Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
_I knit my handkerchief about your brows_,
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour.
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time.
KING JOHN.
If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night;
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit Melancholy
Had baked thy blood and made it heavy, thick;
Then, in despite of broad-eyed watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.
KING JOHN.
Meanwhile the persecuted Adeline continued to travel, with little
interruption, all night. Her mind suffered such a tumult of grief,
regret, despair, and terror, that she could not be said to think. The
Marquis's valet, who had placed himself in the chaise with her, at first
seemed inclined to talk; but her inattention soon silenced him, and left
her to the indulgence of her own misery.
They seemed to travel through obscure lanes and by-ways, along which the
carriage drove as furiously as the darkness would permit. When the dawn
appeared, she perceived herself on the borders of a forest, and renewed
her entreaties to know whither she was going. The man replied he had no
orders to tell, but she would soon see. Adeline, who had hitherto
supposed they were carrying her to the villa, now began to doubt it; and
as every place appeared less terrible to her imagination than that, her
despair began to abate, and she thought only of the devoted Theodore,
whom she knew to be the victim of malice and revenge.
They now entered upon the forest, and it occurred to her that she was
going to the abbey; for though she had no remembrance of the scenery
through which she passed, it was not the less probable that this was the
forest of Fontanville, whose boundaries were by much too extensive to
have come within the circle of her former walks. This conjecture revived
a terror little inferior to that occasioned by the idea of going to the
villa; for at the abbey she would be equally in the power of the
Marquis, and also in that of her cruel enemy La Motte. Her mind revolted
at the picture her fancy drew; and as the carriage moved under the
shades, she threw from the window a look of eager inquiry for some
object which might confirm or destroy her present surmise: she did not
long look, before an opening in the forest showed her the distant towers
of the abbey--I am, indeed, lost then, said she, bursting into tears.
They were soon at the foot of the lawn, and Peter was seen running to
open the gate, at which the carriage stopped. When he saw Adeline, he
looked surprised and made an effort to speak; but the chaise now drove
up to the abbey, where, at the door of the hall, La Motte himself
appeared. As he advanced to take her from the carriage, an universal
trembling seized her; it was with the utmost difficulty she supported
herself, and for some moments she neither observed his countenance nor
heard his voice. He offered his arm to assist her into the abbey, which
she at first refused, but having tottered a few paces was obliged to
accept; they then entered the vaulted room, where, sinking into a chair,
a flood of tears came to her relief. La Motte did not interrupt the
silence, which continued for some time, but paced the room in seeming
agitation. When Adeline was sufficiently recovered to notice external
objects, she observed his countenance, and there read the tumult of his
soul, while he was struggling to assume a firmness which his better
feelings opposed.
La Motte now took her hand, and would have led her from the room; but
she stopped, and with a kind of desperate courage made an effort to
engage him to pity and to save her. He interrupted her; It is not in my
power, said he in a voice of emotion; I am not master of myself or my
conduct; inquire no further--it is sufficient for you to know that I
pity you; more I cannot do. He gave her no time to reply, but taking her
hand led her to the stairs of the tower, and from thence to the chamber
she had formerly occupied.
Here you must remain for the present, said he, in a confinement which
is, perhaps, almost as involuntary on my part as it can be on yours. I
am willing to render it as easy as possible, and have therefore ordered
some books to be brought you.
Adeline made an effort to speak; but he hurried from the room, seemingly
ashamed of the part he had undertaken, and unwilling to trust himself
with her tears. She heard the door of the chamber locked; and then
looking towards the windows, perceived they were secured: the door that
led to the other apartments was also fastened. Such preparation for
security shocked her; and hopeless as she had long believed herself, she
now perceived her mind sink deeper in despair. When the tears she shed
had somewhat relieved her, and her thoughts could turn from the subjects
of her immediate concern, she was thankful for the total seclusion
allotted her, since it would spare her the pain she must feel in the
presence of Monsieur and Madame La Motte, and allow the unrestrained
indulgence of her own sorrow and reflection; reflection which, however
distressing, was preferable to the agony inflicted on the mind when,
agitated by care and fear, it is obliged to assume an appearance of
tranquillity.
In about a quarter of an hour her chamber door was unlocked, and Annette
appeared with refreshments and books: she expressed satisfaction at
seeing Adeline again, but seemed fearful of speaking, knowing, probably,
that it was contrary to the orders of La Motte, who, she said, was
waiting at the bottom of the stairs. When Annette was gone, Adeline took
some refreshment, which was indeed necessary, for she had tasted nothing
since she left the inn. She was pleased, but not surprised, that Madame
La Motte did not appear, who, it was evident, shunned her from a
consciousness of her own ungenerous conduct,--a consciousness which
offered some presumption that she was still not wholly unfriendly to
her. She reflected upon the words of La Motte,--I am not master of
myself or my conduct,--and though they afforded her no hope, she derived
some comfort, poor as it was, from the belief that he pitied her. After
some time spent in miserable reflection and various conjectures, her
long-agitated spirits seemed to demand repose, and she lay down to
sleep.
Adeline slept quietly for several hours, and awoke with a mind refreshed
and tranquillized. To prolong this temporary peace, and to prevent
therefore the intrusion of her own thoughts, she examined the books La
Motte had sent her: among these she found some that in happier times had
elevated her mind and interested her heart: their effect was now
weakened; they were still, however, able to soften for a time the sense
of her misfortunes.
But this Lethean medicine to a wounded mind was but a temporary
blessing; the entrance of La Motte dissolved the illusions of the page,
and awakened her to a sense of her own situation. He came with food, and
having placed it on the table left the room without speaking. Again she
endeavoured to read, but his appearance had broken the enchantment;
bitter reflection returned to her mind, and brought with it the image of
Theodore--of Theodore lost to her for ever!
La Motte meanwhile experienced all the terrors that could be inflicted
by a conscience not wholly hardened to guilt. He had been led on by
passion to dissipation, and from dissipation to vice; but having once
touched the borders of infamy, the progressive steps followed each other
fast, and he now saw himself the pander of a villain, and the betrayer
of an innocent girl whom every plea of justice and humanity called upon
him to protect. He contemplated his picture--he shrunk from it, but he
could change its deformity only by an effort too nobly daring for a mind
already effeminated by vice. He viewed the dangerous labyrinth into
which he was led, and perceived, as if for the first time, the
progression of his guilt: from this labyrinth he weakly imagined further
guilt could alone extricate him. Instead of employing his mind upon the
means of saving Adeline from destruction, and himself from being
instrumental to it, he endeavoured only to lull the pangs of conscience,
and to persuade himself into a belief that he must proceed in the course
he had begun. He knew himself to be in the power of the Marquis, and he
dreaded that power more than the sure though distant punishment that
awaits upon guilt. The honour of Adeline, and the quiet of his own
conscience, he consented to barter for a few years of existence.
He was ignorant of the present illness of the Marquis, or he would have
perceived that there was a chance of escaping the threatened punishment
at a price less enormous than infamy, and he would perhaps have
endeavoured to save Adeline and himself by flight. But the Marquis,
foreseeing the possibility of this, had ordered his servants carefully
to conceal the circumstance which detained him, and to acquaint La Motte
that he should be at the abbey in a few days, at the same time directing
his valet to await him there. Adeline, as he expected, had neither
inclination nor opportunity to mention it; and thus La Motte remained
ignorant of the circumstance which might have preserved him from further
guilt and Adeline from misery.
Most unwillingly had La Motte made his wife acquainted with the action
which had made him absolutely dependent upon the will of the Marquis;
but the perturbation of his mind partly betrayed him: frequently in his
sleep he muttered incoherent sentences, and frequently would start from
his slumber, and call in passionate exclamation upon Adeline. These
instances of a disturbed mind had alarmed and terrified Madame La Motte,
who watched while he slept, and soon gathered from his words a confused
idea of the Marquis's designs.
She hinted her suspicions to La Motte, who reproved her for having
entertained them; but his manner, instead of repressing, increased her
fears for Adeline; fears, which the conduct of the Marquis soon
confirmed. On the night that he slept at the abbey, it had occurred to
her that whatever scheme was in agitation it would now most probably be
discussed; and anxiety for Adeline made her stoop to a meanness which,
in other circumstances, would have been despicable. She quitted her
room, and concealing herself in an apartment adjoining that in which she
had left the Marquis and her husband, listened to their discourse. It
turned upon the subject she had expected, and disclosed to her the full
extent of their designs. Terrified for Adeline, and shocked at the
guilty weakness of La Motte, she was for some time incapable of
thinking, or determining how to proceed. She knew her husband to be
under great obligation to the Marquis, whose territory thus afforded him
a shelter from the world, and that it was in the power of the former to
betray him into the hands of his enemies. She believed also that the
Marquis would do this, if provoked: yet she thought, upon such an
occasion, La Motte might find some way of appeasing the Marquis without
subjecting himself to dishonour. After some further reflection, her mind
became more composed, and she returned to her chamber, where La Motte
soon followed. Her spirits, however, were not now in a state to
encounter either his displeasure or his opposition, which she had too
much reason to expect whenever she should mention the subject of her
concern, and she therefore resolved not to notice it till the morrow.
On the morrow she told La Motte all he had uttered in his dreams; and
mentioned other circumstances, which convinced him it was in vain any
longer to deny the truth of her apprehensions. His wife then represented
to him how possible it was to avoid the infamy into which he was about
to plunge, by quitting the territories of the Marquis; and pleaded so
warmly for Adeline, that La Motte in sullen silence appeared to meditate
upon the plan. His thoughts were however very differently engaged. He
was conscious of having deserved from the Marquis a dreadful punishment,
and knew that if he exasperated him by refusing to acquiesce with his
wishes, he had little to expect from flight, for the eye of justice and
revenge would pursue him with indefatigable research.
La Motte meditated how to break this to his wife, for he perceived that
there was no other method of counteracting her virtuous compassion for
Adeline, and the dangerous consequences to be expected from it, than by
opposing it with terror for his safety; and this could be done only by
showing her the full extent of the evils that must attend the resentment
of the Marquis. Vice had not yet so entirely darkened his conscience,
but that the blush of shame stained his cheek, and his tongue faltered
when he would have told his guilt. At length, finding it impossible to
mention particulars, he told her that on account of an affair which no
entreaties should ever induce him to explain, his life was in the power
of the Marquis. You see the alternative, said he, take your choice of
evils; and, if you can, tell Adeline of her danger, and sacrifice my
life to save her from a situation which many would be ambitious to
obtain.--Madame La Motte, condemned to the horrible alternative of
permitting the seduction of innocence, or of dooming her husband to
destruction, suffered a distraction of thought which defied all control.
Perceiving, however, that an opposition to the designs of the Marquis
would ruin La Motte and avail Adeline little, she determined to yield
and endure in silence.
At the time when Adeline was planning her escape from the abbey, the
significant looks of Peter had led La Motte to suspect the truth and to
observe them more closely. He had seen them separate in the hall with
apparent confusion, and had afterwards observed them conversing together
in the cloisters. Circumstances so unusual left him not a doubt that
Adeline had discovered her danger, and was concerting with Peter some
means of escape. Affecting, therefore, to be informed of the whole
affair, he charged Peter with treachery towards himself, and threatened
him with the vengeance of the Marquis if he did not disclose all he
knew. The menace intimidated Peter, and supposing that all chance of
assisting Adeline was gone, he made a circumstantial confession, and
promised to forbear acquainting Adeline with the discovery of the
scheme. In this promise he was seconded by inclination, for he feared to
meet the displeasure which Adeline, believing he had betrayed her, might
express.
On the evening of the day on which Adeline's intended escape was
discovered, the Marquis designed to come to the abbey, and it had been
agreed that he should then take Adeline to his villa. La Motte had
immediately perceived the advantage of permitting Adeline to repair, in
the belief of being undiscovered, to the tomb. It would prevent much
disturbance and opposition, and spare himself the pain he must feel in
her presence, when she should know that he had betrayed her. A servant
of the Marquis might go at the appointed hour to the tomb, and wrapt in
the disguise of night might take her quietly thence in the character of
Peter. Thus, without resistance she would be carried to the villa, nor
discover her mistake till it was too late to prevent its consequence.
When the Marquis did arrive, La Motte, who was not so much intoxicated
by the wine he had drunk as to forget his prudence, informed him of what
had happened and what he had planned; and the Marquis approving it, his
servant was made acquainted with the signal, which afterwards betrayed
Adeline to his power.
A deep consciousness of the unworthy neutrality she had observed in
Adeline's concerns, made Madame La Motte anxiously avoid seeing her now
that she was again in the abbey. Adeline understood this conduct; and
she rejoiced that she was spared the anguish of meeting her as an enemy,
whom she had once considered as a friend. Several days now passed in
solitude, in miserable retrospection, and dreadful expectation. The
perilous situation of Theodore was almost the constant subject of her
thoughts. Often did she breathe an agonizing wish for his safety, and
often look round the sphere of possibility in search of hope: but hope
had almost left the horizon of her prospect, and when it did appear, it
sprung only from the death of the Marquis, whose vengeance threatened
most certain destruction.
The Marquis, meanwhile, lay at the inn at Caux, in a state of very
doubtful recovery. The physician and surgeon, neither of whom he would
dismiss nor suffer to leave the village, proceeded upon contrary
principles; and the good effect of what the one prescribed, was
frequently counteracted by the injudicious treatment of the other.
Humanity alone prevailed on the physician to continue his attendance.
The malady of the Marquis was also heightened by the impatience of his
temper, the terrors of death, and the irritation of his passions. One
moment he believed himself dying, another he could scarcely be prevented
from attempting to follow Adeline to the abbey. So various were the
fluctuations of his mind, and so rapid the schemes that succeeded each
other, that his passions were in a continual state of conflict. The
physician attempted to persuade him that his recovery greatly depended
upon tranquillity, and to prevail upon him to attempt at least some
command of his feelings; but he was soon silenced in hopeless disgust by
the impatient answers of the Marquis.
At length the servant who had carried off Adeline returned; and the
Marquis having ordered him into his chamber, asked so many questions in
a breath, that the man knew not which to answer. At length he pulled a
folded paper from his pocket, which he said had been dropped in the
chaise by Mademoiselle Adeline, and as he thought his Lordship would
like to see it, he had taken care of it. The Marquis stretched forth his
hand with eagerness, and received a note addressed to Theodore. On
perceiving the superscription, the agitation of jealous rage for a
moment overcame him, and he held it in his hand unable to open it.
He, however, broke the seal, and found it to be a note of inquiry,
written by Adeline to Theodore during his illness, and which from some
accident she had been prevented from sending him. The tender solicitude
it expressed for his recovery stung the soul of the Marquis, and drew
from him a comparison of her feelings on the illness of his rival and
that of himself. She could be solicitous for his recovery, said he, but
for mine she only dreads it. As if willing to prolong the pain this
little billet had excited, he then read it again. Again he cursed his
fate and execrated his rival. Giving himself up, as usual, to the
transports of his passion, he was going to throw it from him, when his
eyes caught the seal, and he looked earnestly at it: his anger seemed
now to have subsided, he deposited the note carefully in his
pocket-book, and was for some time lost in thought.
After many days of hopes and fears, the strength of his constitution
overcame his illness, and he was well enough to write several letters,
one of which he immediately sent off to prepare La Motte for his
reception. The same policy which had prompted him to conceal his illness
from La Motte, now urged him to say what he knew would not happen, that
he should reach the abbey on the day after his servant. He repeated this
injunction, that Adeline should be strictly guarded, and renewed his
promises of reward for the future services of La Motte.
La Motte, to whom each succeeding day had brought new surprise and
perplexity concerning the absence of the Marquis, received this notice
with uneasiness; for he had begun to hope that the Marquis had altered
his intentions concerning Adeline, being either engaged in some new
adventure, or obliged to visit his estates in some distant province: he
would have been willing thus to have got rid of an affair, which was to
reflect so much dishonour on himself.
This hope was now vanished, and he directed Madame to prepare for the
reception of the Marquis. Adeline passed these days in a state of
suspense which was now cheered by hope and now darkened by despair. The
delay, so much exceeding her expectation, seemed to prove that the
illness of the Marquis was dangerous; and when she looked forward to the
consequences of his recovery, she could not be sorry that it was so. So
odious was the idea of him to her mind, that she would not suffer her
lips to pronounce his name, nor make the inquiry of Annette, which was
of such consequence to her peace.
It was about a week after the receipt of the Marquis's letter that
Adeline one day saw from her window a party of horsemen enter the
avenue, and knew them to be the Marquis and his attendants. She retired
from the window, in a state of mind not to be described, and sinking
into a chair, was for some time scarcely conscious of the objects around
her. When she had recovered from the first terror which his appearance
excited, she again tottered to the window; the party was not in sight,
but she heard the trampling of horses, and knew that the Marquis had
wound round to the great gate of the abbey. She addressed herself to
Heaven for support and protection; and her mind being now somewhat
composed, sat down to wait the event.
La Motte received the Marquis with expressions of surprise at his long
absence; and the latter, merely saying he had been detained by illness,
proceeded to inquire for Adeline. He was told she was in her chamber,
from whence she might be summoned if he wished to see her. The Marquis
hesitated, and at length excused himself, but desired she might be
strictly watched. Perhaps, my Lord, said La Motte smiling, Adeline's
obstinacy has been too powerful for your passion? you seem less
interested concerning her than formerly.
O! by no means, replied the Marquis; she interests me if possible, more
than ever; so much, indeed, that I cannot have her too closely guarded;
and I therefore beg, La Motte, that you will suffer nobody to attend her
but when you can observe them yourself. Is the room where she is
confined sufficiently secure? La Motte assured him it was; but at the
same time expressed his wish that she was removed to the villa. If by
any means, said he, she should contrive to escape, I know what I must
expect from your displeasure; and this reflection keeps my mind in
continual anxiety.
This removal cannot be at present, said the Marquis; she is safer here,
and you do wrong to disturb yourself with any apprehension of her
escape, if her chamber is so secure as you represent it.
I can have no motive for deceiving you, my Lord, in this point.
I do not suspect you of any, said the Marquis; guard her carefully, and
trust me she will not escape. I can rely upon my valet, and if you wish
it he shall remain here. La Motte thought there could be no occasion for
him, and it was agreed that the man should go home.
The Marquis, after remaining about half an hour in conversation with La
Motte, left the abbey; and Adeline saw him depart with a mixture of
surprise and thankfulness that almost overcame her. She had waited in
momentary expectation of being summoned to appear, and had been
endeavouring to arm herself with resolution to support his presence. She
had listened to every voice that sounded from below; and at every step
that crossed the passage her heart had palpitated with dread, lest it
should be La Motte coming to lead her to the Marquis. This state of
suffering had been prolonged almost beyond her power of enduring it,
when she heard voices under her window, and rising, saw the Marquis ride
away. After giving way to the joy and thankfulness that swelled her
heart, she endeavoured to account for this circumstance, which,
considering what had passed, was certainly very strange. It appeared,
indeed, wholly inexplicable; and after much fruitless inquiry, she
quitted the subject, endeavouring to persuade herself that it could only
portend good.
The time of La Motte's usual visitation now drew near, and Adeline
expected it in the trembling hope of hearing that the Marquis had ceased
his persecution; but he was, as usual, sullen and silent, and it was not
till he was about to quit the room that Adeline had the courage to
inquire when the Marquis was expected again. La Motte, opening the door
to depart, replied, on the following day; and Adeline, whom fear and
delicacy embarrassed, saw she could obtain no intelligence of Theodore
but by a direct question; she looked earnestly, as if she would have
spoke, and he stopped; but she blushed and was still silent, till upon
his again attempting to leave the room she faintly called him back.
I would ask, said she, after that unfortunate chevalier who has incurred
the resentment of the Marquis, by endeavouring to serve me: Has the
Marquis mentioned him?
He has, replied La Motte; and your indifference towards the Marquis is
now fully explained.
Since I must feel resentment towards those who injure me, said Adeline,
I may surely be allowed to be grateful towards those who serve me. Had
the Marquis deserved my esteem, he would probably have possessed it.
Well, well, said La Motte, this young hero, who it seems has
been brave enough to lift his arm against his Colonel, is taken
care of, and I doubt not will soon be sensible of the value of his
quixotism.--Indignation, grief, and fear, struggled in the bosom of
Adeline; she disdained to give La Motte an opportunity of again
pronouncing the name of Theodore; yet the uncertainty under which she
laboured, urged her to inquire whether the Marquis had heard of him
since he left Caux. Yes, said La Motte, he has been safely carried to
his regiment, where he is confined till the Marquis can attend to appear
against him.
Adeline had neither power nor inclination to inquire further; and La
Motte quitting the chamber, she was left to the misery he had renewed.
Though this information contained no new circumstance of misfortune,
(for she now heard confirmed what she had always expected,) a weight of
new sorrow seemed to fall upon her heart, and she perceived that she had
unconsciously cherished a latent hope of Theodore's escape before he
reached the place of his destination. All hope was now, however, gone;
he was suffering the miseries of a prison, and the tortures of
apprehension both for his own life and her safety. She pictured to
herself the dark damp dungeon where he lay, loaded with chains and pale
with sickness and grief; she heard him, in a voice that thrilled her
heart, call upon her name, and raise his eyes to heaven in silent
supplication: she saw the anguish of his countenance, the tears that
fell slowly on his cheek; and remembering at the same time, the generous
conduct that had brought him to this abyss of misery, and that it was
for her sake he suffered, grief resolved itself into despair, her tears
ceased to flow, and she sunk silently into a state of dreadful torpor.
On the morrow the Marquis arrived, and departed as before. Several days
then elapsed, and he did not appear; till one evening, as La Motte and
his wife were in their usual sitting-room, he entered, and conversed for
some time upon general subjects, from which, however, he by degrees fell
into a reverie, and after a pause of silence he rose and drew La Motte
to the window. I would speak to you alone, said he, if you are at
leisure; if not, another time will do. La Motte assuring him he was
perfectly so, would have conducted him to another room, but the Marquis
proposed a walk in the forest. They went out together; and when they had
reached a solitary glade, where the spreading branches of the beech and
oak deepened the shades of twilight and threw a solemn obscurity around,
the Marquis turned to La Motte and addressed him:
Your condition, La Motte, is unhappy; this abbey is a melancholy
residence for a man like you fond of society, and like you also
qualified to adorn it. La Motte bowed. I wish it was in my power to
restore you to the world, continued the Marquis; perhaps, if I knew the
particulars of the affair which has driven you from it, I might perceive
that my interest could effectually serve you:--I think I have heard you
hint it was an affair of honour? La Motte was silent. I mean not to
distress you, however; nor is it common curiosity that prompts this
inquiry, but a sincere desire to befriend you. You have already informed
me of some particulars of your misfortunes; I think the liberality of
your temper led you into expenses which you afterwards endeavoured to
retrieve by gaming?
Yes, my Lord, said La Motte, 'tis true that I dissipated the greater
part of an affluent fortune in luxurious indulgencies, and that I
afterwards took unworthy means to recover it: but I wish to be spared
upon this subject. I would, if possible, lose the remembrance of a
transaction which must for ever stain my character, and the rigorous
effect of which, I fear, it is not in your power, my Lord, to soften.
You may be mistaken on this point, replied the Marquis; my interest at
court is by no means inconsiderable. Fear not from me any severity of
censure; I am not at all inclined to judge harshly of the faults of
others: I well know how to allow for the emergency of circumstances; and
I think La Motte, you have hitherto found me your friend.
I have, my Lord.
And when you recollect, that I have forgiven a certain transaction of
late date----
It is true, my Lord; and allow me to say, I have a just sense of your
generosity. The transaction you allude to is by far the worst of my
life; and what I have to relate cannot therefore lower me in your
opinion. When I had dissipated the greatest part of my property in
habits of voluptuous pleasure, I had recourse to gaming to supply the
means of continuing them. A run of good luck for some time enabled me to
do this; and encouraging my most sanguine expectations, I continued in
the same career of success.
Soon after this, a sudden turn of fortune destroyed my hopes, and
reduced me to the most desperate extremity. In one night my money was
lowered to the sum of two hundred louis. These I resolved to stake also,
and with them my life; for it was my resolution not to survive their
loss. Never shall I forget the horrors of that moment on which hung my
fate, nor the deadly anguish that seized my heart when my last stake was
gone. I stood for some time in a state of stupefaction, till, roused to
a sense of my misfortune, my passion made me pour forth execrations on
my more fortunate rivals, and act all the phrensy of despair. During
this paroxysm of madness, a gentleman, who had been a silent observer of
all that passed, approached me.--You are unfortunate, Sir, said he.--I
need not be informed of that. Sir, I replied.
You have perhaps been ill used? resumed he.--Yes, Sir, I am ruined, and
therefore it may be said I am ill used.
Do you know the people you have played with?
No; but I have met them in the first circles.
Then I am probably mistaken, said he, and walked away. His last words
roused me, and raised a hope that my money had not been fairly lost.
Wishing for further information, I went in search of the gentleman, but
he had left the rooms. I however stifled my transports, returned to the
table where I had lost my money, placed myself behind the chair of one
of the persons who had won it, and closely watched the game. For some
time I saw nothing that could confirm my suspicions, but was at length
convinced they were just.
When the game was ended I called one of my adversaries out of the room,
and telling him what I had observed, threatened instantly to expose him
if he did not restore my property. The man was for some time as positive
as myself; and assuming the bully, threatened me with chastisement for
my scandalous assertions. I was not, however, in a state of mind to be
frightened; and his manner served only to exasperate my temper, already
sufficiently inflamed by misfortune. After retorting his threats, I was
about to return to the apartment we had left, and expose what had
passed, when, with an insidious smile and a softened voice, he begged I
would favour him with a few moments' attention, and allow him to speak
with the gentleman his partner. To the latter part of his request I
hesitated, but in the mean time the gentleman himself entered the room.
His partner related to him, in few words, what had passed between us,
and the terror that appeared in his countenance sufficiently declared
his consciousness of guilt.
They then drew aside, and remained a few minutes in conversation
together, after which they approached me with an offer, as they phrased
it, of a compromise. I declared, however, against any thing of this
kind, and swore nothing less than the whole sum I had lost should
content me.--Is it not possible, Monsieur, that you may be offered
something as advantageous as the whole?--I did not understand their
meaning; but after they had continued for some time to give distant
hints of the same sort, they proceeded to explain.
Perceiving their characters wholly in my power, they wished to secure my
interest to their party, and therefore informing me that they belonged
to an association of persons who lived upon the folly and inexperience
of others, they offered me a share in their concern. My fortunes were
desperate; and the proposal now made me would not only produce an
immediate supply, but enable me to return to those scenes of dissipated
pleasure to which passion had at first, and long habit afterwards,
attached me. I closed with the offer, and thus sunk from dissipation
into infamy.
La Motte paused, as if the recollection of these times filled him with
remorse. The Marquis understood his feelings. You judge too rigorously
of yourself, said he; there are few persons, let their appearance of
honesty be what it may, who in such circumstances would have acted
better than you have done. Had I been in your situation, I know not how
I might have acted. That rigid virtue which shall condemn you, may
dignify itself with the appellation of wisdom, but I wish not to possess
it; let it still reside where it generally is to be found, in the cold
bosoms of those who, wanting feeling to be men, dignify themselves with
the title of philosophers. But pray proceed.
Our success was for some time unlimited, for we held the wheel of
fortune, and trusted not to her caprice. Thoughtless and voluptuous by
nature, my expenses fully kept pace with my income. An unlucky discovery
of the practices of our party was at length made by a young nobleman,
which obliged us to act for some time with the utmost circumspection. It
would be tedious to relate the particulars, which made us at length so
suspected, that the distant civility and cold reserve of our
acquaintance rendered the frequenting public assemblies both painful and
unprofitable. We turned our thoughts to other modes of obtaining money;
and a swindling transaction, in which I engaged to a very large amount,
soon compelled me to leave Paris. You know the rest my Lord.
La Motte was now silent, and the Marquis continued for some time musing.
You perceive, my Lord, at length resumed La Motte, you perceive that my
case is hopeless.
It is bad indeed, but not entirely hopeless. From my soul I pity you:
yet, if you should return to the world, and incur the danger of
prosecution, I think my interest with the minister might save you from
any severe punishment. You seem, however, to have lost your relish for
society, and perhaps do not wish to return to it.
Oh! my Lord can you doubt this?--But I am overcome with the excess of
your goodness; would to heaven it were in my power to prove the
gratitude it inspires!
Talk not of goodness, said the Marquis; I will not pretend that my
desire of serving you is unalloyed by any degree of self-interest: I
will not affect to be more than man, and trust me those who do are less.
It is in your power to testify your gratitude, and bind me to your
interest for ever. He paused. Name but the means, cried La Motte,--name
but the means, and if they are within the compass of possibility they
shall be executed. The Marquis was still silent. Do you doubt my
sincerity, my Lord, that you are yet silent? Do you fear to repose a
confidence in the man whom you have already loaded with obligation? who
lives by your mercy, and almost by your means! The Marquis looked
earnestly at him, but did not speak. I have not deserved this of you, my
Lord; speak, I entreat you.
There are certain prejudices attached to the human mind, said the
Marquis in a slow and solemn voice, which it requires all our wisdom to
keep from interfering with our happiness; certain set notions, acquired
in infancy, and cherished involuntarily by age, which grow up and assume
a gloss so plausible, that few minds, in what is called a civilized
country, can afterwards overcome them. Truth is often perverted by
education. While the refined Europeans boast a standard of honour and a
sublimity of virtue which often leads them from pleasure to misery, and
from nature to error, the simple uninformed American follows the impulse
of his heart, and obeys the inspiration of wisdom. The Marquis paused,
and La Motte continued to listen in eager expectation.
Nature, uncontaminated by false refinement, resumed the Marquis, every
where acts alike in the great occurrences of life. The Indian discovers
his friend to be perfidious, and he kills him; the wild Asiatic does the
same: the Turk, when ambition fires or revenge provokes, gratifies his
passion at the expense of life, and does not call it murder. Even the
polished Italian, distracted by jealousy, or tempted by a strong
circumstance of advantage, draws his stiletto, and accomplishes his
purpose. It is the first proof of a superior mind to liberate itself
from prejudices of country or of education. You are silent, La Motte:
are you not of my opinion?
I am attending, my Lord, to your _reasoning_.
There are, I repeat it, said the Marquis, people of minds so weak, as to
shrink from acts they have been accustomed to hold wrong, however
advantageous; they never suffer themselves to be guided by
circumstances, but fix for life upon a certain standard, from which they
will on no account depart. Self-preservation is the great law of nature;
when a reptile hurts us, or an animal of prey threatens us, we think no
further, but endeavour to annihilate it. When my life, or what may be
essential to my life, requires the sacrifice of another,--or even if
some passion, wholly unconquerable, requires it,--I should be a madman
to hesitate. La Motte, I think I may confide in you--there are ways of
doing certain things--you understand me? There are times, and
circumstances, and opportunities--you comprehend my meaning?
Explain yourself, my Lord.
Kind services that--in short, there are services which excite all our
gratitude, and which we can never think repaid. It is in your power to
place me in such a situation.
Indeed! my Lord, name the means.
I have already named them. This abbey well suits the purpose; it is shut
up from the eye of observation; any transaction may be concealed within
its walls; the hour of midnight may witness the deed, and the morn shall
not dawn to disclose it; these woods tell no tales. Ah! La Motte am I
right in trusting this business with you? may I believe you are desirous
of serving me, and of preserving yourself? The Marquis paused, and
looked steadfastly at La Motte, whose countenance was almost concealed
by the gloom of evening.
My Lord, you may trust me in any thing; explain yourself more fully.
What security will you give me of your faithfulness?
My life, my Lord; is it not already in your power? The Marquis
hesitated, and then said, To-morrow about this time I shall return to
the abbey, and will then explain my meaning, if indeed you shall not
already have understood it. You in the mean time will consider your own
powers of resolution, and be prepared either to adopt the purpose I
shall suggest, or to declare you will not. La Motte made some confused
reply. Farewell till to-morrow, said the Marquis; remember that freedom
and affluence are now before you. He moved towards the abbey, and,
mounting his horse, rode off with his attendants. La Motte walked slowly
home, musing on the late conversation.