Such was the wild series of Martinette's adventures. Each incident
fastened on the memory of Constantia, and gave birth to numberless
reflections. Her prospect of mankind seemed to be enlarged, on a sudden,
to double its ancient dimensions. Ormond's narratives had carried her
beyond the Mississippi, and into the deserts of Siberia. He had
recounted the perils of a Russian war, and painted the manners of
Mongols and Naudowessies. Her new friend had led her back to the
civilized world and portrayed the other half of the species. Men, in
their two forms of savage and refined, had been scrutinized by these
observers; and what was wanting in the delineations of the one was
liberally supplied by the other.
Eleven years in the life of Martinette was unrelated. Her conversation
suggested the opinion that this interval had been spent in France. It
was obvious to suppose that a woman thus fearless and sagacious had not
been inactive at a period like the present, which called forth talents
and courage without distinction of sex, and had been particularly
distinguished by female enterprise and heroism. Her name easily led to
the suspicion of concurrence with the subverters of monarchy, and of
participation in their fall. Her flight from the merciless tribunals of
the faction that now reigned would explain present appearances.
Martinette brought to their next interview an air of uncommon
exultation. On this being remarked, she communicated the tidings of the
fall of the sanguinary tyranny of Robespierre. Her eyes sparkled, and
every feature was pregnant with delight, while she unfolded, with her
accustomed energy, the particulars of this tremendous revolution. The
blood which it occasioned to flow was mentioned without any symptoms of
disgust or horror.
Constantia ventured to ask if this incident was likely to influence her
own condition.
"Yes. It will open the way for my return."
"Then you think of returning to a scene of so much danger?"
"Danger, my girl? It is my element. I am an adorer of liberty, and
liberty without peril can never exist."
"But so much bloodshed and injustice! Does not your heart shrink from
the view of a scene of massacre and tumult, such as Paris has lately
exhibited and will probably continue to exhibit?"
"Thou talkest, Constantia, in a way scarcely worthy of thy good sense.
Have I not been three years in a camp? What are bleeding wounds and
mangled corpses, when accustomed to the daily sight of them for years?
Am I not a lover of liberty? and must I not exult in the fall of
tyrants, and regret only that my hand had no share in their
destruction?"
"But a woman--how can the heart of woman be inured to the shedding of
blood?"
"Have women, I beseech thee, no capacity to reason and infer? Are they
less open than men to the influence of habit? My hand never faltered
when liberty demanded the victim. If thou wert with me at Paris, I could
show thee a fusil of two barrels, which is precious beyond any other
relic, merely because it enabled me to kill thirteen officers at
Jemappe. Two of these were emigrant nobles, whom I knew and loved before
the Revolution, but the cause they had since espoused cancelled their
claims to mercy."
"What!" said the startled Constantia; "have you fought in the ranks?"
"Certainly. Hundreds of my sex have done the same. Some were impelled by
the enthusiasm of love, and some by a mere passion for war; some by the
contagion of example; and some--with whom I myself must be ranked--by a
generous devotion to liberty. Brunswick and Saxe-Coburg had to contend
with whole regiments of women,--regiments they would have formed, if
they had been collected into separate bodies.
"I will tell thee a secret. Thou wouldst never have seen Martinette de
Beauvais, if Brunswick had deferred one day longer his orders for
retreating into Germany."
"How so?"
"She would have died by her own hand."
"What could lead to such an outrage?"
"The love of liberty."
"I cannot comprehend how that love should prompt you to suicide."
"I will tell thee. The plan was formed, and could not miscarry. A woman
was to play the part of a banished Royalist, was to repair to the
Prussian camp, and to gain admission to the general. This would have
easily been granted to a female and an ex-noble. There she was to
assassinate the enemy of her country, and to attest her magnanimity by
slaughtering herself. I was weak enough to regret the ignominious
retreat of the Prussians, because it precluded the necessity of such a
sacrifice."
This was related with accents and looks that sufficiently attested its
truth. Constantia shuddered, and drew back, to contemplate more
deliberately the features of her guest. Hitherto she had read in them
nothing that bespoke the desperate courage of a martyr and the deep
designing of an assassin. The image which her mind had reflected from
the deportment of this woman was changed. The likeness which she had,
feigned to herself was no longer seen. She felt that antipathy was
preparing to displace love. These sentiments, however, she concealed,
and suffered the conversation to proceed.
Their discourse now turned upon the exploits of several women who
mingled in the tumults of the capital and in the armies on the
frontiers. Instances were mentioned of ferocity in some, and magnanimity
in others, which almost surpassed belief. Constantia listened greedily,
though not with approbation, and acquired, at every sentence, new desire
to be acquainted with the personal history of Martinette. On mentioning
this wish, her friend said that she endeavoured to amuse her exile by
composing her own memoirs, and that, on her next visit, she would bring
with her the volume, which she would suffer Constantia to read.
A separation of a week elapsed. She felt some impatience for the renewal
of their intercourse, and for the perusal of the volume that had been
mentioned. One evening Sarah Baxter, whom Constantia had placed in her
own occasional service, entered the room with marks of great joy and
surprise, and informed her that she at length had discovered Miss
Monrose. From her abrupt and prolix account, it appeared that Sarah had
overtaken Miss Monrose in the street, and, guided by her own curiosity,
as well as by the wish to gratify her mistress, she had followed the
stranger. To her utter astonishment, the lady had paused at Mr. Dudley's
door, with a seeming resolution to enter it, but presently resumed her
way. Instead of pursuing her steps farther, Sarah had stopped to
communicate this intelligence to Constantia. Having delivered her news,
she hastened away, but, returning, in a moment, with a countenance of
new surprise, she informed her mistress that on leaving the house she
had met Miss Monrose at the door, on the point of entering. She added
that the stranger had inquired for Constantia, and was now waiting
below.
Constantia took no time to reflect upon an incident so unexpected and so
strange, but proceeded forthwith to the parlour. Martinette only was
there. It did not instantly occur to her that this lady and Mademoiselle
Monrose might possibly be the same. The inquiries she made speedily
removed her doubts, and it now appeared that the woman about whose
destiny she had formed so many conjectures and fostered so much anxiety
was no other than the daughter of Roselli.
Having readily answered her questions, Martinette inquired, in her turn,
into the motives of her friend's curiosity. These were explained by a
succinct account of the transactions to which the deceased Baxter had
been a witness. Constantia concluded with mentioning her own reflections
on the tale, and intimating her wish to be informed how Martinette had
extricated herself from a situation so calamitous.
"Is there any room for wonder on that head?" replied the guest. "It was
absurd to stay longer in the house. Having finished the interment of
Roselli, (soldier-fashion,) for he was the man who suffered his foolish
regrets to destroy him, I forsook the house. Roselli was by no means
poor, but he could not consent to live at ease, or to live at all, while
his country endured such horrible oppressions, and when so many of his
friends had perished. I complied with his humour, because it could not
be changed, and I revered him too much to desert him."
"But whither," said Constantia, "could you seek shelter at a time like
that? The city was desolate, and a wandering female could scarcely be
received under any roof. All inhabited houses were closed at that hour,
and the fear of infection would have shut them against you if they had
not been already so."
"Hast thou forgotten that there were at that time at least ten thousand
French in this city, fugitives from Marat and from St. Domingo? That
they lived in utter fearlessness of the reigning disease,--sung and
loitered in the public walks, and prattled at their doors, with all
their customary unconcern? Supposest thou that there were none among
these who would receive a countrywoman, even if her name had not been
Martinette de Beauvais? Thy fancy has depicted strange things; but
believe me that, without a farthing and without a name, I should not
have incurred the slightest inconvenience. The death of Roselli I
foresaw, because it was gradual in its approach, and was sought by him
as a good. My grief, therefore, was exhausted before it came, and I
rejoiced at his death, because it was the close of all his sorrows. The
rueful pictures of my distress and weakness which were given by Baxter
existed only in his own fancy."
Martinette pleaded an engagement, and took her leave, professing to have
come merely to leave with her the promised manuscript. This interview,
though short, was productive of many reflections on the deceitfulness of
appearances, and on the variety of maxims by which the conduct of human
beings is regulated. She was accustomed to impart all her thoughts and
relate every new incident to her father. With this view she now hied to
his apartment. This hour it was her custom, when disengaged, always to
spend with him.
She found Mr. Dudley busy in revolving a scheme which various
circumstances had suggested and gradually conducted to maturity. No
period of his life had been equally delightful with that portion of his
youth which he had spent in Italy. The climate, the language, the
manners of the people, and the sources of intellectual gratification in
painting and music, were congenial to his taste. He had reluctantly
forsaken these enchanting seats, at the summons of his father, but, on
his return to his native country, had encountered nothing but ignominy
and pain. Poverty and blindness had beset his path, and it seemed as if
it were impossible to fly too far from the scene of his disasters. His
misfortunes could not be concealed from others, and every thing around
him seemed to renew the memory of all that he had suffered. All the
events of his youth served to entice him to Italy, while all the
incidents of his subsequent life concurred to render disgustful his
present abode.
His daughter's happiness was not to be forgotten. This he imagined would
be eminently promoted by the scheme. It would open to her new avenues to
knowledge. It would snatch her from the odious pursuit of Ormond, and,
by a variety of objects and adventures, efface from her mind any
impression which his dangerous artifices might have made upon it.
This project was now communicated to Constantia. Every argument adapted
to influence her choice was employed. He justly conceived that the only
obstacle to her adoption of it related to Ormond. He expatiated on the
dubious character of this man, the wildness of his schemes, and the
magnitude of his errors. What could be expected from a man, half of
whose life had been spent at the head of a band of Cossacks, spreading
devastation in the regions of the Danube, and supporting by flagitious
intrigues the tyranny of Catharine, and the other half in traversing
inhospitable countries, and extinguishing what remained of clemency and
justice by intercourse with savages?
It was admitted that his energies were great, but misdirected, and that
to restore them to the guidance of truth was not in itself impossible;
but it was so with relation to any power that she possessed. Conformity
would flow from their marriage, but this conformity was not to be
expected from him. It was not his custom to abjure any of his doctrines
or recede from any of his claims. She knew likewise the conditions of
their union. She must go with him to some corner of the world where his
boasted system was established. What was the road to it he had carefully
concealed, but it was evident that it lay beyond the precincts of
civilized existence.
Whatever were her ultimate decision, it was at least proper to delay it.
Six years were yet wanting of that period at which only she formerly
considered marriage as proper. To all the general motives for deferring
her choice, the conduct of Ormond superadded the weightiest. Their
correspondence might continue, but her residence in Europe and converse
with mankind might enlighten her judgement and qualify her for a more
rational decision.
Constantia was not uninfluenced by these reasonings. Instead of
reluctantly admitting them, she somewhat wondered that they had not been
suggested by her own reflections. Her imagination anticipated her
entrance on that mighty scene with emotions little less than rapturous.
Her studies had conferred a thousand ideal charms on a theatre where
Scipio and Caesar had performed their parts. Her wishes were no less
importunate to gaze upon the Alps and Pyrenees, and to vivify and
chasten the images collected from books, by comparing them with their
real prototypes.
No social ties existed to hold her to America. Her only kinsman and
friend would be the companion of her journeys. This project was likewise
recommended by advantages of which she only was qualified to judge.
Sophia Westwyn had embarked, four years previous to this date, for
England, in company with an English lady and her husband. The
arrangements that were made forbade either of the friends to hope for a
future meeting. Yet now, by virtue of this project, this meeting seemed
no longer to be hopeless.
This burst of new ideas and now hopes on the mind of Constantia took
place in the course of a single hour. No change in her external
situation had been wrought, and yet her mind had undergone the most
signal revolution. Tho novelty as well as greatness of the prospect kept
her in a state of elevation and awe, more ravishing than any she had
ever experienced. Anticipations of intercourse with nature in her most
august forms, with men in diversified states of society, with the
posterity of Greeks and Romans, and with the actors that were now upon
the stage, and, above all, with the being whom absence and the want of
other attachments had, in some sort, contributed to deify, made this
night pass away upon the wings of transport.
The hesitation which existed on parting with her father speedily gave
place to an ardour impatient of the least delay. She saw no impediments
to the immediate commencement of the voyage. To delay it a month, or
even a week, seemed to be unprofitable tardiness. In this ferment of her
thoughts, she was neither able nor willing to sleep. In arranging the
means of departure and anticipating the events that would successively
arise, there was abundant food for contemplation.
She marked the first dawnings of the day, and rose. She felt reluctance
to break upon her father's morning slumbers, but considered that her
motives were extremely urgent, and that the pleasure afforded him by her
zealous approbation of his scheme would amply compensate him for this
unseasonable intrusion on his rest. She hastened therefore to his
chamber. She entered with blithesome steps, and softly drew aside the
curtain.