Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear lo grace his obsequies.
GRAY.
On learning the purport of Madame de La Motte's letter, Adeline saw the
necessity of her immediate departure for Paris. The life of La Motte,
who had more than saved hers, the life perhaps of her beloved Theodore,
depended on the testimony she should give. And she who had so lately
been sinking under the influence of illness and despair, who could
scarcely raise her languid head, or speak but in the faintest accents,
now reanimated with hope, and invigorated by a sense of the importance
of the business before her, prepared to perform a rapid journey of some
hundred miles.
Theodore tenderly entreated that she would so far consider her health as
to delay this journey for a few days: but with a smile of enchanting
tenderness she assured him, that she was now too happy to be ill, and
that the same cause which would confirm her happiness would confirm her
health. So strong was the effect of hope upon her mind, now that it
succeeded to the misery of despair, that it overcame the shock she
suffered on believing herself a daughter of the Marquis, and every other
painful reflection. She did not even foresee the obstacle that
circumstance might produce to her union with Theodore, should he at last
be permitted to live.
It was settled that she should set off for Paris in a few hours with
Louis, and attended by Peter. These hours were passed by La Luc and his
family in the prison.
When the time of her departure arrived, the spirits of Adeline again
forsook her, and the illusions of joy disappeared. She no longer beheld
Theodore as one respited from death, but took leave of him with a
mournful presentiment that she should see him no more. So strongly was
this presage impressed upon her mind, that it was long before she could
summon resolution to bid him farewell; and when she had done so, and
even left the apartment, she returned to take of him a last look. As she
was once more quitting the room, her melancholy imagination represented
Theodore at the place of execution, pale, and convulsed in death; she
again turned her lingering eyes upon him; but fancy affected her sense,
for she thought as she now gazed that his countenance changed, and
assumed a ghastly hue. All her resolution vanished; and such was the
anguish of her heart, that she resolved to defer her journey till the
morrow, though she must by this means lose the protection of Louis,
whose impatience to meet his father would not suffer the delay. The
triumph of passion, however, was transient; soothed by the indulgence
she promised herself, her grief subsided; reason resumed its influence;
she again saw the necessity of her immediate departure, and recollected
sufficient resolution to submit. La Luc would have accompanied her for
the purpose of again soliciting the king in behalf of his son, had not
the extreme weakness and lassitude to which he was reduced made
travelling impracticable.
At length, Adeline with a heavy heart quitted Theodore, notwithstanding
his entreaties that she would not undertake the journey in her present
weak state, and was accompanied by Clara and La Luc to the inn. The
former parted from her friend with many tears, and much anxiety for her
welfare, but under a hope of soon meeting again. Should a pardon be
granted to Theodore, La Luc designed to fetch Adeline from Paris; but
should this be refused, she was to return with Peter. He bade her adieu
with a father's kindness, which she repaid with a filial affection, and
in her last words conjured him to attend to the recovery of his health:
the languid smile he assumed seemed to express that her solicitude was
vain, and that he thought his health past recovery.
Thus Adeline quitted the friends so justly dear to her, and so lately
found, for Paris, where she was a stranger, almost without protection,
and compelled to meet a father, who had pursued her with the utmost
cruelty, in a public court of justice. The carriage in leaving Vaceau
passed by the prison; she threw an eager look towards it as she passed;
its heavy black walls, and narrow-grated windows, seemed to frown upon
her hopes--but Theodore was there, and leaning from the window: she
continued to gaze upon it till an abrupt turning in the street concealed
it from her view. She then sunk back in the carriage, and yielding to
the melancholy of her heart, wept in silence. Louis was not disposed to
interrupt it; his thoughts were anxiously employed on his father's
situation, and the travellers proceeded many miles without exchanging a
word.
At Paris, whither we shall now return, the search after Jean D'Aunoy was
prosecuted without success. The house on the heath, described by Du
Bosse, was found uninhabited, and to the places of his usual resort in
the city, where the officers of the police awaited him, he no longer
came. It even appeared doubtful whether he was living, for he had
absented himself from the houses of his customary rendezvous sometime
before the trial of La Motte; it was therefore certain that his absence
was not occasioned by any thing which had passed in the courts.
In the solitude of his confinement the Marquis de Montalt had leisure to
reflect on the past, and to repent of his crimes; but reflection and
repentance formed as yet no part of his disposition. He turned with
impatience from recollections which produced only pain, and looked
forward to the future with an endeavour to avert the disgrace and
punishment which he saw impending. The elegance of his manners had so
effectually veiled the depravity of his heart, that he was a favourite
with his sovereign; and on this circumstance he rested his hope of
security. He, however, severely repented that he had indulged the hasty
spirit of revenge which had urged him to the prosecution of La Motte,
and had thus unexpectedly involved him in a situation dangerous--if not
fatal--since if Adeline could not be found he would be concluded guilty
of her death. But the appearance of D'Aunoy was the circumstance he most
dreaded; and to oppose the possibility of this, he employed secret
emissaries to discover his retreat, and to bribe him to his interest.
These were, however as unsuccessful in their research as the officers of
police, and the Marquis at length began to hope that the man was really
dead.
La Motte meanwhile awaited with trembling impatience the arrival of his
son, when he should be relieved in some degree from his uncertainty
concerning Adeline. On this appearance he rested his only hope of life,
since the evidence against him would lose much of its validity from the
confirmation she would give of the bad character of his prosecutor; and
if the Parliament even condemned La Motte, the clemency of the king
might yet operate in his favour.
Adeline arrived at Paris after a journey of several days, during which
she was chiefly supported by the delicate attentions of Louis, whom she
pitied and esteemed, though she could not love. She was immediately
visited at the hotel by Madame La Motte: the meeting was affecting on
both sides. A sense of her past conduct excited in the latter an
embarrassment which the delicacy and goodness of Adeline would willingly
have spared her; but the pardon solicited was given with so much
sincerity, that Madame gradually became composed and reassured. This
forgiveness, however, could not have been thus easily granted, had
Adeline believed her former conduct was voluntary; a conviction of the
restraint and terror under which Madame had acted, alone induced her to
excuse the past. In this first meeting they forbore dwelling on
particular subjects; Madame La Motte proposed that Adeline should remove
from the hotel to her lodgings near the Chatelet; and Adeline, for whom
a residence at a public hotel was very improper, gladly accepted the
offer.
Madame there gave her a circumstantial account of La Motte's situation,
and concluded with saying, that as the sentence of her husband had been
suspended till some certainty could be obtained concerning the late
criminal designs of the Marquis, and as Adeline could confirm the chief
part of La Motte's testimony, it was probable that now she was arrived
the court would proceed immediately. She now learnt the full extent of
her obligation to La Motte; for she was till now ignorant that when he
sent her from the forest he saved her from death. Her horror of the
Marquis, whom she could not bear to consider as her father, and her
gratitude to her deliverer, redoubled, and she became impatient to give
the testimony so necessary to the hopes of her preserver. Madame then
said, she believed it was not too late to gain admittance that night to
the Chatelet; and as she knew how anxiously her husband wished to see
Adeline, she entreated her consent to go thither. Adeline, though much
harassed and fatigued, complied. When Louis returned from M. Nemours,
his father's advocate, whom he had hastened to inform of her arrival,
they all set out for the Chatelet. The view of the prison into which
they were now admitted, so forcibly recalled to Adeline's mind the
situation of Theodore, that she with difficulty supported herself to the
apartment of La Motte. When he saw her, a gleam of joy passed over his
countenance; but again relapsing into despondency, he looked mournfully
at her, and then at Louis, and groaned deeply. Adeline, in whom all
remembrance of his former cruelty was lost in his subsequent kindness,
expressed her thankfulness for the life he had preserved, and her
anxiety to serve him, in warm and repeated terms. But her gratitude
evidently distressed him; instead of reconciling him to himself, it
seemed to awaken a remembrance of the guilty designs he had once
assisted, and to strike the pangs of conscience deeper in his heart.
Endeavouring to conceal his emotions, he entered on the subject of his
present danger, and informed Adeline what testimony would be required of
her on the trial. After above an hour's conversation with La Motte, she
returned to the lodgings of Madame, where, languid and ill, she withdrew
to her chamber, and tried to obliviate her anxieties in sleep.
The Parliament which conducted the trial re-assembled in a few days
after the arrival of Adeline, and the two remaining witnesses of the
Marquis, on whom he now rested his cause against La Motte, appeared. She
was led trembling into the court, where almost the first object that met
her eyes was the Marquis de Montalt, whom she now beheld with an emotion
entirely new to her, and which was strongly tinctured with horror. When
Du Bosse saw her he immediately swore to her identity; his testimony was
confirmed by her manner; for, on perceiving him she grew pale, and an
universal tremor seized her. Jean D'Aunoy could no where be found, and
La Motte was thus deprived of an evidence which essentially affected his
interest. Adeline, when called upon, gave her little narrative with
clearness and precision; and Peter, who had conveyed her from the abbey,
supported the testimony she offered. The evidence produced was
sufficient to criminate the Marquis of the intention of murder, in the
minds of most people present; but it was not sufficient to affect the
testimony of his two last witnesses, who positively swore to the
commission of the robbery, and to the person of La Motte, on whom
sentence of death was accordingly pronounced. On receiving the sentence
the unhappy criminal fainted, and the compassion of the assembly, whose
feelings had been unusually interested in the decision, was expressed in
a general groan.
Their attention was quickly called to a new object--it was Jean D'Aunoy,
who now entered the court. But his evidence, if it could ever, indeed,
have been the means of saving La Motte, came too late. He was
reconducted to prison; but Adeline, who, extremely shocked by his
sentence, was much indisposed, received orders to remain in the court
during the examination of D'Aunoy. This man had been at length found in
the prison of a provincial town, where some of his creditors had thrown
him, and from which even the money which the Marquis had remitted to him
for the purpose of satisfying the craving importunities of Du Bosse, had
been insufficient to release him. Meanwhile the revenge of the latter
had been roused against the Marquis by an imaginary neglect, and the
money which was designed to relieve his necessities, was spent by
D'Aunoy in riotous luxury.
He was confronted with Adeline and with Du Bosse, and ordered to confess
all he knew concerning this mysterious affair, or to undergo the
torture. D'Aunoy, who was ignorant how far the suspicions concerning the
Marquis extended, and who was conscious that his own words might condemn
him, remained for some time obstinately silent; but when the _question_
was administered, his resolution gave way, and he confessed a crime of
which he had not even been suspected.
It appeared, that, in the year 1642, D'Aunoy, together with one Jaques
Martigny, and Francis Balliere, had way-laid and seized Henri, Marquis
de Montalt, half-brother to Philippe; and after having robbed him, and
bound his servant to a tree, according to the orders they had received,
they conveyed him to the abbey of St. Clair, in the distant forest of
Fontanville. Here he was confined for some time, till further directions
were received from Philippe de Montalt, the present Marquis, who was
then on his estates in a northern province of France. These orders were
for death, and the unfortunate Henri was assassinated in his chamber in
the third week of his confinement at the abbey.
On hearing this, Adeline grew faint: she remembered the MS. she had
found, together with the extraordinary circumstances that had attended
the discovery; every nerve thrilled with horror, and, raising her eyes,
she saw the countenance of the Marquis overspread with the livid
paleness of guilt. She endeavoured, however, to arrest her fleeting
spirits while the man proceeded in his confession.
When the murder was perpetrated, D'Aunoy had returned to his employer,
who gave him the reward agreed upon, and in a few months after delivered
into his hands the infant daughter of the late Marquis, whom he conveyed
to a distant part of the kingdom, where, assuming the name of St.
Pierre, he brought her up as his own child, receiving from the present
Marquis a considerable annuity for his secrecy.
Adeline, no longer able to struggle with the tumult of emotions that now
rushed upon her heart, uttered a deep sigh and fainted away. She was
carried from the court; and when the confusion occasioned by this
circumstance subsided, Jean D'Aunoy went on. He related, that on the
death of his wife, Adeline was placed in a convent, from whence she was
afterwards removed to another, where the Marquis had destined her to
receive the vows. That her determined rejection of them had occasioned
him to resolve upon her death, and that she had accordingly been removed
to the house on the heath. D'Aunoy added, that by the Marquis's order he
had misled Du Bosse with a false story of her birth. Having, after some
time, discovered that his comrades had deceived him concerning her
death, D'Aunoy separated from them in enmity; but they unanimously
determined to conceal her escape from the Marquis, that they might enjoy
the recompense of their supposed crime. Some months subsequent to this
period, however, D'Aunoy received a letter from the Marquis, charging
him with the truth, and promising him a large reward if he would confess
where he had placed Adeline. In consequence of this letter, he
acknowledged that she had been given into the hands of a stranger; but,
who he was, or where he lived, was not known.
Upon these depositions Philippe de Montalt was committed to take his
trial for the murder of Henri, his brother; D'Aunoy was thrown into a
dungeon of the Chatelet, and Du Bosse was bound to appear as evidence.
The feelings of the Marquis, who, in a prosecution stimulated by
revenge, had thus unexpectedly exposed his crimes to the public eye, and
betrayed himself to justice, can only be imagined. The passions which
had tempted him to the commission of a crime so horrid as that of
murder,--and what, if possible, heightened its atrocity, the murder of
one connected with him by the ties of blood, and by habits of even
infantine association--the passions which had stimulated him to so
monstrous a deed, were ambition and the love of pleasure. The first was
more immediately gratified by the title of his brother; the latter, by
the riches which would enable him to indulge his voluptuous
inclinations.
The late Marquis de Montalt, the father of Adeline, received from his
ancestors a patrimony very inadequate to support the splendour of his
rank; but he had married the heiress of an illustrious family, whose
fortune amply supplied the deficiency of his own. He had the misfortune
to lose her, for she was amiable and beautiful, soon after the birth of
a daughter, and it was then that the present Marquis formed the
diabolical design of destroying his brother. The contrast of their
characters prevented that cordial regard between them which their near
relationship seemed to demand. Henri was benevolent, mild, and
contemplative. In his heart reigned the love of virtue; in his manners
the strictness of justice was tempered, not weakened, by mercy; his mind
was enlarged by science, and adorned by elegant literature. The
character of Philippe has been already delineated in his actions; its
nicer shades were blended with some shining tints; but these served only
to render more striking by contrast the general darkness of the
portrait.
He had married a lady, who, by the death of her brother, inherited
considerable estates, of which the abbey of St. Clair, and the villa on
the borders of the forest of Fontanville, were the chief. His passion
for magnificence and dissipation, however, soon involved him in
difficulties, and pointed out to him the conveniency of possessing his
brother's wealth. His brother and his infant daughter only stood between
him and his wishes; how he removed the father has been already related;
why he did not employ the same means to secure the child, seems somewhat
surprising, unless we admit that a destiny hung over him on this
occasion, and that she was suffered to live as an instrument to punish
the murderer of her parent. When a retrospect is taken of the
vicissitudes and dangers to which she had been exposed from her earliest
infancy, it appears as if her preservation was the effect of something
more than human policy, and affords a striking instance, that justice,
however long delayed, will overtake the guilty.
While the late unhappy Marquis was suffering at the abbey, his brother,
who, to avoid suspicion, remained in the north of France, delayed the
execution of his horrid purpose from a timidity natural to a mind not
yet inured to enormous guilt. Before he dared to deliver his final
orders, he waited to know whether the story he contrived to propagate of
his brother's death would veil his crime from suspicion. It succeeded
but too well; for the servant, whose life had been spared that he might
relate the tale, naturally enough concluded that his lord had been
murdered by banditti; and the peasant, who, a few hours after, found the
servant wounded, bleeding, and bound to a tree, and knew also that this
spot was infested by robbers, as naturally believed him, and spread the
report accordingly.
From this period the Marquis, to whom the abbey of St. Clair belonged in
right of his wife, visited it only twice, and that at distant times,
till, after an interval of several years, he accidentally found La Motte
its inhabitant. He resided at Paris and on his estate in the north,
except that once a year he usually passed a month at his delightful
villa on the borders of the forest. In the busy scenes of the court, and
in the dissipations of pleasure, he tried to lose the remembrance of his
guilt; but there were times when the voice of conscience would be heard,
though it was soon again lost in the tumult of the world.
It is probable, that on the night of his abrupt departure from the
abbey, the solitary silence and gloom of the hour, in a place which had
been the scene of his former crime, called up the remembrance of his
brother with a force too powerful for fancy, and awakened horrors which
compelled him to quit the polluted spot. If it was so, it is however
certain that the spectres of conscience vanished with the darkness; for
on the following day he returned to the abbey, though, it may be
observed, he never attempted to pass another night there. But though
terror was roused for a transient moment, neither pity nor repentance
succeeded; since, when the discovery of Adeline's birth excited
apprehension for his own life, he did not hesitate to repeat the crime,
and would again have stained his soul with human blood. This discovery
was effected by means of a seal bearing the arms of her mother's family,
which was impressed on the note his servant had found, and had delivered
to him at Caux. It may be remembered, that having read this note, he was
throwing it from him in the fury of jealousy; but, that after examining
it again, it was carefully deposited in his pocket-book. The violent
agitation which a suspicion of this terrible truth occasioned, deprived
him for awhile of all power to act. When he was well enough to write, he
dispatched a letter to D'Aunoy, the purport of which has been already
mentioned. From D'Aunoy he received the confirmation of his fears.
Knowing that his life must pay the forfeiture of his crime, should
Adeline ever obtain a knowledge of her birth, and not daring again to
confide in the secrecy of a man who had once deceived him, he resolved,
after some deliberation, on her death. He immediately set out for the
abbey, and gave those directions concerning her which terror for his own
safety, still more than a desire of retaining her estates, suggested.
As the history of the seal which revealed the birth of Adeline is rather
remarkable, it may not be amiss to mention, that it was stolen from the
Marquis, together with a gold watch, by Jean D'Aunoy: the watch was soon
disposed of, but the seal had been kept as a pretty trinket by his wife,
and at her death went with Adeline among her clothes to the convent.
Adeline had carefully preserved it, because it had once belonged to the
woman whom she believed to have been her mother.