knew it could not be;
convinced that her fancy had deceived her, she took up the MS. and again
began to read.
For what am I reserved? Why this delay? If I am to die--why not quickly?
Three weeks have I now passed within these walls, during which time no
look of pity has softened my afflictions; no voice, save my own, has met
my ear. The countenances of the ruffians who attend me are stern and
inflexible, and their silence is obstinate. This stillness is dreadful!
O! ye, who have known what it is to live in the depths of solitude, who
have passed your dreary days without one sound to cheer you; ye, and ye
only, can tell what now I feel; and ye may know how much I would endure
to hear the accents of a human voice.
O dire extremity! O state of living death! What dreadful stillness! All
around me is dead; and do I really exist, or am I but a statue? Is this
a vision? Are these things real? Alas, I am bewildered!--this death-like
and perpetual silence--this dismal chamber--the dread of further
sufferings have disturbed my fancy. O for some friendly breast to lay my
weary head on! some cordial accents to revive my soul!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I write by stealth. He who furnished me with the means, I fear, has
suffered for some symptoms of pity he may have discovered for me; I have
not seen him for several days: perhaps he is inclined to help me, and
for that reason is forbid to come. O that hope! but how vain! Never more
must I quit these walls while life remains. Another day is gone, and yet
I live; at this time to-morrow night my sufferings may be sealed in
death. I will continue my journal nightly, till the hand that writes
shall be stopped by death: when the journal ceases, the reader will know
I am no more. Perhaps these are the last lines I shall ever write.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Adeline paused, while her tears fell fast. Unhappy man! she exclaimed:
and was here no pitying soul to save thee! Great God! thy ways are
wonderful! While she sat musing, her fancy, which now wandered in the
regions of terror, gradually subdued reason. There was a glass before
her upon the table, and she feared to raise her looks towards it, lest
some other face than her own should meet her eyes: other dreadful ideas
and strange images of fantastic thought now crossed her mind.
A hollow sigh seemed to pass near her. Holy Virgin, protect me! cried
she, and threw a fearful glance round the room;--this is surely
something more than fancy. Her fears so far overcame her, that she was
several times upon the point of calling up a part of the family; but,
unwillingness to disturb them, and a dread of ridicule, withheld her.
She was also afraid to move, and almost to breathe. As she listened to
the wind, that murmured at the casement of her lonely chamber, she again
thought she heard a sigh. Her imagination refused any longer the control
of reason, and, turning her eyes, a figure, whose exact form she could
not distinguish, appeared to pass along an obscure part of the chamber:
a dreadful chillness came over her, and she sat fixed in her chair. At
length a deep sigh somewhat relieved her oppressed spirits, and her
senses seemed to return.
All remaining quiet, after some time she began to question whether her
fancy had not deceived her, and she so far conquered her terror as to
desist from calling Madame La Motte: her mind was, however, so much
disturbed, that she did not venture to trust herself that night again
with the MS.; but having spent some time in prayer, and in endeavouring
to compose her spirits, she retired to bed.
When she awoke in the morning, the cheerful sun-beams played upon the
casements, and dispelled the illusions of darkness: her mind soothed and
invigorated by sleep, rejected the mystic and turbulent promptings of
imagination. She arose refreshed and thankful; but upon going down to
breakfast, this transient gleam of peace fled upon the appearance of the
Marquis, whose frequent visits at the abbey, after what had passed, not
only displeased, but alarmed her. She saw that he was determined to
persevere in addressing her: and the boldness and insensibility of this
conduct, while it excited her indignation, increased her disgust. In
pity to La Motte, she endeavoured to conceal these emotions, though she
now thought that he required too much from her complaisance, and began
seriously to consider how she might avoid the necessity of continuing
it. The Marquis behaved to her with the most respectful attention; but
Adeline was silent and reserved, and seized the first opportunity of
withdrawing.
As she passed up the spiral staircase, Peter entered the hall below, and
seeing Adeline, he stopped and looked earnestly at her: she did not
observe him, but he called her softly, and she then saw him make a
signal, as if he had something to communicate. In the next instant, La
Motte opened the door of the vaulted room, and Peter hastily
disappeared. She proceeded to her chamber, ruminating upon this signal,
and the cautious manner in which Peter had given it.
But her thoughts soon returned to their wonted subjects. Three days were
now passed, and she heard no intelligence of her father; she began to
hope that he had relented from the violent measures hinted at by La
Motte, and that he meant to pursue a milder plan: but when she
considered his character, this appeared improbable, and she relapsed
into her former fears. Her residence at the abbey was now become
painful, from the perseverance of the Marquis and the conduct which La
Motte obliged her to adopt; yet she could not think without dread of
quitting it to return to her father.
The image of Theodore often intruded upon her busy thoughts, and brought
with it a pang which his strange departure occasioned. She had a
confused notion that his fate was somehow connected with her own; and
her struggles to prevent the remembrance of him served only to show how
much her heart was his.
To divert her thoughts from these subjects, and gratify the curiosity so
strongly excited on the preceding night, she now took up the MS. but was
hindered from opening it by the entrance of Madame La Motte, who came to
tell her the Marquis was gone. They passed their morning together in
work and general conversation; La Motte not appearing till dinner, when
he said little, and Adeline less. She asked him, however, if he had
heard from her father? I have not heard from him, said La Motte; but
there is good reason, as I am informed by the Marquis, to believe he is
not far off.
Adeline was shocked, yet she was able to reply with becoming firmness. I
have already, Sir, involved you too much in my distress, and now see
that resistance will destroy you, without serving me; I am therefore
contented to return to my father, and thus spare you further calamity.
This is a rash determination, replied La Motte; and if you pursue it, I
fear you will severely repent. I speak to you as a friend, Adeline, and
desire you will endeavour to listen to me without prejudice. The
Marquis, I find, has offered you his hand. I know not which circumstance
most excites my surprise, that a man of his rank and consequence should
solicit a marriage with a person without fortune or ostensible
connexions, or that a person so circumstanced should even for a moment
reject the advantages just offered her. You weep, Adeline; let me hope
that you are convinced of the absurdity of this conduct, and will no
longer trifle with your good fortune. The kindness I have shown you must
convince you of my regard, and that I have no motive for offering you
this advice but your advantage. It is necessary, however, to say, that
should your father not insist upon your removal, I know not how long my
circumstances may enable me to afford even the humble pittance you
receive here. Still you are silent.
The anguish which this speech excited, suppressed her utterance, and she
continued to weep. At length she said, Suffer me, Sir, to go back to my
father; I should indeed make an ill return for the kindness you mention,
could I wish to stay after what you now tell me; and to accept the
Marquis, I feel to be impossible. The remembrance of Theodore arose to
her mind, and she wept aloud.
La Motte sat for some time musing. Strange infatuation! said he; is it
possible that you can persist in this heroism of romance, and prefer a
father so inhuman as yours, to the Marquis de Montalt! a destiny so full
of danger, to a life of splendour and delight!
Pardon me, said Adeline; a marriage with the Marquis would be splendid,
but never happy. His character excites my aversion, and I entreat, Sir,
that he may no more be mentioned.