'Tis only when with inbred horror smote
At some base act, or done, or to be done,
That the recoiling soul, with conscious dread.
Shrinks back into itself.
MASON.
We return now to Pierre de la Motte, who, after remaining some weeks in
the prison of D----y, was removed to take his trial in the courts of
Paris, whether the Marquis de Montalt followed to prosecute the charge.
Madame de la Motte accompanied her husband to the prison of the
Chatelet. His mind sunk under the weight of his misfortunes; nor could
all the efforts of his wife rouse him from the torpidity of despair
which a consideration of his circumstances occasioned. Should he be even
acquitted of the charge brought against him by the Marquis, (which was
very unlikely,) he was now in the scene of his former crimes, and the
moment that should liberate him from the walls of his prison would
probably deliver him again into the hands of offended justice.
[Illustration 09]
The prosecution of the Marquis was too well founded, and its object of a
nature too serious, not to justify the terror of La Motte. Soon after
the latter had settled at the abbey of St. Clair, the small stock of
money which the emergency of his circumstances had left him being nearly
exhausted, his mind became corroded with the most cruel anxiety
concerning the means of his future subsistence. As he was one evening
riding alone in a remote part of the forest, musing on his distressed
circumstances, and meditating plans to relieve the exigencies which he
saw approaching, he perceived among the trees at some distance a
chevalier on horseback, who was riding deliberately along, and seemed
wholly unattended. A thought darted across the mind of La Motte, that he
might be spared the evils which threatened him by robbing this stranger.
His former practices had passed the boundary of honesty--fraud was in
some degree familiar to him--and the thought was not dismissed. He
hesitated----every moment of hesitation increased the power of
temptation--the opportunity was such as might never occur again. He
looked round, and as far as the trees opened saw no person but the
chevalier, who seemed by his air to be a man of distinction. Summoning
all his courage, La Motte rode forward and attacked him. The Marquis de
Montalt, for it was he, was unarmed; but knowing that his attendants
were not far off, he refused to yield. While they were struggling for
victory, La Motte saw several horsemen enter the extremity of the
avenue, and rendered desperate by opposition and delay, he drew from his
pocket a pistol, (which an apprehension of banditti made him usually
carry when he rode to a distance from the abbey) and fired at the
Marquis, who staggered and fell senseless to the ground. La Motte had
time to tear from his coat a brilliant star, some diamond rings from his
fingers, and to rifle his pockets before his attendants came up. Instead
of pursuing the robber, they all, in their first confusion, flew to
assist their Lord, and La Motte escaped.
He stopped before he reached the abbey at a little ruin, the tomb
formerly mentioned, to examine his booty. It consisted of a purse
containing seventy louis d'ors; of a diamond star, three rings of great
value, and a miniature set with brilliants of the Marquis himself, which
he had intended as a present for his favourite mistress. To La Motte,
who but a few hours before had seen himself nearly destitute, the view
of this treasure excited an almost ungovernable transport; but it was
soon checked when he remembered the means he had employed to obtain it,
and that he had paid for the wealth he contemplated, the price of blood.
Naturally violent in his passions, this reflection sunk him from the
summit of exultation to the abyss of despondency. He considered himself
a murderer, and, startled as one awakened from a dream, would have given
half the world, had it been his, to have been as poor, and comparatively
as guiltless, as a few preceding hours had seen him. On examining the
portrait he discovered the resemblance; and believing that his hand had
deprived the original of life, he gazed upon the picture with
unutterable anguish. To the horrors of remorse succeeded the
perplexities of fear. Apprehensive of he knew not what, he lingered at
the tomb, where he at length deposited his treasure, believing that if
his offence should awaken justice, the abbey might be searched, and
these jewels betray him. From Madame La Motte it was easy to conceal his
increase of wealth; for as he had never made her acquainted with the
exact state of his finances, she had not suspected the extreme poverty
which menaced him; and as they continued to live as usual, she believed
that their expenses were drawn from the usual supply. But it was not so
easy to disguise the workings of remorse and horror: his manner became
gloomy and reserved, and his frequent visits to the tomb, where he went
partly to examine his treasure, but chiefly to indulge in the dreadful
pleasure of contemplating the picture of the Marquis, excited curiosity.
In the solitude of the forest, where no variety of objects occurred to
renovate his ideas, the horrible one of having committed murder was ever
present to him.--When the Marquis arrived at the abbey, the astonishment
and terror of La Motte (for at first he scarce knew whether he held the
shadow or the substance of a human form) were quickly succeeded by
apprehension of the punishment due to the crime he had really committed.
When his distress had prevailed on the Marquis to retire, he informed
him that he was by birth a chevalier: he then touched upon such parts of
his misfortunes as he thought would excite pity, expressed such
abhorrence of his guilt, and voluntarily uttered such a solemn promise
of returning the jewels he had yet in his possession, (for he had
ventured to dispose only of a small part,) that the Marquis at length
listened to him with some degree of compassion. This favourable
sentiment, seconded by a selfish motive, induced the Marquis to
compromise with La Motte. Of quick and inflammable passions, he had
observed the beauty of Adeline with an eye of no common regard, and he
resolved to spare the life of La Motte upon no other condition than the
sacrifice of this unfortunate girl. La Motte had neither resolution nor
virtue sufficient to reject the terms--the jewels were restored, and he
consented to betray the innocent Adeline. But as he was too well
acquainted with her heart to believe that she would easily be won to the
practice of vice, and as he still felt a degree of pity and tenderness
for her, he endeavoured to prevail on the Marquis to forbear precipitate
measures, and to attempt gradually to undermine her principles by
seducing her affections. He approved and adopted this plan: the failure
of his first scheme induced him to employ the stratagems he afterwards
pursued, and thus to multiply the misfortunes of Adeline.
Such were the circumstances which had brought La Motte to his present
deplorable situation. The day of trial was now come, and he was led from
prison into the court, where the Marquis appeared as his accuser. When
the charge was delivered, La Motte, as is usual, pleaded Not guilty, and
the Advocate Nemours, who had undertaken to plead for him, afterwards
endeavoured to make it appear that the accusation, on the part of the
Marquis de Montalt, was false and malicious. To this purpose he
mentioned the circumstance of the latter having attempted to persuade
his client to the murder of Adeline: he further urged that the Marquis
had lived in habits of intimacy with La Motte for several months
immediately preceding his arrest, and that it was not till he had
disappointed the designs of his accuser, by conveying beyond his reach
the unhappy object of his vengeance, that the Marquis had thought proper
to charge La Motte with the crime for which he stood indicted. Nemours
urged the improbability of one man's keeping up a friendly intercourse
with another from whom he had suffered the double injury of assault and
robbery; yet it was certain that the Marquis had observed a frequent
intercourse with La Motte for some months following the time specified
for the commission of the crime. If the Marquis intended to prosecute,
why was it not immediately after his discovery of La Motte? and if not
then, what had influenced him to prosecute at so distant a period?
To this nothing was replied on the part of the Marquis; for, as his
conduct on this point had been subservient to his designs on Adeline, he
could not justify it but by exposing schemes which would betray the
darkness of his character, and invalidate his cause. He, therefore,
contented himself with producing several of his servants as witnesses of
the assault and robbery, who swore without scruple to the person of La
Motte, though not one of them had seen him otherwise than through the
gloom of evening and riding off at full speed. On a cross-examination
most of them contradicted each other; their evidence was of course
rejected: but as the Marquis had yet two other witnesses to produce,
whose arrival at Paris had been hourly expected, the event of the trial
was postponed, and the court adjourned.
La Motte was re-conducted to his prison under the same pressure of
despondency with which he had quitted it. As he walked through one of
the avenues he passed a man who stood by to let him proceed, and who
regarded him with a fixed and earnest eye. La Motte thought he had seen
him before; but the imperfect view he caught of his features through the
darkness of the place made him uncertain as to this, and his mind was in
too perturbed a state to suffer him to feel an interest on the subject.
When he was gone, the stranger inquired of the keeper of the prison who
La Motte was: on being told, and receiving answers to some further
questions he put, he desired he might be admitted to speak with him. The
request, as the man was only a debtor, was granted; but as the doors
were now shut for the night, the interview was deferred till the morrow.
La Motte found Madame in his room, where she had been waiting for some
hours to hear the event of the trial. They now wished more earnestly
than ever to see their son; but they were, as he had suspected, ignorant
of his change of quarters, owing to the letters which he had as usual,
addressed to them under an assumed name, remaining at the post-house of
Auboine. This circumstance occasioned Madame La Motte to address her
letters to the place of her son's late residence, and he had thus
continued ignorant of his father's misfortunes and removal. Madame La
Motte, surprised at receiving no answers to her letters, sent off
another, containing an account of the trial as far as it had proceeded,
and a request that her son would obtain leave of absence, and set out
for Paris instantly. As she was still ignorant, of the failure of her
letters, and, had it been otherwise, would not have known whither to
have sent them, she directed this as usual.
Meanwhile his approaching fate was never absent for a moment from the
mind of La Motte, which, feeble by nature, and still more enervated by
habits of indulgence, refused to support him at this dreadful period.
While these scenes were passing at Paris, La Luc arrived there without
any accident, after performing a journey, during which he had been
supported almost entirely by the spirit of his resolution. He hastened
to throw himself at the feet of the sovereign; and such was the excess
of his feeling on presenting the petition which was to decide the fate
of his son, that he could only look silently up, and then fainted. The
king received the paper, and giving orders for the unhappy father to be
taken care of, passed on. He was carried back to his hotel, where he
awaited the event of this his final effort.
Adeline, meanwhile, continued at Vaceau in a state of anxiety too
powerful for her long-agitated frame, and the illness in consequence of
this, confined her almost wholly to her chamber. Sometimes she ventured
to flatter herself with a hope that the journey of La Luc would be
successful: but these short and illusive intervals of comfort served
only to heighten, by contrast, the despondency that succeeded; and in
the alternate extremes of feeling she experienced a state more torturing
than that produced either by the sharp sting of unexpected calamity, or
the sullen pain of settled despair.
When she was well enough she came down to the parlour to converse with
Louis, who brought her frequent accounts of Theodore, and who passed
every moment he could snatch from the duty of his profession in
endeavours to support and console his afflicted friends. Adeline and
Theodore, both looked to him for the little comfort allotted them, for
he brought them intelligence of each other, and whenever he appeared a
transient melancholy kind of pleasure played round their hearts. He
could not conceal from Theodore Adeline's indisposition, since it was
necessary to account for her not indulging the earnest wish he
repeatedly expressed to see her again. To Adeline he spoke chiefly of
the fortitude and resignation of his friend, not however forgetting to
mention the tender affection he constantly expressed for her. Accustomed
to derive her sole consolation from the presence of Louis, and to
observe his unwearied friendship towards him whom she so truly loved,
she found her esteem for him ripen into gratitude, and her regard daily
increase.
The fortitude with which he had said Theodore supported his calamities
was somewhat exaggerated. He could not forget those ties which bound him
to life sufficiently to meet his fate with firmness; but though the
paroxysms of grief were acute and frequent, he sought, and often
attained in the presence of his friends, a manly composure. From the
event of his father's journey he hoped little, yet that little was
sufficient to keep his mind in the torture of suspense till the issue
should appear.
On the day preceding that fixed for the execution of the sentence, La
Luc reached Vaceau. Adeline was at her chamber window when the carriage
drew up to the inn; she saw him alight, and with feeble steps, supported
by Peter, enter the house. From the languor of his air she drew no
favourable omen, and, almost sinking under the violence of her emotion,
she went to meet him. Clara was already with her father when Adeline
entered the room. She approached him, but, dreading to receive from his
lips a confirmation of the misfortune his countenance seemed to
indicate, she looked expressively at him and sat down, unable to speak
the question she would have asked. He held out his hand to her in
silence, sunk back in his chair, and seemed to be fainting under
oppression of heart. His manner confirmed all her fears; at this
dreadful conviction her senses failed her, and she sat motionless and
stupefied.
La Luc and Clara were too much occupied by their own distress to observe
her situation; after some time she breathed a heavy sigh, and burst into
tears. Relieved by weeping, her spirits gradually returned, and she at
length said to La Luc, It is unnecessary, Sir, to ask the success of
your journey; yet, when you can bear to mention the subject, I wish--
La Luc waved his hand--Alas! said he, I have nothing to tell but what
you already guess too well. My poor Theodore!--His voice was convulsed
with sorrow, and some moments of unutterable anguish followed.
Adeline was the first who recovered sufficient recollection to notice
the extreme languor of La Luc, and attend to his support. She ordered
him refreshments, and entreated he would retire to his bed and suffer
her to send for a physician; adding, that the fatigue he had suffered
made repose absolutely necessary. Would that I could find it, my dear
child! said he; it is not in this world that I must look for it, but in
a better, and that better, I trust, I shall soon attain. But where is
our good friend, Louis La Motte? He must lead me to my son.--Grief again
interrupted his utterance, and the entrance of Louis was a very
seasonable relief to them all. Their tears explained the question he
would have asked. La Luc immediately inquired for his son; and thanking
Louis for all his kindness to him, desired to be conducted to the
prison. Louis endeavoured to persuade him to defer his visit till the
morning, and Adeline and Clara joined their entreaties with his, but La
Luc determined to go that night.--His time is short, said he; a few
hours and I shall see him no more, at least in this world; let me not
neglect these precious moments. Adeline! I had promised my poor boy that
he should see you once more; you are not now equal to the meeting; I
will try to reconcile him to the disappointment: but if I fail, and you
are better in the morning, I know you will exert yourself to sustain the
interview.--Adeline looked impatient, and attempted to speak. La Luc
rose to depart, but could only reach the door of the room, where, faint
and feeble, he sat down in a chair. I must submit to necessity, said he;
I find I am not able to go further to-night. Go to him, La Motte, and
tell him I am somewhat disordered by my journey, but that I will be with
him early in the morning. Do not flatter him with a hope; prepare him
for the worst.--There was a pause of silence. La Luc at length
recovering himself, desired Clara would order his bed to be got ready,
and she willingly obeyed. When he withdrew, Adeline told Louis, what was
indeed unnecessary, the event of La Luc's journey. I own, continued she,
that I had sometimes suffered myself to hope, and I now feel this
calamity with double force: I fear too that M. La Luc will sink under
its pressure; he is much altered for the worse since he set out for
Paris. Tell me your opinion sincerely.
The change was so obvious that Louis could not deny it; but he
endeavoured to soothe her apprehension by ascribing this alteration, in
a great measure, to the temporary fatigue of travelling. Adeline
declared her resolution of accompanying La Luc to take leave of Theodore
in the morning. I know not how I shall support the interview, said she;
but to see him once more is a duty I owe both to him and myself. The
remembrance of having neglected to give him this last proof of affection
would pursue me with incessant remorse.
After some further conversation on this subject Louis withdrew to the
prison, ruminating on the best means of imparting to his friend the
fatal intelligence he had to communicate. Theodore received it with more
composure than he had expected; but he asked with impatience why he did
not see his father and Adeline; and on being informed that indisposition
withheld them, his imagination seized on the worst possibility, and
suggested that his father was dead. It was a considerable time before
Louis could convince him of the contrary, and that Adeline was not
dangerously ill: when, however, he was assured that he should see them
in the morning, he became more tranquil. He desired his friend would not
leave him that night. These are the last hours we can pass together,
added he; I cannot sleep! Stay with me and lighten their heavy moments.
I have need of comfort, Louis. Young as I am, and held by such strong
attachments, I cannot quit the world with resignation. I know not how to
credit those stories we hear of philosophic fortitude; wisdom cannot
teach us cheerfully to resign a good, and life in my circumstances is
surely such.
The night was passed in embarrassed conversation; sometimes interrupted
by long fits of silence, and sometimes by the paroxysms of despair; and
the morning of that day which was to lead Theodore to death, at length
dawned through the grates of his prison.
La Luc meanwhile passed a sleepless and dreadful night. He prayed for
fortitude and resignation both for himself and Theodore; but the pangs
of nature were powerful in his heart, and not to be subdued. The idea of
his lamented wife, and of what she would have suffered had she lived to
witness the ignominious death which awaited her son, frequently occurred
to him.
It seemed as if a destiny had hung over the life of Theodore; for it is
probable that the king might have granted the petition of the unhappy
father, had it not happened that the Marquis de Montalt was present at
court when the paper was presented. The appearance and singular distress
of the petitioner had interested the monarch, and, instead of putting by
the paper, he opened it. As he threw his eyes over it, observing that
the criminal was of the Marquis de Montalt's regiment, he turned to him
and inquired the nature of the offence for which the culprit was about
to suffer. The answer was such as might have been expected from the
Marquis, and the king was convinced that Theodore was not a proper
object of mercy.
But to return to La Luc, who was called, according to his order, at a
very early hour. Having passed some time in prayer, he went down to the
parlour, where Louis, punctual to the moment, already waited to conduct
him to the prison. He appeared calm and collected, but his countenance
was impressed with a fixed despair that sensibly affected his young
friend. While they waited for Adeline he spoke little, and seemed
struggling to attain the fortitude necessary to support him through the
approaching scene. Adeline not appearing, he at length sent to hasten
her, and was told she had been ill, but was recovering. She had indeed
passed a night of such agitation, that her frame had sunk under it, and
she was now endeavouring to recover strength and composure sufficient to
sustain her in this dreadful hour. Every moment that brought her nearer
to it had increased her emotion, and the apprehension of being prevented
seeing Theodore had alone enabled her to struggle against the united
pressure of illness and grief.
She now, with Clara, joined La Luc, who advanced as they entered the
room, and took a hand of each in silence. After some moments he proposed
to go, and they stepped into a carriage which conveyed them to the gates
of the prison. The crowd had already begun to assemble there, and a
confused murmur arose as the carriage moved forward; it was a grievous
sight to the friends of Theodore. Louis supported Adeline when she
alighted, she was scarcely able to walk, and with trembling steps she
followed La Luc, whom the keeper led towards that part of the prison
where his son was confined. It was now eight o'clock, the sentence was
not to be executed till twelve, but a guard of soldiers was already
placed in the court; and as this unhappy party passed along the narrow
avenues, they were met by several officers who had been to take a last
farewell of Theodore. As they ascended the stairs that led to his
apartment. La Luc's ear caught the clink of chains, and heard him
walking above with a quick irregular step. The unhappy father, overcome
by the moment which now pressed upon him, stopped, and was obliged to
support himself by the bannister. Louis fearing the consequence of his
grief might be fatal, shattered as his frame already was, would have
gone for assistance, but he made a sign to him to stay, I am better,
said La Luc; O God! support me through this hour!--and in a few minutes
he was able to proceed.
As the warder unlocked the door, the harsh grating of the key shocked
Adeline, but in the next moment she was in the presence of Theodore, who
sprung to meet her, and caught her in his arms before she sunk to the
ground. As her head reclined on his shoulder, he again viewed that
countenance so dear to him, which had so often lighted rapture in his
heart, and which, though pale and inanimate as it now was, awakened him
to momentary delight. When at length she unclosed her eyes, she fixed
them in long and mournful gaze upon Theodore, who pressing her to his
heart could answer her only with a smile of mingled tenderness and
despair; the tears he endeavoured to restrain trembled in his eyes, and
he forgot for a time every thing but Adeline. La Luc, who had seated
himself at the foot of the bed, seemed unconscious of what passed around
him, and entirely absorbed in his own grief; but Clara, as she clasped
the hand of her brother and hung weeping on his arm, expressed aloud all
the anguish of her heart, and at length recalled the attention of
Adeline, who in a voice scarcely audible entreated she would spare her
father. Her words roused Theodore, and supporting Adeline to a chair, he
turned to La Luc. My dear child! said La Luc, grasping his hand and
bursting into tears, my dear child! They wept together. After a long
interval of silence, he said, I thought I could have supported this
hour, but I am old and feeble. God knows my efforts for resignation, my
faith in his goodness.
Theodore by a strong and sudden exertion assumed a composed and firm
countenance, and endeavoured by every gentle argument to soothe and
comfort his weeping friends. La Luc at length seemed to conquer his
sufferings; drying his eyes, he said, My son, I ought to have set you a
better example, and have practised the precepts of fortitude I have so
often given you. But it is over; I know and will perform my duty.
Adeline breathed a heavy sigh, and continued to weep. Be comforted, my
love, we part but for a time, said Theodore as he kissed the tears from
her cheek; and uniting her hand with that of his father's, he earnestly
recommended her to his protection. Receive her, added he, as the most
precious legacy I can bequeath; consider her as your child: she will
console you when I am gone, she will more than supply the loss of your
son.
La Luc assured him that he did now, and should continue to regard
Adeline as his daughter. During those afflicting hours he endeavoured to
dissipate the terrors of approaching death by inspiring his son with
religious confidence. His conversation was pious, rational, and
consolatory; he spoke not from the cold dictates of the head, but from
the feelings of a heart which had long loved and practised the pure
precepts of Christianity, and which now drew from them a comfort such as
nothing earthly could bestow.
You are young, my son, said he, and are yet innocent of any great crime;
you may therefore look on death without terror, for to the guilty only
is his approach dreadful. I feel that I shall not long survive you, and
I trust in a merciful God that we shall meet in a state where sorrow
never comes; where the _Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing on
his wings!_ As he spoke he looked up; the tears still trembled in his
eyes, which beamed with meek yet fervent devotion, and his countenance
glowed with the dignity of a superior being.
Let us not neglect the awful moments, said La Luc rising, let our united
prayers ascend to Him who alone can comfort and support us! They all
knelt down, and he prayed with that simple and sublime eloquence which
true piety inspires. When he arose he embraced his children separately,
and when he came to Theodore he paused, gazed upon him with an earnest,
mournful expression, and was for some time unable to speak. Theodore
could not bear this; he drew his hand before his eyes, and vainly
endeavoured to stifle the deep sobs which convulsed his frame. At length
recovering his voice, he entreated his father would leave him. This
misery is too much for us all, said he, let us not prolong it. The time
is now drawing on--leave me to compose myself; the sharpness of death
consists in parting with those who are dear to us; when that is passed
death is disarmed.
I will not leave you, my son, replied La Luc; my poor girls shall go,
but for me, I will be with you in your last moments. Theodore felt that
this would be too much for them both, and urged every argument which
reason could suggest to prevail with his father to relinquish his
design: but he remained firm in his determination. I will not suffer a
selfish consideration of the pain I may endure, said La Luc, to tempt me
to desert my child when he will most require my support. It is my duty
to attend you, and nothing shall withhold me.
Theodore seized on the words of La Luc--As you would that I should be
supported in my last hour, said he, I entreat that you will not be
witness of it. Your presence, my dear father, would subdue all my
fortitude--would destroy what little composure I may otherwise be able
to attain. Add not to my sufferings the view of your distress, but leave
me to forget, if possible, the dear parent I must quit for ever. His
tears flowed anew. La Luc continued to gaze on him in silent agony. At
length he said, Well, be it so. If indeed my presence would distress
you, I will not go. His voice was broken and interrupted. After a pause
of some moments he again embraced Theodore--We must part, said he, we
_must_ part, but it is only for a time--we shall soon be reunited in a
higher world!--O God! thou seest my heart--thou seest all its feelings
in this bitter hour!--Grief again overcame him. He pressed Theodore in
his arms: and at length seeming to summon all his fortitude, he again
said, We _must_ part--Oh! my son, farewell for ever in this world!--The
mercy of Almighty God support and bless you!
He turned away to leave the prison, but quite worn out with grief, sunk
into a chair near the door he would have opened. Theodore gazed, with a
distracted countenance, alternately on his father, on Clara, and on
Adeline, whom he pressed to his throbbing heart, and their tears flowed
together. And do I then, cried he, for the last time look upon that
countenance!--Shall I never--never more behold it?--O! exquisite misery!
Yet once again--once more, continued he, pressing her cheek; but it was
insensible and cold as marble.
Louis, who had left the room soon after La Luc arrived, that his
presence might not interrupt their farewell grief, now returned. Adeline
raised her head, and perceiving who entered, it again sunk on the bosom
of Theodore.
Louis appeared much agitated. La Luc arose. We must go, said he;
Adeline, my love, exert yourself--Clara--my children, let us
depart.--Yet one last--last embrace, and then!----Louis advanced and
took his hand; My dear Sir, I have something to say; yet I fear to tell
it.--What do you mean? said La Luc with quickness: no new misfortune can
have power to afflict me at this moment; do not fear to speak.--I
rejoice that I cannot put you to the proof, replied Louis; I have seen
you sustain the most trying affliction with fortitude. Can you support
the transports of hope?--La Luc gazed eagerly on Louis--Speak! said he,
in a faint voice. Adeline raised her head, and, trembling between hope
and fear, looked as if she would have searched his soul. He smiled
cheerfully upon her. Is it--O! is it possible! she exclaimed, suddenly
reanimated--He lives! He lives!--She said no more, but ran to La Luc,
who sunk fainting in his chair, while Theodore and Clara with one voice
called on Louis to relieve them from the tortures of suspense.
He proceeded to inform them that he had obtained from the commanding
officer a respite for Theodore till the king's further pleasure could be
known, and this in consequence of a letter received that morning from
his mother, Madame de La Motte, in which she mentioned some very
extraordinary circumstances that had appeared in the course of a trial
lately conducted at Paris, and which so materially affected the
character of the Marquis de Montalt as to render it possible a pardon
might be obtained for Theodore.
These words darted with the rapidity of lightning upon the hearts of his
hearers. La Luc revived, and that prison so lately the scene of despair
now echoed only to the voices of gratitude and gladness. La Luc, raising
his clasped hands to heaven, said, Great God! support me in this moment
as thou hast already supported me!--If my son lives, I die in peace.
He embraced Theodore, and remembering the anguish of his last embrace,
tears of thankfulness and joy flowed to the contrast. So powerful indeed
was the effect of this temporary reprieve, and of the hope it
introduced, that if an absolute pardon had been obtained, it could
scarcely for the moment have diffused a more lively joy. But when the
first emotions were subsided, the uncertainty of Theodore's fate once
more appeared. Adeline forbore to express this; but Clara without
scruple lamented the possibility that her brother might yet be taken
from them, and all their joy be turned to sorrow. A look from Adeline
checked her. Joy was, however, so much the predominant feeling of the
present moment, that the shade which reflection threw upon their hopes
passed away like the cloud that is dispelled by the strength of the
sunbeam; and Louis alone was pensive and abstracted.
When they were sufficiently composed, he informed them that the contents
of Madame de La Motte's letter obliged him to set out for Paris
immediately; and that the intelligence he had to communicate intimately
concerned Adeline, who would undoubtedly judge it necessary to go
thither also as soon as her health would permit. He then read to his
impatient auditors such passages in the letter as were necessary to
explain his meaning; but as Madame de La Motte had omitted to mention
some circumstances of importance to be understood, the following is a
relation of the occurrences that had lately happened at Paris.
It may be remembered that on the first day of his trial, La Motte, in
passing from the courts to his prison, saw a person whose features,
though imperfectly seen through the dusk, he thought he recollected; and
that this same person, after inquiring the name of La Motte, desired to
be admitted to him. On the following day the warder complied with his
request, and the surprise of La Motte may be imagined when in the
stronger light of his apartment, he distinguished the countenance of the
man, from whose hands he had formerly received Adeline.
On observing Madame de La Motte in the room, he said he had something of
consequence to impart, and desired to be left alone with the prisoner.
When she was gone, he told De La Motte that he understood he was
confined at the suit of the Marquis de Montalt. La Motte assented.--I
know him for a villain, said the stranger boldly. Your case is
desperate. Do you wish for life?
Need the question be asked?
Your trial, I understand proceeds to-morrow. I am now under confinement
in this place for debt; but if you can obtain leave for me to go with
you into the courts, and a condition from the judge that what I reveal
shall not criminate myself, I will make discoveries that shall confound
that same Marquis; I will prove him a villain; and it shall then be
judged how far his word ought to be taken against you.
La Motte, whose interest was now strongly excited, desired he would
explain himself; and the man proceeded to relate a long history of the
misfortunes and consequent poverty which had tempted him to become
subservient to the schemes of the Marquis, till he suddenly checked
himself, and said. When I obtain from the court the promise I require, I
will explain myself fully; till then, I cannot say more on the subject.
La Motte could not forbear expressing a doubt of his sincerity, and a
curiosity concerning the motive that had induced him to become the
Marquis's accuser.--As to my motive, it is a very natural one, replied
the man: it is no easy matter to receive ill usage without resenting it,
particularly from a villain whom you have served.--La Motte, for his own
sake, endeavoured to check the vehemence with which this was uttered. I
care not who hears me continued the stranger, but at the same time he
lowered his voice; I repeat it--the Marquis has used me ill--I have kept
his secret long enough: he does not think it worth while to secure my
silence, or he would relieve my necessities. I am in prison for debt,
and have applied to him for relief; since he does not choose to give it,
let him take the consequence. I warrant he shall soon repent that he has
provoked me, and 'tis fit he should.
The doubts of La Motte were now dissipated; the prospect of life again
opened upon him, and he assured Du Bosse (which was the stranger's name)
with much warmth, that he would commission his advocate to do all in his
power to obtain leave for his appearance on the trial, and to procure
the necessary condition. After some further conversation they parted.