*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79424 ***




                                  THE
                               LIBERTINE;

                                   BY

                            CHARLOTTE DACRE,

                            BETTER KNOWN AS

                             ROSA MATILDA,

                               AUTHOR OF

       _Hours of Solitude_, _Nun of St. Omer’s_, _Zofloya_, _&c._

                            IN FOUR VOLUMES.

                                VOL. I.

                           _SECOND EDITION._

     Dark bending from the skirts of the wood, her wounded father came.
     He appeared at times, then seemed as hid in mist. Bursting into
     tears, she rose; she knew that the Chief was low. To her came a
     beam from his soul when folded in its storms. Thou wert the last of
     his race, blue-eyed Dardu-lena!

                                                                 OSSIAN.

                               _LONDON_:
              PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND.

                                 1807.




                                  THE

                               LIBERTINE.




CHAPTER I.


The painter, who seeks the admiration of the crowd alone, bestows his
chief attention upon vivid colouring, and striking effect, desirous
rather to seize the imagination by the boldness of his conception, than
to satisfy the judgment by the closeness of his designs from nature.

Thus the writer, who would address the heart, and who has a moral
purpose in view, should not, in his delineations of vice, exaggerate,
or overcharge the picture, by unnatural representation; but, tracing
conscientiously, and steadily, its terrible consequences, aim rather to
fortify the mind, by a lesson of severe truth, than to astonish, without
impressing it, by the incongruous legends of romance.

It was in that sublimely beautiful part of Switzerland, which the magic
pen of the tender enthusiast, Rousseau, has rescued from obscurity, that
Montmorency, and his daughter, retired within their cottage, listened
tranquilly to the raging storm without. The youthful Gabrielle, in all
the bloom of beauty, and simplicity of innocence, the result of a life
passed among the mountains, free from the contagion of society, was
endeavouring, by the efforts of her pencil, to rescue from decay the
perishable tints of a flower. Montmorency was reading, but not aloud,
the Maxims of La Rochefoucault; for, though he fled from, and hated the
world, he wished not to cloud, by premature misanthropy, the generous
dawn of youth.

While thus they were mutually employed, the latch of the cottage door
was gently raised, the door opened, and a young man, of an elegant
figure, presented himself before them. It was enough;--Montmorency
detested the world, but he could not refuse shelter to a stranger;--he
rose immediately, and taking him by the hand, placed him in his own
chair, while Gabrielle instinctively threw another faggot on the fire,
and hastened to procure some wine.

“The kindness which I experience,” observed the stranger, in that
polished voice that marks the gentleman, “induces me to hope that I may
find shelter here for the night; if so,” he added, looking alternately
at Montmorency, and his daughter, but longer at the latter, “how shall I
not bless the chance which has conducted me hither?”

“Our accommodations here,” answered Montmorency, “are, probably, not
such as you have been accustomed to; for one night, however, you will, I
hope, endeavour to conform to them.”

The stranger was profuse of acknowledgments; but Montmorency was silent,
for he had acted only according to the impulse of his heart, and as he
considered his duty. He caused a bed, the best his cottage would afford,
to be prepared for his guest; he sought to render agreeable to him, by
attention, the lodging to which accident had directed him; then,
unwilling to enter into conversation which might cause him to unbend,
or induce a relaxation from a reserve now become habitual to him, he
motioned his daughter to retire, and pointing out to him his apartment,
withdrew immediately to his own.

Montmorency, the present inhabitant of a small sequestered cottage, in
the village of Meillerie, buried amid mountains, and isolated from the
world, was yet a gentleman, in the purest and most positive acceptance
of the term. His birth was noble, his ancestry illustrious, for he was
descended from the family of the chivalrous Josselin de Montmorency, who
distinguished himself in the third crusade against the Saracens, under
Philip Augustus. Though now bereft of fortune, friends, and every future
prospect, faithful to the sacred memory of his ancestors, he preserved
his honour unimpeached, and retained too, amid his disastrous poverty,
the genuine dignity which results from the consciousness of true
nobility. But what occasioned this painful degradation in the fortunes
of the unhappy Frenchman? It was gaming! source of unnumbered ills!
insatiate furor which has destroyed the fortune of millions, and still
continues to destroy them. Montmorency pursued its seductive
allurements, nearly to the gates of ruin; till then he recovered not
from his infatuation; he awakened but to behold around him a desolate
waste; while in melancholy association with himself, deprived of all,
his eye paused in horror upon his unconscious child. What anguish in a
retrospect of the past! He stood, with his beggared offspring, alone in
the world; friends talked of pity, but remained aloof, and, in the midst
of a populous city, he soon beheld himself in the profoundest solitude.
Disgusted with the base selfishness of the world, its ingratitude, its
delusions, its ephemeral friendship, and time-serving hypocrisy, he,
with scrupulous exactness, proudly scorning to explain his situation,
gave up almost the whole of what he possessed, assigning to each what
was his due, and then, with the young Gabrielle, quitted for ever the
haunts of civilised society, where man, polished and cultivated, preys,
like a refined barbarian, upon his fellow man.

Such the leading features of Montmorency’s history. On abandoning the
world, he had sought to be ever remote from its observation; his was no
lukewarm quarrel with, or splenetic disgust against it; he possessed no
feeling that momentary exhiliration, or brighter thoughts, might chace;
therefore, he desired a solitude, eternal, and profound, where he might
live, and die, forgotten and unnoticed by those he dreaded and
abhorred. Such a situation he had found amid the wilds of
Switzerland,--a desolate retirement, fenced round by rugged rocks, where
he had fixed his residence, though with some pangs of the heart, yet
with a prouder feeling than swells the bosom of the youthful heir who
takes possession of the splendid estate of his ancestors. His fair
daughter, alone, accompanied him in his exile; and the pangs of
Montmorency were for her only, when he remembered that, thus robbed of
fortune, and every future prospect, she must lose likewise the superior
advantage of polished education. “Yet can I not” said he, mentally, “be
myself her instructor? Assuredly I can;” and, in pursuance of this idea,
the best selection of books that his limited means would allow, no
inferior substitute for the society of which they would be deprived,
some musical and mathematical instruments, and materials for drawing,
were soon transferred to, and embellished their solitary abode.

It is a well-known fact, that the Mountaineers of Switzerland, though
not an highly-educated race, are far removed from ignorance. Books,
Metaphysical, Philosophical, and even Classical, are to be found in
cottages that have scarcely, perhaps, a second chair; thus the few
scattered inhabitants that resided near the dwelling of the fallen, but
noble Frenchman, suffered him to pursue his plan of life, unmolested
either by vulgar curiosity, or troublesome remark.

Possessed at once of taste, learning, and a refined understanding, he
was well calculated to impart to the ductile mind of his daughter,
their exhaustless treasures. Already, in childhood, from his tender and
patient instructions, she had acquired a knowledge superior to what she
could have attained from the hired, systematic, and mechanical
operations of persons wholly uninterested, but for their own advantage.
She had received, as it were, the ore refined from the dross; a polished
education, without the contagion of evil example; her instructions
tended to improve her mind, and to render her virtuous; and nothing
tended to counteract their effects. As she advanced in years,
Montmorency depicted to her, in glowing, but not flattering colours, the
world from which she was excluded, and which fondly he endeavoured to
hope it would be never necessary for her to associate with. Availing
himself of his experience, and impressed with the severe lessons he had
received, he represented to her, mankind as monsters, from whom it was
happiness to escape.

“There is a world, beyond these sublime solitudes, my Gabrielle,” would
he say; “but seek not to know it, for your knowledge must be purchased
by the destruction of your innocence, and the wreck of your peace.
Society corrupts the heart; if in retirement, it should be urged that
the active duties of life are not so powerfully called forth, neither
does the comparatively limited sphere of existence require them. Oh, may
you never quit this seclusion! for here alone can you remain both
virtuous and happy.” The frequent recurrence of this subject, wherein
Montmorency continually presented to his daughter the worst side of
human nature, ever pourtrayed with increasing bitterness, inspired her
innocent mind with a feeling amounting almost to horror of her fellow
creatures; the first wish of her heart was, to live and die, in the
seclusion of her childhood; and fervently did she concur in the wish of
her father, that never might she be necessitated to quit it. Whether the
plan of Montmorency was just and safe, in thus describing all men alike,
in levelling all distinction, and teaching her, that all should be
equally distrusted; or whether, by so doing, he did not run a risk of
leaving her open to the wiles of the first accomplished seducer she
encountered, who might appear a being wholly different from his
description, remains to be proved; but, taking the hue from his
feelings, and trembling with the anxiety of a father, he had no mode of
preserving her from temptation, but by an exaggeration of the danger to
be encountered.

Gabrielle, however, possessed a natural energy of mind, and strength of
character, that no education could give, and which to exist must be
imbued with the soul: though a life of solitude might never call forth
these attributes, yet was it powerless to subdue them. She reflected
often on the conversation she held with her father, and sometimes
allowed herself to ask, “Are all mankind, then, equally bad? Can there
be no exceptions?--Surely, surely, my father has been ill treated by the
world--he has met with ingratitude.--Or if it be, indeed, a world such
as he describes, if such are human beings, it is almost a reproach to be
of the same species.” Her mode of life, her habits of gloomy reflection,
and the doubts in which her enquiring mind was occasionally involved,
contributed to throw over her air a certain melancholy, that, though
little suited to her period of life, appeared in her beautiful and
interesting. This was chiefly perceptible after conversing with her
father; an uneasy impression remained on her spirits, and, like those
who entered the cave of Trophonius, animation was long after invincibly
chilled. The pictures of Montmorency, sketched ever by the pencil of a
misanthrope, could not fail of deeply affecting the youthful mind,
permitted only to behold the miseries of social intercourse, without a
reference to its comforts; yet he persuaded himself, that he was right
in doing thus,--that he did not wish her to hate, but merely to dread
the world; and, fearful lest she should imagine it a heaven, he verged
into the opposite extreme, and painted it a hell.

The person of Gabrielle resembled her mind; it was majestic; her noble
features were animated by the sublimity of her soul; her eyes darted at
once, sparkling intelligence, and grandeur of sentiment; her fair cheek,
unlike the ruddy mountaineers’, was of the white rose teint; it spoke a
charming pensiveness; and over her whole appearance was diffused a
dignified grace that showed a soul at ease with itself. As a fair lily
flourishes beneath the shielding umbrage of some spreading oak, so did
she flourish beneath the eye of a father, cherished by his anxious love,
and shielded by his care.

Count Angelo D’Albini, the stranger who had sought shelter beneath the
roof of this peaceful pair, was of noble family, and possessed of an
extensive fortune. His father, by birth an Italian, had married a young
English female, of considerable rank, who had become known to him in
England, during a temporary residence of pleasure there; unable,
however, to obtain her hand, but by consenting to remain in England, he
acceeded to the condition, (for to resign her was from the question) and
fixed his residence in the place of her nativity. One son only was the
fruit of this marriage; he was the hope and idol of the house. Count
D’Albini lived only to behold him enter his twenty-fifth year, when he
paid the debt of nature, and, in less than another year, was followed to
the grave by his wife, who had remained inconsolable for his loss: Thus,
in the full bloom of youth, and pride of fortune, Angelo beheld himself
almost alone in the world, (for so may he be considered who has no human
being to whom he is united by the tender ties of consanguinity.) These
melancholy events having so rapidly succeeded each other, filled him
with a melancholy, which the dissipation of the gay metropolis was
powerless to divert; he determined, therefore, to quit the dull round of
unsubstantial pleasures, and irrational delights, (the very repetition
of which rendered them disgusting, or converted them into toils) for a
mode of life, if not more useful, less uniform at least, and boasting
the charm of novelty; he resolved on travel, and quitting England, he
visited Paris, where he remained till the same frivolous pursuits,
noise, and folly, reminded him of the scenes he had quitted. He next
passed into Italy; the demon of disgust followed him there. Failing of
finding the variety he had sought, from change of place, where the
similarity of the scenes, the same gay nothings pervading, rendered it a
change of place only, without a change of pleasures, his thoughts
wandered beyond the careless circle of society, and in the wilds of
animated nature, in the independent majesty of solitude, he conceived
that he should find those pure delights, which he had failed of
experiencing in the idle clamour of the giddy world.

Thus, then, he abandoned for a time, his gay connections, and the crowd
of beings, who, while they complain that life is short, are ever busily
employed in destroying time, to breathe at large among the mountains of
Switzerland, and to presume to think, amid the expansive waste of his
silent scenery, and romantic beauties. Thither, ever accustomed to yield
to his first impulses, and to regard his own will as law, he quickly
transported himself. For a while he wandered delighted o’er Geneva’s
majestic lake; he coasted along its borders, enraptured at the rich and
varied prospects he beheld, where nature has done so little, and man has
effected so much; where cultivation reveals her stores, and where the
lately barren rock now smiles in the green treasures of vegetation.
Next along the banks of the winding Rhone, among the mountains of La
Valais, where, in the quaintness of character, and blunt honesty of the
good Helvetians, he discovered already the variety he sought, in the
forcible contrast which they exhibited to the manners of the world he
had left; ennui and vacuum fled, and he began to experience a little
rational pleasure.

It was one evening that, allured by the sublime beauty of the
surrounding scenery, he remained out longer than he intended, night,
accompanied by a dreadful hurricane, overtook him; the sense of his
danger, in a situation unknown, and teeming with hazard at every step,
caused him, amid the savage and nearly desolate mountains among which he
found himself, to hail with joy the first appearance of a human
habitation; he hastened towards it, and without otherwise announcing
himself, according to the established custom among the hospitable Swiss,
than by simply lifting the latch which fastened the door, (for thus
easily had he till now insured himself a welcome) he requested, and
instantly obtained, admission beneath the roof of Montmorency.

From the circumstance of having been an only child, the count D’Albini,
as is too frequently the case, was loved by his parents, “not wisely,
but too well”--he was rather, like a scarce exotic, tenderly cherished,
than improved; the brilliant rather than the solid, was attended to in
his education; content with beholding him an engaging child, and an
accomplished man, they sought no further; no prominent vices, or glaring
imperfections, had hitherto developed themselves; consequently, the
decided bent of his character remained unknown, and uninvestigated. He
attracted homage, he met with universal approbation; his parents,
satisfied with this, as most parents are, did not trouble themselves to
enquire, how far justified was this ephemeral approbation, or how much
of it was attendant upon the circumstances in which he was placed by the
adventitious combination of birth, rank, and fortune. Thus left to form
itself, the character of Angelo had no decided principles, no solid
foundation, no fixed rule of action; he possessed not powerful judgment,
nor sound discrimination to enable him to distinguish between right and
wrong, or to give him a basis on which to form his conduct; no strong
hypothesis had ever exercised his youthful reason, no circumstance had
occurred materially to draw it forth, nor no rule bounded in his mind
the nice and almost imperceptible gradations which mark the limits
between virtue and vice. His heart was by nature generous, and
impassioned; but, proper education having never corrected the exuberance
of these feelings, they had degenerated into vices, while the germs of
many virtues became withered in his breast. A good action was with him
an impulse, not a principle; if he acted wrong, it was involuntarily,
from the want of due reason, or just discrimination for his guide: when
made sensible of any impropriety of conduct that, in its effects, had
been productive of injury to others, the regret which he felt was only
to be equalled by his anxiety to repair the mischief. Thus, often his
very faults seemed graceful in him, as they were accompanied by virtues,
which were attendant upon them, and which could not otherwise have
existed. Weak, volatile, and unsteady, because of an undisciplined mind,
he yet possessed a quick, tenacious pride, which ever took alarm at the
least thought of dishonor, and a susceptibility of soul, which, while it
rendered him alive to his error, was continually leading him into the
most dangerous excesses: remorse ever followed his faults, and faults
again succeeded to the upbraidings of his conscience: all his sensations
were, however, too transient; his pliable feelings, like the fickle reed
to the wind, yielded readily to every allurement; his wishes were his
guides, and the decision of one moment was ever in danger of being
broken, by the temptation of the next.--Thus was his character a mixture
of good and evil; while he charmed the undiscriminating part of society,
by the frankness, naiveté, and gracefulness of his manners, he ravished
admiration from the wiser part; he extorted from the coldest a praise
which it surprised them to hear themselves bestow, and philosophy’s
self could not but exclaim “pity that, in so beautiful a garden, such
noxious weeds should have sprung up with the flowers!”




CHAPTER II.


On the morning succeeding to the arrival of the Count D’Albini at the
cottage of Montmorency, Gabrielle, as was her custom, rose at an early
hour to pursue her customary avocations. D’Albini, awakening at a time
at which it had been more usual for him to retire to repose, rose
likewise, and perceived from his lattice the fair daughter of
Montmorency tending the little garden which spread its green carpet on a
small spot of the rugged rock, and flowered along the sides of a
frowning precipice. Struck with the beautiful simplicity of her
appearance, which, instead of detracting from, added a singular charm
to her majestic figure, he stepped back a few paces, for the purpose of
contemplating her unobserved; for Angelo did not pride himself on
possessing the vulgar effrontery which can look on modest beauty with
the bold stare of avowed libertinism. When Gabrielle turned her face
towards him, its sweet and noble expression, energetically animated, yet
devoid of boldness, conveyed a novel sensation to his breast; his heart
beat; a sensation of shame assailed him, and this feeling was occasioned
by the reflection of what women, how different in seeming to the
creature before him, had hitherto attracted his admiration, and enslaved
his senses.

“Oh, daughter of innocence,” he said to himself, “if all women looked
like you, men would reform, and feeling in the presence of superior
beings, abjure all guilty thoughts.”

Such were the ideas of Angelo, and involuntarily, in a moment, he found
himself at the side of her who had inspired them. Scarcely would it be
imagined, that, habituated so long to the great world, the gay and
admired Angelo should feel embarrassment in addressing a simple
mountaineer; yet such was in reality the case, for the unaffected
dignity of innocence will ever inspire awe in minds the most unfeeling
or depraved. Gabrielle, who felt only a natural timidity, resulting from
the circumstance of speaking, for the first time, with any other man
than her father, replied to the confused observations of Angelo with
delicate reserve, yet without shame, or hesitation; his admiration
encreased; and if the peculiar beauty which belonged to her, had first
charmed his fancy, the unstudied elegance of her manners now added to
that sentiment a feeling of surprise, and began powerfully to interest
the sensibility of a heart ever alive to the attraction of female
loveliness.

In Gabrielle he beheld a woman different to any he had ever seen;
therefore to her other charms, in his eyes, she added that of novelty;
by her replies to his questions, and from some few remarks that she
occasionally ventured of her own, he moreover discerned, that she had a
mind, and that of itself was a novelty greater than any which he had
ever yet discovered; for, till now, he had believed with the Mahometans,
that women had no souls; in which idea, certainly, he had been justified
in his intercourse with such of the sex as he had known. Gradually their
conversation assumed an interest; and, as the eyes of Gabrielle
sometimes met in furtive glances the eyes of the traveller, mentally she
would say “and can this man then resemble those monsters of depravity,
of whom my father has so often spoken? If so, nature, methinks, should
have fixed some mark upon them, or rendered them less prepossessing.”

Mean time Angelo, more and more delighted, probably from the difficulty
he perceived of prolonging his pleasure, was considering what plea he
could invent for remaining some time at the cottage of Montmorency. The
good Swiss, with whom he had occasionally sojourned during his tour, had
ever pressed him to extend his stay beyond the period of his
inclination, but with Montmorency he feared it would be different; for
his dignified air, his look of proud superiority, stamped him of a class
above those beings among whom he had chosen to fix his residence. With
him, therefore, he felt that unqualified freedom would be misplaced, or
be esteemed presumption; and his mind became on the rack to discover
what line must be pursued to facilitate his wishes.

While thus ruminating, Montmorency appeared, coming from the cottage. On
beholding the stranger with his daughter, he involuntarily started, and
a shadow of displeasure passed over his features. He advanced towards
them hastily, and taking the arm of Gabrielle, was in an instant,
without seeming to purpose it, between her and Angelo; on the latter, as
he returned his salutation, he cast a look of coolness and distrust, as
though he would have said, “You are of the world, and I dread you.” With
pain did Angelo observe this expressive glance; he felt dispirited, but
not discouraged; he entered into conversation with Montmorency; his
natural politeness, aided by the interest he felt in gaining the
good-will of his host, made it gradually agreeable to him; and by
little and little, the anxious Angelo succeeded in drawing him from the
intrenchment of his reserve: at length he ventured a remark on the
sublimely beautiful situation of Meillerie. Montmorency, to whom its
beauties were familiar, coolly acquiesced; next he reverted to his
cottage, its magnificent views, the salubrity of the air; with equal
indifference Montmorency acquiesced. “How happy should I be,” cried
Angelo, involuntarily looking towards Gabrielle, “to live and die in
such a spot as this.”

A sceptic smile was the only answer of Montmorency.

“Might I hope,” pursued Angelo, resolved, since he had proceeded thus
far, to make a grand effort, “might I hope, for permission to remain
your guest a few days?”

Distrust darkened again the brow of Montmorency; the sceptic smile was
succeeded by a piercing look; and, as he half bowed, his air of
constraint marked how inimical to his wish was the desire of the
stranger. Feeling it necessary, however, to make some reply; “You would
soon be weary of this place,” he said; “and be more anxious to quit it,
than you are at present to remain.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Angelo, with vivacity; and checking what further
hovered on his lips.

Montmorency looked at him more penetratingly than before. “If such be
the case,” he emphatically observed, “then must you have some _motive_
of which I am not aware.”

“Why should you think so?” with deep embarrassment, enquired Angelo.

“Because men do not abandon their habits, or their prejudices, without
some strong inducement; that inducement, for the most part, is the
suggestion of some secret interest.”

At this plain language, to which Angelo was unused, his ingenuous cheek
became slightly suffused; and with consequent hesitation he replied, “I
am not aware indeed of any interest I could derive from receiving your
permission to remain with you a short time, excepting the pleasure I
must naturally experience from being in such society.”

In this answer Angelo had adhered to truth. Montmorency, sceptic as he
was, felt an emotion of regret at his uncalled-for severity; and,
stretching forth his hand to Angelo, he said, “There seems honesty in
your manner; though too well I know, many seem honest, that are not
so.--Since you desire it, I will endeavour for a few days to render your
stay here as agreeable to you as I can.”

Angelo bowed with a smile of gratitude and joy, which lighted up his
fine features with an additional beauty; the preceding harshness of
Montmorency was forgotten, and an expressive silence spoke his thanks.
No sooner, however, had these few words of comparative complacency
escaped the lips of the suspicious Frenchman, than instantly he repented
of them, and the transient ray of sunshine was succeeded by the most
frozen constraint.

Angelo, beginning now to perceive something of the character of his
host, appeared not to remark this change; he talked on various topics,
and was not discomfited by the observations, sometimes severe, oftener
just, by which he was answered. On receiving permission to remain
beneath his roof, he had thought it incumbent on him to state explicitly
his name, situation, and rank in life, his motives for travelling, &c.
Montmorency listened in silence, and then said; “You are of the great
world, Conte D’Albini, and yet seek a solitude so little appropriate?
how may this be? for you are yet too young, too little experienced, to
have become disgusted with society; consequently, however we might
approve our guest, we could not long flatter ourselves with enjoying his
company.”

“Ah,” replied Angelo, “never could I be weary of society so refined as
this; yet, frankly I own, that I am not absolutely disgusted with the
world.”

“No,” cried Montmorency, with a cynic laugh, “I will be sworn you are
not; yet I was disgusted with, and quitted it at an age, when, for
many, it retains charms still stronger than in the high tide of youth; I
am now upwards of three-score; yet, during eighteen years passed in this
solitude, have never once regretted that I left it.”

“We should not be too fastidious about the things of this life,”
answered Angelo, gaily, “I think the world, with all its inconveniences,
a most bewitching place. What would you more? Pleasure on all sides, and
pleasure of every description, courts the acceptance of him who is blest
with independence; the most delicious fruits for his palate, rational
enjoyments for his mind, lovely beings for his softer passions, friends
for his sober reason.”

“Friends!” interrupted Montmorency, “did you say friends? Young,
mistaken enthusiast, what a picture does your heated fancy draw of a
miserable world! now behold mine, pourtrayed in somberer colours,
indeed, but far more just. Those lovely beings, which you speak of, are
dangerous to men; men first causing them to become so, they teach them
evil, and they retaliate on their masters.--Your friends will laugh with
you, drink with you, live with you. This day you shall sumptuously
entertain them; they shall depart from your roof, professing the
strongest regard, the most anxious desire to serve you; the following
day, sickness shall assail you--where then are your bottle
companions?--where are your _friends_?--Or, you shall require some aid,
some trifling assistance--where are the nothings?--where are they
still?--Die.--Which of them will grieve?--those hours of merriment they
passed in your society are forgotten, _because_ they are past;--the
laugh of the moment was excited; it was transient as their friendship.
High in blood, elevated by wine, exhilirated by converse, they made you
professions, which lived and died in the instant that gave them
utterance. Do you believe there are any _sincere_ friends in the
world?--if you do, try them, and be undeceived. Self interest is the
center of their passions--throughout all nature it is the actuating
principle.--Man preys on man, beast on beast, the very tree which
vegetates, and seems unincumbered, is covered by countless animalculæ,
which drink up its juices, and are in turn preyed on themselves by a
race still more minute.

“Heaven!” cried Angelo; “to prove your terrible system, already you have
roamed through the regions of earth and air; next you will dive beneath
the bowels of the briny deep, or analyse even the element of fire, in
support of your assertion. You are a misanthrope; to listen to you is
sufficient to infect the very soul of mirth. I almost fancy that I feel
a sensible oppression at my heart, from having listened so long.

“I am no misanthrope,” answered Montmorency, “although I know mankind
well; it is a mass of depravity, cruelty, and illiberality; it does no
justice to motives; it decides by effect, and not by cause; it condemns
misfortune, as if it were a crime; it worships greatness, as if it were
a virtue; it is uninterested in your miseries, and interested in your
welfare only, in hopes of pleasure or benefit to self. Self is the
predominant idea, self is the darling theme, self is the focus to which
every principle converges. Mankind are a species of civilized monsters,
without hearts. Society is the hot-bed of crimes and vices; in solitude
alone can we be free from the contagion of example, and enjoy a
comparative felicity.”

“Oh, cease!” cried Angelo, shocked at the picture, “in mercy cease; let
me partake of your solitude, let me--” His eyes met those of Gabrielle,
and he could not proceed, while she, unknowing why, blushed deeply as
she marked his hesitation. Montmorency observed both; his penetrating
eye caught the lucid beam of Angelo’s, as it withdrew from commingling
with his daughter’s; and, in an expressive voice, he said, “Do you think
then, Count D’Albini, that my system of _self_ is so very
erroneous?”--He paused; then added,--“Do you think that _my_ society
alone would be charm sufficient to attract you to this solitude?”

“Now, indeed,” cried Angelo, with graceful _naiveté_, “that is asking a
most malicious question. Can it be doubted, that society, such as it is
at present, is too precious to be diminished, and requires no addition?”

Montmorency sighed, as in his brooding mind he began to revolve over,
and lament, the various motives and passions which incessantly actuate
the heart of man. Yet, gloomy and sceptical as he was, there was a
something in Angelo with which he could not avoid being pleased,--a
warmth, a sincerity, an enthusiasm, resembling what he had himself
possessed, before ill treatment, and long seclusion from society, had
obliterated in his heart all but the remembrance of what he once was.
While he pitied the sanguine hopes, and vain delusions, of his guest,
which prompted him to dress the world in its gayest colours, he could
not avoid seeing they had their source in a heart as yet not infinitely
polluted; and surely, thought he, better thus, than one out of love
with the world, disgusted with human nature, supposing intended
treachery in every appearance of friendship, and, to guard against
deception, be the first to deceive. Montmorency easily perceived that he
had cast a damp over the warm imagination of the young enthusiast, and
this very circumstance caused him to regard him with additional
interest; for men insensibly feel a complacency for those who appear
impressed by their opinions, or convinced by their arguments. “At least
then,” thought he, “this youth, so far from being corrupted by the
example of others, is scarcely aware of their depravity; ignorance in
this case is comparative virtue; he is not therefore, as yet, to be
classed among the herd.” Short-sighted philosopher, as though it were
impossible that man should be vicious from other causes, than the mere
influence of example!




CHAPTER III.


Angelo succeeded completely in his views; Montmorency not only yielded
to his earnest desire, of being permitted to prolong his stay with him
for a few days, but, when at the end of that indefinite period, Angelo
spoke not of departing, Montmorency, though he conceived the propriety
of the movement, could not compel himself to urge it. Spite of his
systematic reserve, he began again to taste the charm of society, of
conversing with a human being of his own sex, of a superior mind, of
polished taste, of manners elegant and refined; sometimes he reproached
himself for the irresistible pleasure which he took in the company of
the being chance had thrown in his way. He feared lest he should cause
him to deviate in his abhorrence of mankind, or bring him back to the
slavish dependence of hanging upon others for some charm to enliven the
vapidness of existence. “Yet surely,” would he cry, “I cannot be
deceived in this youth; but, if I am, what matter? I seek no friendship
from him; I place no reliance, I expect no favor, what, if he be even a
villain at heart, which I think improbable; circumstances will never
place it in his power to make me a sufferer; the entertainment of his
company I may use without danger, as from poison the chemist extracts a
salutary medicine.” But Montmorency did not consider, that confidence
grows from association; that, from long indulgence in luxury, it becomes
necessary; nor, from a view of relative situations, could he pierce
into the future, or discern the probable arrival of a period in which he
might bitterly repent having, in a single instance, deviated from the
resolution he had formed, of never more suffering his heart to relax, or
his opinion to vary, in favor of any human being whatever.

Meantime, the fair and innocent Gabrielle became sensible of a species
of happiness, different from any she had ever yet experienced, and
which, from its novelty, delighted. She enjoyed a sort of halcyon
pleasure, which, to dissipate, it were only necessary for her to
anticipate the departure of Angelo. When she thought on this, a deep
sigh rose involuntarily from her heart; she felt a void there, as though
suddenly she had lost a dear friend,--even as she conceived she might
feel, if she were to lose her father. At this depressing idea,
surrounding objects seemed divested of every charm; occupations, which
formerly had attached her with interest, now lost their power to please;
nay, often her employment was thrown aside; and, with her head languidly
leaning on her hand, she contemplated the image of Angelo, scarcely
conscious perhaps that she had done so, till roused by his presence into
painful confusion. Unsophisticated Gabrielle! she knew love only in its
feeling, and knew not yet that it was love; it was, with her, a pure
emanation of the soul; a refined mysterious sentiment, that disordered
her, she knew not how, with an emotion she could not define. In her
breast it was delicacy’s self, divested of every degrading or ignoble
idea attendant upon that passion, in minds less pure, contaminated too
by more intimate acquaintance with its effects on the minds of others.
Yet still in this genuine, uncorrupted state, was it conceived with a
degree of enthusiasm, of ardour that, even in infancy, gave warning of
the pitch to which it must arrive, if thus proportionably encreasing,
till it reached its climax; if, indeed, it be possible to define the
precise period at which love may be said to have attained its climax, in
certain minds.

Nor was this evolution in the mind of Gabrielle surprising; nurtured and
educated in profound seclusion, beholding no one in the semblance of
man, save a few Mountaineers, blunt and unprepossessing in their manners
and appearance, having no society, save that of her venerable father, or
occasionally of a respectable female, who resided nearest to them. The
majestic Montmorency, whose noble, yet care-worn features, whose silver
hair, whitened by the joint power of grief and age, whose fine figure
yet slightly bending from the same cause, could scarcely give her an
idea of a being possessing the grace, elegance, and beauty of Angelo;
consequently her surprise being stronger, the feelings that accompanied
it were stronger likewise. Thus total seclusion from the world has its
dangers, if not similar, yet not inferior, to those that may be incurred
by too close an intercourse with it.

Some weeks elapsed, and Angelo was still an inmate at the cottage of
Montmorency; Montmorency endeavouring to shut the eyes of his mind
against the pleasure he took in his society,--and Gabrielle, in her
virgin breast, fondly cherishing the dangerous image that now revelled
there uncontrouled. The heart of Angelo, too, participated in the havoc
he had caused; a passion wilder, fiercer, less refined then hers,
internally consumed him; his person underwent some change; he became
pale and haggard, while fanned by the breezes of health, and Montmorency
expressed apprehension, that the keen air of the mountains, where he
dwelt, was too powerful for him. Thus the mind of man, by a resistless
infatuation, often blindly leads him to his own destruction.
Montmorency, from extending his ideas further than his reason could
profit by them, by including in his condemnation and mistrust the whole
of mankind, forgot carefully to examine the limited sphere wherein he
moved, and to guard against those nearer evils, which he viewed so
clearly at a distance. So, often the sage, intent on observing the
course of the heavens, beholds not the precipice at his feet; and the
traveller in the valley, anticipating the distant storm, sees not the
overwhelming avalanche, that rushes down the mountain’s steep.

One day Gabrielle, overcome more by the intenseness of her own
sensations than actual weariness, seated herself in a rocky recess,
there to muse in secret over the terrible feelings that oppressed her;
for the calmness of the first infancy of her love had now passed by; it
was no more a gentle and delicious sensation, but a turbulent and uneasy
passion, that blended itself with every idea, that monopolized every
feeling, that made every former pleasure appear inane and wearisome,
that distracted her mind by day, and revelled in her dreams by night.
Suddenly the object of her thoughts appeared before her. Gabrielle was
frequently in the habits of walking with Angelo; often, too, the
conversation would involuntarily become so mutually interesting, that,
on her side at least, a pause of confusion would ensue. She did not shun
him, for she was unconscious of artifice; but she started and arose, for
she feared lest the tender trouble of her heart should be discovered
through her eyes. Angelo gently took her hand, and walked on with her in
silence, as he contemplated the celestial beauty which innocence
diffuses over those with whom it dwells. Something of vague compunction
shot through his heart, as involuntarily he asked himself the question,
of what he could propose by the indulgence of the passion which occupied
him? The pang was, however transient, expelled from his breast by
sensations more welcome, though more dangerous. He desired ardently to
make known the extent of them to the object that had inspired them, and
to ascertain how far they were returned.

Though his eyes had already told the fair girl that no common feelings
actuated him towards her, though her’s had already betrayed to him, that
the soft confession was not received without the deepest emotion; yet,
so full of vanity is the heart of man, that it is not enough for him to
feel that he is loved? he must have a direct avowal of it, for sweet is
the offering that is accompanied with such incense. At length, unable to
restrain the powerful sensations that battled in his bosom for vent, he
suddenly stopped, almost resistlessly urged to give them expression; but
he found the attempt vain; for it was not that pride, dignity, or
severity, awed him in Gabrielle; it was her innocence, her agitation,
the result of the purest modesty that was depicted in her countenance,
that he feared to offend, and which took from him the power of
prosecuting his wish. Unable to declare his love, unable even to utter a
word, he cast himself at her feet, and, fixing his eyes upon her
countenance, endeavoured to temper even the ardour of their glances,
lest they should convey to her chaste bosom anger or alarm.

Gabrielle, ready to sink into the earth, dared not behold him; her eyes
wandered round in search of relief, and momentarily fixed upon every
object, save the eyes of Angelo, which she dreaded to encounter. At this
moment, when the hearts of both overflowed with the sweetest and most
dangerous sensations, when conviction was on the verge of being conveyed
from each to the other, of the strongest and most ardent love, at that
very moment Montmorency appeared, descending the rock on which they
were. Gabrielle, overwhelmed with the first painful confusion that
attends the fear of having acted wrong, hastened forward to join him,
while Angelo followed her footsteps, uncertain whether to grieve, or to
rejoice at the interruption, and said in a low voice as he drew near
her, “do not, dearest Gabrielle, appear as if flying from me; uneasy
ideas will be instilled into the mind of your father.” Involuntarily
Gabrielle slackened her pace, while a feeling of troubled delight
thrilled through her breast, at the tender appellation bestowed on her
by Angelo.

The good Montmorency saw them advancing together, but saw no more; three
score winters, and the tears that he had shed, had not improved the
brilliancy of his sight. He began to consider Angelo, if not as the best
of human beings, so little contaminated by the vices of the world, and
so far removed from it at present, that he might, without danger at
least, be associated with. He therefore beheld their approach with
pleasure, unalloyed by suspicion, and welcomed them with a smile.

Entering immediately into conversation with Angelo, Gabrielle had
sufficient time to recover herself, and to collect her scattered ideas.
Angelo had confessed to her nothing; he had not spoken, but in his
silence there was an eloquence, at least to her heart, that spoke
enough. She endeavoured to join in the conversation, but the effort was
feeble, and attended with embarrassment. Soon, therefore, as they
reached the cottage, she took the first opportunity of escaping to the
solitude of her chamber. Here, a burst of tears relieved her
full-charged heart; she felt she was adored, though she had not been
told so; this delicious conviction was followed by a transport so
exquisite, that her whole frame trembled: then undefined terrors,
doubts, and apprehensions succeeded to her happiness; peace appeared for
ever banished from her bosom, and the most gloomy terrors crowded, in
sad perspective, on imagination’s eye. But still, still, her fascinated
heart reverted to the fond idea, which formed now the chief, nay only
interest of her life; on that she paused, on that she dwelt, till the
very excess of the delight she experienced awakened her again to renewed
pain, to the agonizing thought of the time when it should exist no
longer, or to the tormenting fear, that all was even now but sweet
delusion.

Thus, in the very midst of solitude, guarded from all communion with
mankind by impervious rocks, and mountains nearly impassable, was the
heart of the virgin surprised by love, and pierced, as in revenge, by
the most terrible of his darts. Though no direct confession had escaped
the lips of either, yet there now appeared a sort of mutual
understanding between the hearts of both; the words, ‘I love,’ seemed
unnecessary to be uttered by either, for the meaning of those words was
sufficiently expressed in their looks, their eyes, their manners towards
each other. Yet, though both fondly loved, how differently did they
love; Gabrielle, with all the enthusiasm, purity, and warmth of an
innocent heart, Angelo with all the wildness, furor, and uncontrolled
passion of one accustomed to give the reins to inclination, and rushing
to attain the object of his wishes. The love of Gabrielle was such as an
angel need not have blushed to know; that of Angelo, such as a mortal
should endeavour to overcome.

When souls once understand each other, the reciprocation of love is
unconfined; it emanates in the tenderest expressions, in a resistless
interchange of sentiments. Could Gabrielle have lived always thus, in
the presence of the object beloved, gazing on his countenance, listening
to each word fondly treasured, she imagined, that she could have been
for ever happy; but Angelo, whose passion had increased, not only beyond
his power, but beyond his wish to conquer, resolved that she must become
his.

The constant view of an object that had inspired him with sensations so
ardent, who was near, and yet so distant from him, became too much for
his reason to combat; the struggle was more than he could endure, and he
felt that Gabrielle must decide whether happiness or misery must be his
lot. So far did the violence of his present sensations obtain the
mastery over every other consideration, that he determined at once to
make known to her the state of his mind, while an idea, (as yet to
himself, even vague and indefinite) of some attempt to prove the extent
of his power over her heart, glanced through his mind. Hurried on by his
invincible impulses, he seized the first moment, when he beheld her
alone, and, after endeavouring, in compliance with her evident wish, to
converse with, and answer her, upon a few uninteresting topics, he
suddenly exclaimed, seizing her hand with impatience: “But all this is
idle, Gabrielle--I have things of higher importance,”--he paused--“which
claim attention,”--another pause.--“I--I can no longer live without you;
I am abrupt, I feel it--but--say, say, at once--what hope can you give
me?--what reply?--on your answer depends my life.”

“Alas,” said Gabrielle, in a timid voice, but neither surprised, nor
affecting to be so, “what hope _can_ I give you?--what reply?”

“You give me then no hope? Ah, Gabrielle, you do not love me, or else,
having lived in this profound seclusion, you are too ignorant of the
dreadful power of the passions over the human heart, to pity or conceive
the pangs which are consuming mine.”

And Gabrielle, indeed, knew nought of the dreadful power of the
passions; the precise meaning of Angelo’s words were not clear to her;
but her heart taught her fully to comprehend that pangs might be
attendant upon love. Still she spoke not, for she was unused to the
language of artifice; and her genuine modesty would not suffer her to
speak the language of nature. Angelo’s impatience became unbounded:
“Say, Gabrielle, say,” he cried, unable to restrain his violence, “you
will give me then no hope?”

“Give not way to this transport, Angelo, it will injure you;--say, my
dear friend, how would you have me act?”

“Your friend,” cried the passionate Angelo, throwing her hand from him;
then seizing it again, he said, “tell me, Gabrielle, do you love me?”

“Yes, Angelo,--I think, I am sure--I do.”

“But how,--how cold, girl? As you love your father?”

“Oh no, with a different love; a more pleasing love, as it were, and yet
more painful; it gives me only pleasure, Angelo, to love my father, but
in loving you, I sometimes feel a pain.”

The eyes of Angelo sparkled with fond conviction; he gazed in the face
of Gabrielle, and, in a faultering voice, he said, “Will you then be
mine, Gabrielle?”

“I do not understand you,” answered Gabrielle; “I think my heart is
your’s, and as for my society, it is your’s likewise, so long as you
remain in this part of Switzerland.” And, as she uttered the last words,
a profound sigh rose heavily from her bosom.

“Ah, but, beloved Gabrielle, I know not how long I may remain here;
besides, you are only my friend, my adored mistress, not wholly mine,
not my wife.”

But though Angelo gave utterance to the term wife, he meant such as it
is understood only in the language of love, not as it is considered in
the estimation of the world; yet, to the chaste ears of Gabrielle, he
durst not offer a word bearing other than honorable construction.
Gabrielle paused a while, and then said, “And from what you have
observed, Angelo, how am I to infer that you wish me to act?”

“Dare I say, Gabrielle?--hear me then;--quit with me for ever the roof
of your father.”

What had obtained to Angelo attention till now? It was the pure, the
guiltless innocence of Gabrielle; but, though innocent, she possessed
strong reason, principle, and a pride, inherited from her noble father.
She did not start back, like a world-taught heroine, in affected
surprise, but she remained motionless at the last words of Angelo; she
remained rooted to the spot, as though her reluctant feet durst no
longer assimilate their movements to his. In her countenance was
depicted scorn and resentment; she regarded him steadily, and the stern
expression of her features gave way gradually to a marked sorrow, as
though she grieved for him, that he should be a creature so base.

“Poor, poor, Angelo!” at length she said, and hurried onwards.

In an instant the precipitate Angelo was sensible of his error; he felt
that he was lowered in the esteem of Gabrielle, and that he had alarmed
the genuine delicacy of her virtue, and sound principles. He rushed
after her, and, in the most impassioned language, implored forgiveness.
Gabrielle heard him, but she felt that he did not merit forgiveness,
and did not even cast a look, upon him. He accused himself, he
acknowledged his fault, and only ventured to urge, in extenuation, that
excessive love had deprived him of the power of right reason. Gabrielle
was silent; her natural fine sense taught her, that it was impossible
but he that loved must value above all the virtue of his mistress, and
respect her duties and her principles; yet, in love, the heart of woman
is weak, contrary to the suggestions of her better reason; when at
length she turned her eyes upon him, and beheld his countenance suffused
with tears, the deep contrition, and the grief that was depicted in it,
she felt a strong wish to extend her hand towards him, and pronounce, “I
forgive you, Angelo, and pity your errors.” In all probability, she
would have yielded to the powerful pleadings of her heart in his favor,
which would have compromised her own dignity, and given Angelo too
great an advantage over her, had not her guardian angel, once more, in
the shape of her father, interposed to prevent this act of weakness, and
yet a little delay her advancement in the path of danger.

Now, with the gratitude of an innocent and pious mind, she beheld his
approach; for, however she might have perceived him before, under the
conviction of having done wrong, she now felt that his appearance had
preserved her from the commission of an error. To Angelo, however, it
conveyed a two-fold pain; first in the interruption it had given, thus
preventing him from the expected triumph of ascertaining his influence
over the heart of the innocent girl, by irritating, and softening her,
in the same moment; and next, in the reproachful whisper of conscience,
to have such ends in view.

So is there often a strange inconsistency in the mind of man; he shall
have sufficient virtue to condemn, what he shall not have fortitude to
resist. Angelo felt strongly that he was acting a base and dishonourable
part, and the blandishment of his heart could not bring over his reason
to tell him otherwise. But, though he felt that his passion, if
indulged, would bear down all before it, either he had not, or would
not, find arguments to overcome it; he had neither courage to fly, nor
to desist, and, while guilt stared him in the face, while remorse
pressed heavy on his soul, he madly permitted its violence to conquer
and drag him onwards.




CHAPTER IV.


To dwell on subjects that cause us to abhor human nature, and dread to
associate with civilized man, can surely convey no pleasure in the
perusal, nor, in the present system of things, be productive of benefit.
Let us, therefore, pass lightly over details that have no useful
tendency, and revert to events, which almost justified the distrust and
misanthropy that so long had governed the mind of the unhappy
Montmorency, and which, perhaps, it had been better for him had he still
persevered in.--Suffice it then to say, that Angelo daily beheld those
obstacles which had opposed themselves to the gratification of his
wishes becoming less formidable. The love of Gabrielle acquiring fresh
force, though the suggestions of her virtue became not weaker, rendered
the task of conquering it more and more difficult.

Angelo had so far perceived his power over her heart, that he had dared
a second time to hazard to her the proposal of quitting her father’s
roof, but this was again received indignantly, with bitter reproaches,
and with tears of burning anguish, to see herself so fallen in the
estimation of the man she loved; that at this late period, when he
should have known her better, he still should presume to think her
capable of sin so abominable. Thus she thought, yet still she listened
to, and forgave more readily than before the man who could thus presume.
Angelo perceived, and availed himself of every increasing advantage,
and pressed the subject with renewed ardour; but no, though far advanced
in the path of error, though tottering on the brink of a deceitful
precipice, though feeble from the excess of her love, she had still
virtue enough to hear this proposal with horror, and to reject it with
firmness. What! desert her venerable father? the fond guardian of her
childhood, the tender friend of her youth; abandon him; abandon that
faded, that majestic form, which now seemed to stand accusingly before
her? Deprive him of the sweet support, the staff of his declining years!
terrible and alarming guilt was in the thought. Could such an image dare
then for an instant to present itself before a mind once so pure? But
one step remained to ensure her safety; it was to make a confession of
the whole to her father. She turned this idea in her mind, but
abandoned it with terror, at having proceeded so far; the shame
attendant upon such a confession, the dread of the reproaches, but more
of the misery of Montmorency; above all, a latent unacknowledged fear,
which shook her inmost soul, that she should then be for ever torn from
the object of her fatal love, prevented her from yielding to this safe
suggestion of her better reason.

She suffered then the evil daily to acquire fresh strength; her virtue,
her innocence, were no longer sufficient protection, and destruction
became inevitable; true, she did not quit with her seducer the roof of
the miserable father; she remained, and pointed the dagger at his heart,
even while cherished beneath the wings of his unsuspecting love, and by
that fond pride which rejoiced in the fancied contemplation of her
spotless purity. Even in the midst of his felicitations was he
deceived, and robbed for ever of the valued treasure of a daughter’s
innocence.

To attempt description of the feelings of one, who, till this fatal
period, had been sinless, even in idea,--to paint the horror of mind of
that being, whose torturing remorse told her loudly of her guilt, while
that guilt infatuated too much to be abjured,--would be a task no pen
could accomplish. The temptation to evil once admitted, it is no longer
easy to repel its insidious advances; a dreaded step once taken, another
quickly follows; and the wretched victim of error seldom awakens, till
repentance is in vain. Thus, with the unhappy Gabrielle;--miserable,
degraded in her own eyes, having plunged in an ocean of guilt, she
continued to sail amid its dangerous straits; the sun of delusion
flashed over her gloomy way a momentary ray of deceitful pleasure, nor
was she roused to the full horror of her situation, till, like a thunder
clap sounding in her ears, the voice of Angelo spoke of his departure.

For some moments the power of speech was denied her; when, at length,
she recovered the power, she had not the wish to speak,--a deadly chill
crept through her blood, an universal weakness trembled through her
frame, her mouth became parched, now her cheek turned of an ashy
paleness, and now flushed with the crimson of agony; she did not even
look at Angelo, for despair possessed her wholly.

Angelo beheld her agitation; he took her hand, “Why are you thus, my
love?” he cried, “what is there so terrible in my departure? or, if you
indeed consider it so, why not, at once, determine to accompany me?”

Gabrielle shook her head, but replied not.

“Why, then,” proceeded he, “this apparent unhappiness? you always knew,
fair Gabrielle, that I could not remain for ever here.”

“True, true;” faltered Gabrielle, looking at him, and turning hastily
away.

“We may meet again, my love, under happier auspices.”

Gabrielle clasped her hands in silent agony; the tears rolled down her
cheeks, and again she ventured a glance at Angelo.

He pressed her hand; “Say, then, shall we go together?”

Gabrielle withdrew her hand; and, though Angelo made the proposal, who
shall say, that now, as eagerly as ever, he desired that she should
accede to it? “Oh, Angelo!” she indignantly exclaimed, “is this
consolation?”

“Really, dearest Gabrielle, you are not yourself to-day; why thus
unkind; why thus disposed to reject, with scorn, all I can say?”

“Miserable, yet justly, punished wretch that I am!” cried Gabrielle, and
quickened her steps. Angelo followed, but not with quite such eager
anxiety as once he had followed her with, when involuntarily he had
offended her; “Come, dearest Gabrielle,” he cried, “sweet girl, be
reasonable;” then, willing to divert her grief, he added sportively
“what of my departure,--I would venture now, you will soon forget me.”

“Oh, this is too cruel,” exclaimed Gabrielle, bursting into tears, “Oh
God, I begin to feel that my father, my dear father, spoke not too
severely of man.”

Angelo was affected, not at her tears so much, but she had interested
his feelings through the medium of his self-love; the heart of man is
often vulnerable through that medium, when it can be touched through no
other; he saw that Gabrielle really loved him, and was tortured at the
thought of his departure. He instantly seized her hand again, and
falling at her feet, implored forgiveness for an unintentional offence,
swore that he loved her with an unabated passion, and would not rise
till she had sealed his pardon.

Gabrielle sighed; with the pangs of love she had now, alas, become fully
acquainted; they had followed closely upon its short-lived pleasures.

“Rise, rise then at once, Angelo,” she said.

He arose--they proceeded a few paces--Angelo still dwelt upon the excess
of his love; to this Gabrielle replied not; but in a melancholy voice
she said, without raising her eyes from the ground, “you will write to
me, Angelo?”

“Can you doubt it, my love?”

“It would be a terrible thing _now_, Angelo, to be forgotten.”

“That can never happen, fair Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle sighed, “Where do you go from hence.”

“To Italy, where certain connections of my father will, no doubt, render
my stay desirable for some time.”

A weight of ice fell upon the heart of Gabrielle; Angelo could talk of
being happy, of being so without her!--A new world opened to her view; a
world of misery; her doom--a dreadful doom, seemed fixed; she was no
longer what she had been,--peaceful because innocent. She felt a wretch,
and felt, by anticipation, what despair would be hers, when left in the
terrible solitude of guilt, to her reflections.

The heart of Angelo was not systematically bad; he erred from the want
of firm principle, and persisted in his errors from want of energy to
combat them. The allurements of vice wire too strong for his sense of
right, and while he yielded readily to every temptation, he felt not
much remorse that he did so. His character was not an uncommon one; but
such as is frequently met with among men; some few perhaps better, more
infinitely worse; many possessing his weak heart, and wandering mind;
few his sensibility, frankness, and generosity, to counterpoize the
opposite balance. He had told Gabrielle that he loved her, and he had
told her truth, to the extent of which his soul was capable, for
deception was foreign to his nature. That he did not love her with that
delicate, refined, and rare affection of which superior minds alone are
capable, was not attributable to him as a fault; he loved her more than
he had ever before loved woman; but his was not a mind to admit that
sentiment, and to feel it in all its fine-drawn and boundless
ramifications. Gabrielle, whose soul knew not vice, and whose eyes had
never beheld it, loved differently; her’s was an ardent, pure, and
unsophisticated passion, which, having taken root in a rich native soil,
was calculated to exist, while she existed, strong and immutable. Over
the conviction of her love she shed bitter tears; she felt that she
ought to overcome it, but reason was unable to attempt the arduous task.

In a short time Angelo was no longer an inmate of the cottage of
Meillerie. Montmorency took leave of him with feelings of regret; his
solitude for some time past had been cheered by the presence of a
rational, and, as he believed, a not unworthy human being; for, with all
his experience of mankind, he could not consider Angelo in that light;
he had seen him, without alarm, the companion of his daughter, for he
thought him too artless to be dangerous; he did not take into his
calculation, that Gabrielle, from her inexperience, required no artifice
to be misled; he did not remember that from that very inexperience she
would be unable to judge but from appearance, to penetrate into motives,
or to draw correct deductions; above all, he forgot,--for he was not of
an age when those ideas present themselves forcibly to the mind,--he
forgot the danger attendant upon the circumstance of her being a
stranger to man, till one the most engaging in form and manners
presented himself to her astonished view. In the world he dreaded,
Montmorency would have been the guardian of his daughter, because in the
mass of mankind, he would have prepared himself to encounter the greater
part villains; but, independently of his believing that the innocence
of the one, and guilelessness of the other, were sufficient security for
the safety of his child, he did not, in all the severity of his judgment
of society, conceive that there existed a creature base enough, under
such circumstances, to repay his trust with treachery and ingratitude:
he did not consider that man became as often base from weakness as from
depravity, and that even the firmest, and best-intentioned minds are not
always proof against the powerful temptation of combining circumstances.
Thus is it ever with short-sighted mortals, who, shielding themselves by
the strong habergeon of caution and mistrust, are assailed in a path
where least they dreamt of danger, and vanquished in points which were
considered too insignificant to guard. Thus too with Montmorency, who,
while cautiously guarding the out-posts, admitted the enemy into the
camp.

Some time had now elapsed since the departure of Angelo from the cottage
of Meillerie, but its inhabitants were no longer in the state he had
found them; in his once animated and blooming daughter, Montmorency
found no more the intelligent and rational companion, or the cheering
associate; on her fair cheek, where, indeed, the teint of the red rose
had never blushed, he now beheld the sickly hue of grief, and marked the
change with fond unsuspicious solicitude. He divined not the cause, for
no superior female, and superior she must have been to have charmed
Montmorency, had ever taught him to feel for her the pain or delirium of
love; he knew, therefore, but little of the extremities to which it
sometimes drives its victims. All he knew, and all he beheld, was, that
the only happiness of his life, the only charm which bound him to
existence, was fading before his eyes, like a fragile flower at the
approach of autumn. The conviction struck a dagger to his heart; and,
looking tenderly upon her, he would sometimes say, “Oh, my beloved
child, what is the cause that thus I see thee perishing before my aged
eyes? Wilt thou die, Gabrielle, and leave me to support alone the
burthen of increasing years? Wilt thou not exert thyself, my child? wilt
thou not endeavour to live for the sake of thy father?”

These words would pierce Gabrielle to the soul; oft was she on the point
of confessing all, but dread of the grief she would inflict, horror at
the thought, lest such dreadful acknowledgement should hasten him to the
grave; these were the thoughts, rather than the shame that restrained
her, for that oppressive shame humbly she would have submitted to, as
slender penance for her inexpiable guilt, the terrible idea of which
weighed down her aching heart.

But soon remorse for her crime became not the only anguish or punishment
of the wretched Gabrielle, that anguish and that punishment, which had
already more than trebly exceeded the transitory delight she had
enjoyed; soon more dreadful, boundless, and overwhelming misery opened
to her view,--she found, with horror that mocks expression, that long
she might not even spare her miserable father the terrible secret of her
grief, and that one might yet exist, who to the reproaches of her
conscience might add others bitterer still, for being called into life
the offspring of guilt and shame. Unhappy Gabrielle! unfortunate
Montmorency! fate pursues thee, even in thy solitude, with re-doubled
rigour; thy seclusion from man shall not preserve thee from misfortune,
and thy cottage, in the bosom of mountains, shall, equally with the
habitations of the populous world, become the house of mourning and
despair.

In vain did the distracted Gabrielle endeavour to consider the best
steps to pursue; her mind was chaos, and she could not organize it to
reflect. First, she imagined to quit the roof of her still unconscious
father, and save him the dreadful pang that knowledge of her guilt must
inflict; but then again, this, by leaving him in all the horrors of
suspence, would cause him torture equal to a knowledge of the truth; and
yet a knowledge of the truth!--The idea was madness; it would be instant
death; how then determine? how act? she could decide on nothing. Day
after day passed on; her secret wretchedness, her concealed anguish,
became almost too great for endurance; her form faded, her melancholy
became uninterrupted by even occasional attempts at vivacity, and the
hapless Montmorency, catching the infection of her gloom, resigned
himself to a hopeless woe, which seemed neither to expect or look for
termination but in the grave.

It was the sight of this awful grief that increased the sufferings of
the wretched daughter; add to all, Angelo had now been three months
absent. During that space, she had heard from him but once, and that in
the first fortnight after his departure. His letter then informed her of
his arrival at Naples, in what spot he had taken up his residence, and
that his stay in the country being rendered so agreeable by numerous
connexions of his father, all anxious to pay him tribute, he could fix
no certain period of departure, but rather imagined it would not take
place for some months at least. He concluded by the most tender
protestations (which Gabrielle, however, thought cold and constrained)
of undiminished affection, and intreaties to render her mind as happy as
possible, till propitious fate should permit them to be re-united. To
this letter Gabrielle had returned an answer, but not at that time
surmising her situation, had merely expressed her deep sorrow at his
absence, the remorse and anguish which preyed upon her mind, and
conjured him to write speedily, as his letters alone could rouse her
from the gloomy melancholy that oppressed her. Unhappily, however, with
this pathetic entreaty on the part of the forlorn Gabrielle, the
correspondence had ceased, and the wretched girl, though necessarily
uncertain of the fate of her letter, felt too much pride, supposing him
to have received it, to trouble with love-sick reproaches, a man who,
perhaps, desired to forget her. For the same reason could she not
consent to inform him, that forgotten as she might be, her cruel fate
ordained that in tender anguish she should still remember him.

In truth, Angelo had received her letter, received it too in a brilliant
society, and, retiring a moment, had hastily perused it; he had kissed
it even, and promised himself that ere he slept he would answer it.
Overcome with wine, however, he had retired to rest, and forgotten his
intention; he slept till late the following morning, and scarcely awoke
in time to attend a party of pleasure, which had been planned the
preceding evening. Pleasure, pleasure varying, though unvaried, left no
room for the performance of a duty. Brilliant beauties present,
eclipsed the memory of an absent love; another, and another day, and
still something intervened to prevent his writing. At length so many
days had elapsed, that when a spare half hour did present itself,
accompanied by the recollection of his unperformed promise to Gabrielle,
the gay Angelo took up the pen, but suddenly decided, that now to think
of answering a letter so long ago received, would lead Gabrielle to
suppose, that neglect or indifference alone could have hitherto caused
the delay. He therefore determined, that he would wait for another
letter, and then answer that on the instant; and perhaps, the vanity so
natural to man, made him desire this additional proof of being fondly
remembered by the girl, whose superior love he was so little capable of
appreciating.

Meantime, great was the pain, and bitter were the feelings which this
unknown arrangement, in the giddy mind of Angelo, gave to the
susceptible heart of Gabrielle; yet did not Angelo intentionally inflict
this pain, but purely from not considering that he did so. Had Gabrielle
been with him, had she been present, it is probable he would have still
loved, admired, and dedicated his fondest moments to her; but, immersed
as he was in voluptuous gaiety, he thought not often of his poor girl of
the mountains, who for him had sacrificed all, and become a wretch. The
idea grew fainter and fainter in his mind, and when he had leisure to
remember that she did not write, his pride became offended at the
omission, and he considered himself now justified in not having answered
her first letter. Oh, man! such is your cruelty and injustice; by
setting first the example of indifference, you provoke and induce that
conduct in woman, which ye are likewise first to censure and condemn.

Thus was Gabrielle left to pine unnoticed.--Though Angelo possessed
feelings, they required to be roused; Gabrielle was absent; her presence
might have acted as a stimulus, for in some respects Angelo resembled
the flint, which, to emit a spark, requires the strong collision of the
steel.




CHAPTER V.


There was no human being with whom Montmorency himself associated, or
permitted his daughter, save the female inhabitant of a cottage,
situated a little way down the rock on which his own was built. This
female, though amiable, and by no means arrived at an age when the
pleasures, if any, of life have with some lost their zest, lived in
almost total seclusion, justly considering herself superior to the many
that courted her society, among whom were not wanting certain
independent Mountaineers, who boasting of their bit of cultured ground,
their flock of sheep, and their cows, as the great ones of the world
boast of their gold, did not think they presumed too highly in
soliciting her hand. But the good Madame Bertrand had no desire to
change her present freedom for the controul of a husband; neither did
her experience in a married life render her wishful to enter again that
state. She, therefore, mildly declined all overtures, and resisted even
the earnest entreaties of Pierre Boffuet, the most ardent and
persevering of her admirers, to regard his suit with more complacency
than those of his contemporaries. This worthy female, the steadiness and
rationality of whose character operated in her favour with Montmorency,
was occasionally a guest at his cottage; but soon discovering his
fondness for solitude, and almost hatred of society, her visits were
sparing, and never long. During the stay of Angelo there, she had
appeared but once; since his departure, however, she had been
frequently, because her observation easily informed her, that some
secret grief lay heavy at the heart of Gabrielle, and her penetration
led her to fear that the departed guest was not unconnected with it.
Often in her walks with the silent and wretched girl did she long, with
the kind solicitude of friendship, to hint at her apparent unhappiness,
in order, if possible, to invite her confidence, not from an idle or
unworthy curiosity, but in hopes that she might be enabled to administer
some consolation.

What would not the forlorn Gabrielle have given for courage to repose
her dreadful secret in the bosom of friendship? but shame, horrible
shame, prevented her. Often some complaint, often a word relative to the
subject of her misery, hovered on her lips, but in the same instant her
heart beat with the increasing throb of agony, her cheek became dyed
with a burning crimson, and her tongue, refusing to perform the
terrible office of divulging her disgrace, cleaved, parched and
trembling, to the roof of her mouth. In the covert of the woods, in the
most solitary paths, did she then alone dare to vent the lamentations of
her despair.

A little before his departure, Angelo, in one of those moments of
fondness, (which amid the horrors that surrounded, still presented
themselves before her with increased fascination, and dazzled, as a
bright distant flame in a gloomy forest, her deluded eyes,) had given
her a medallion, surrounded with diamonds, which presented on one side
the portrait of his mother, on the other that of his father, and opening
with a spring, disclosed within his own, designed for him when a boy,
with his name, age, and date of his birth on the opposite side. In
giving to Gabrielle this valuable pledge of affection, valuable from
him, because he prized it, and valuable from the correct likenesses it
gave of parents that he remembered with the tenderest regret; he had
said, on taking it from his bosom, where he had ever worn it, “You, my
dear Gabrielle, are the only girl I ever loved; therefore, you alone
shall possess the thing which I value most in the world. It was given to
me by a dear, lamented mother, who idolized me, a little before her
death; because it bore my picture, she had ever treasured it in her
bosom, and on presenting me with it, said, ‘Never, Angelo, part with
this but to one _you_ love as _I_ love you.’ She loved me to excess,
Gabrielle,--as I love you now, therefore do I bestow her gift upon you.
Yet loving you as I do, I would not give it you, were I not certain,
that thus I do not part with it, and it will still be mine through
you.”

Gabrielle took the offering with respect, and answered, “I swear,
Angelo, that I will never part with this, but to one _I_ shall love as I
do you;” thereby implying, that she would keep it for ever, as she could
not conceive the possibility of ever loving a human being as she did
him. Angelo understood her, and accepted, with an expressive smile,
homage so grateful to his feelings. On his portrait (for though she
often gazed with respectful interest upon those of his parents, the
medallion was almost always open to gaze upon his,) did she now breathe
those tender confessions of an unabated love, once timidly whispered to
the original; on those adored eyes, which she fancied regarded her with
an answering look of love, as in happier deluding days, shed bitter
tears, that were concealed from all others, and to that beloved image
alone, impart her plaints, her anguish, and remorse.

The fourth month of the absence of Angelo now drew towards a close; the
cheeks of Gabrielle became haggard and pale, and the increasing change
in her slender elegant figure it became necessary to conceal. Great was
her terror, as she perceived that no precaution would be long sufficient
to elude the anxious observation of a father; and though, in the
dreadful anticipation of discovery, shame nearly weighed her to the
earth, still she dreaded less the confusion to herself than the raging
anguish that, well she knew, would be inflicted upon him.

One night that they were sitting together, Montmorency, as usual,
reading, and Gabrielle employed by his side, repressing with her utmost
efforts those tears that rose incessantly to her eyes, Montmorency,
without looking up, said, “Gabrielle, my child, a draught of water.”
Gabrielle, rising hastily, filled out some water, and presented it to
her father, while scarcely could she look upon his venerable and pensive
countenance, without her deep anguish bursting forth. She stood beside
him holding the glass; Montmorency put forth his hand, took it from her,
and as he was raising it to his lips, his eyes glanced involuntarily
over her figure. Suddenly, like the lightning’s flash, the alteration
struck him; his eyes shot rapidly from the figure to the face of his
daughter, and his fingers became nerveless; the glass fell to the
ground, and, incapable of giving utterance to his dreadful sensations,
his parched and trembling lips murmured only, “Gabrielle!”

“My father!” cried Gabrielle, unable to say more, as Montmorency, his
eyes still rivetted in horror upon her, sank back in his chair, and
gasped for breath.

Some minutes elapsed in this fearful state of mutual agony. Montmorency
recovered first; he struck his forehead in despair!--the whole truth
flashed at once upon his aching brain!--Clasping his hands together, he
suddenly exclaimed, in a voice which struck horror to the heart of
Gabrielle,

“Poor girl; poor girl; _thou_ art not to blame.”

It was the manner of his delivering these words, more than the words
themselves; it was the wild expression of his countenance, which
conveyed so dreadful a sensation to the heart of Gabrielle.--She
ventured, trembling, to take his hand, and kneeling at his feet, bent
down upon it her fearful face. Montmorency laid his other hand upon her
head, and again repeated, “Poor girl, poor girl.”

Gabrielle raised her eyes; she beheld those of her father, not gazing
upon her, but stretched on vacancy.--Alarm seized her soul; she started
up--she threw her arms round his neck, and cried, “Oh, has my father
then nothing to say to his miserable child?”

Still Montmorency repeated only, “Poor girl, poor girl!” still his eyes
remained fixed, nor did a single tear refresh the burning glare of
madness which they wore. The terror of Gabrielle increased; in vain she
now tried every means to excite his feelings; in vain endeavoured to
call forth some emotion, to draw him, if possible, from this dreadful
insensibility, more frightful than the wildest grief. Useless was every
effort, and compelled to resign the task, she seated herself beside him
in hopeless anguish.

At length it occurred to the unhappy girl, that if her father would be
prevailed on to retire to bed, that rest and tranquillity might restore
him. She took his burning hand, “My father, shall I lead you to your
room?” she said, while her quick tears dropt upon the hand she held;
Montmorency, however, seemed insensible to them, and in a faultering
voice, she repeated her question. He then slightly started, and arose as
it were mechanically; Gabrielle led him to his room, and assisted
him;--he suffered her aid, but spoke not; she kissed his hand as she
retired, for his cheek, she dared not, nor did the voice of Montmorency
call upon her to return.

Though Gabrielle left the room, it was only from the idea, a terrible
one indeed, that her presence disturbed the spirits of her father,
which, perhaps, might regain some composure in her absence; for
herself, she thought not of bed, but determined to watch during the
night in an adjoining chamber. She sat down accordingly as near the door
as possible, solitary, forlorn, and in a state of mind that language is
powerless to describe. In a short time, unable to rest tranquil, she
gently opened his door, and on tip-toe listened;--by his breathing she
knew that he slept, and, for this happy circumstance, in a transport of
gratitude she kneeled on the threshold, and kissing the ground, returned
thanks to that supreme and merciful being whom, though deeply she had
offended, she still tremblingly adored. Still, however, she resolved to
remain awake, lest the sleep of Montmorency should be short, or he
should require some assistance which she would not be near to
administer.--Frequently, during the night, she anxiously listened; he
still slept, and towards morning, worn out by grief and fatigue, for
this was not the only sleepless night which for months past had been the
portion of Gabrielle, she fell into a disturbed slumber.

Soon she wakened in alarm, dreaming her father called, and flew to his
chamber. What terror seized her, when she beheld the bed empty; she
hastened from the cottage into the garden, and with comparative joy
descried him winding down the rock, with footsteps slow and solemn. His
cheek was pale, his eyes were fixed on the earth, and his arms were
folded on his bosom.--Gabrielle ran towards him, and, with humiliated
love, offered him her arm. Montmorency stopped a moment, looked at her,
sighed deeply, and shaking his head, as if to refuse her proffered
assistance, walked on.

The tender, yet reproachful look, the expression of deep despair and
anguish with which he regarded her, was too much for the already
harrowed feelings of the wretched Gabrielle, and she burst into tears.
Instantly Montmorency stopped again, gazed on her with pity, and put
forth his hand. In an instant Gabrielle was by his side, he spoke not,
but accepted the renewed offer of her arm.

During the whole of this miserable day, Montmorency uttered not a word;
the next passed the same, and the next, and the next; a certain number
of hours he slept; sometimes he walked, and sometimes he sat in a fixed
attitude for hours together. He took scarcely any nourishment, and never
at stated hours. A week, a month elapsed, yet still no change; and the
wretched daughter at length acknowledged to herself with horror, that
the mind of her father was verging on confirmed melancholy madness.

In this dreadful situation the good Madame Bertrand was her only
consolation. Now, no longer at leisure to feel for herself, or if she
did, hailing her shame and confusion as expiatory pangs, she no more
refused to acknowledge what was indeed incapable of further concealment;
she confided then, without reserve, the whole of her unhappy secret to
this sympathising and only friend, who promised, and who determined to
render her every assistance in her power. Together they watched over
Montmorency, together attended him; but vain were all their cares; he
seldom repaid them by even a look of recognition, much less a word.

It was the spring of the year, when Angelo had arrived at Meillerie, and
the charms of the innocent Gabrielle were as fair, and more blooming
than the spring itself. It was now autumn; the season had lost its
loveliness, and was succeeded by storms; she too was divested of her
richest beauty, and of halcyon serenity of mind. Already had she passed
two months of the third æra that was to usher into life a friendless
being, whose existence would be owing to her crime, and who might, oh!
dreadful thought, live to reproach her as the cause. The progress of
time, by presenting more forcibly to her mind the view of her guilt,
increased her wretchedness and remorse, whilst the daily afflicting
sight of her father’s situation pointed every pang with redoubled
anguish.

The silence of Montmorency, with the slight exception of now and then a
vague exclamation, had for long been uniform; during the day he
wandered, heedless of the weather, among the slippery rocks, sometimes
accompanied by Gabrielle, sometimes by Madame Bertrand; when, however,
they judged from his manner, and his frequently changing his path, that
their society was displeasing to him, or considered by him as a
presumptuous restraint, they affected to leave him to himself, but still
followed and watched him at a distance. As evening drew in he returned
home, and, seating himself silently by the fire, either mechanically
took a book, or folding his arms upon his breast, fell into an uneasy
slumber. He appeared not to take note of any thing that was passing
around him; his air was usually wild, or abstracted, and though
Gabrielle could not bear to entertain the terrible idea that he had
utterly forgotten her, she often more than feared that he did not always
know her.

That once proud and noble countenance which seemed to disdain, as it
repelled the thought of outrage, that high and towering figure, which
looked contempt upon inferior beings, and over which was diffused a
sacred majesty which _commanded_ respect, now how changed! Where was the
expression of those features? pallid, wasted, wan, no bright
intelligence, no fierce consciousness of superiority; his very face
bespoke, even in the wreck of intellect, the deep humiliation of his
soul. His moody eyes, now burning with a wild melancholy lustre, seemed
as if desirous to pierce through space, or, oftener bent on the ground,
seemed fearful to raise them on the light; over that once open, and
unshrinking front, now furrowed and contracted, the silver hair hung
scattered and wild; his figure, no longer haughty and erect, attired in
disorder, bent listless and inane; scarcely sensible he seemed of
existence; had he been more so, he would have desired death.

At length, one evening, after sitting for several hours in moping
melancholy, he fell into a deep sleep, that lasted a considerable time.
On awakening, the first object he beheld was his daughter, leaning over
him in anxious solicitude; he fixed his eyes upon her, but no longer
with that wild stare they had of late worn. When he looked towards her,
he gazed on her a few moments, and started, as if now first beholding
her altered form; then, passing his hand across his eyes, he said, “Ah,
poor girl! I remember--no, no, I do not blame thee,--the fault is mine,
all mine; I _feel_ it here,” he added, laying his hand on his
heart;--“but you forgive your father,--he little thought”--he pressed
his hand on his forehead, for a moment, as in confusion, then
resumed,--“fool,--fool, that I was;” then again, regarding her steadily,
he exclaimed,--“how unjust, to blame thee, poor girl!--come to my arms,
then, come, and let us mingle our tears together.”

So saying, he stretched forth his arms; the overpowered Gabrielle rushed
into them, and once more her head reposed on the paternal bosom. Too
happy, at this joyful return of something like rationality, to remark
the unconnectedness and incoherence of some parts of his speech, she
wept the sweetest tears that for long she had shed, and wished even that
he could shed some likewise; but her wish was vain; for though
Montmorency had said, “let us mingle our tears together,” still was his
cheek unwet, and his eyes tearless.

By degrees, Gabrielle recovered sufficiently to gaze upon her father;
the sight of his countenance shocked her, for there was not in it the
feeling air of recovered reason, but, notwithstanding all he had said, a
fixed and dreary vacuum, a stern insensibility, that bore no testimony
to the words he had uttered. In vain Gabrielle endeavoured to rouse him;
if he for a moment appeared affected by her efforts, a smile which
seemed rather only a relaxation of the muscles, than an emanation from
the heart, was the only evidence of it. Still she fondly flattered
herself with the hope that, though for the present confused, his mind
would ultimately recover its tone, as he had certainly evinced strong
symptoms of recollection.

In a few moments Montmorency spoke again. Pressing his hands upon his
temples, he said, “I have been ill, Gabrielle,--very ill; have I not?”

The tears of Gabrielle were her only answer; “I feel still ill,” he
pursued, “a dreadful weight, an oppression here,”--laying his hand upon
his breast.

“Let me conduct you to your chamber, my father,” faultered Gabrielle.

“Come, then, my love! Once you were my little love, and my pleasure,” he
added, with a mournful smile.

“Come, my father;” sobbed Gabrielle, unable to return any answer to his
painful remark, “come,” and placing her arm under his, she assisted him
to rise.

“No, no;” said Montmorency, in a low voice, as his eyes glanced over
her form; “no, no, poor girl, I want not your assistance;” and
trembling he rose, leaning but slightly upon the slender arm of
Gabrielle.

She led him to his chamber; when he reached the side of his bed he
stopped, as if exhausted, and said, looking upon his daughter,
“Gabrielle, I know what would cure me.”

“What, my father?” eagerly asked Gabrielle.

“The bursting of my heart!” he answered, with an air of frightful
calmness.

Gabrielle felt her blood chill: “Yes,” he pursued, “my heart has become
too big for my breast;--its bursting would relieve me, and I should, of
necessity, be cured; yes, yes,” he repeated rapidly to himself, as if
convinced of the rationality of his observation; and Gabrielle, with
dismay, perceived that his senses were relapsing into chaos. At length
she persuaded him to retire to bed, and when his head was on the pillow,
she seated herself by his side to watch, determined that during the
night she would not leave him.

Montmorency soon fell into a disturbed slumber, which continued for
about three hours; at the end of that time he started up, and looked
eagerly around; he beheld his daughter beside him, and fixing his eyes
upon her, he said, “Gabrielle, my child, bring me my sword.”

Montmorency possessed a sword indeed, but in their peaceful secluded
residence being useless, it had long been hung unnoticed against the
wall; his request, at this period, that it should be brought him,
struck Gabrielle with a mingled sensation of hope and alarm; hope,
though it implied mischievous ideas on one hand, yet announced a power
of recollection on the other. She, therefore, without evincing terror,
replied, “your sword, my father, wherefore do you need it?”

“To relieve my heart,” he cried, emphatically; “or I shall never be at
ease.”

Gabrielle shuddered, and arose; she bent over him, and laid his head
upon her bosom. “Compose yourself, my beloved father,” she said, in a
broken voice, “your heart will yet recover without the aid of your
sword.”

Montmorency looked at her, and faintly shook his head; then, as if in
sudden resentment, lifting it from her bosom, he cast himself back on
the pillow, and muttered, “Never shall I be well till my heart bursts;
and the cruel girl refuses me my sword.”

Gabrielle durst not reply; drowned in tears, she seated herself again by
the side of the bed, and sleep once more overpowered the unhappy
Montmorency.

Morning at length dawned; that morning, whose splendid sun he was doomed
never more to behold.--Montmorency opened his eyes, and said, in a faint
inward voice, “Raise me, Gabrielle.”--Gabrielle, tremblingly
obeyed.--The dim light, which shone through the vine-entwined lattice,
revealed to her the pale face of her father, already marked with the
insignia of ruthless death; he rested for an instant on her bosom, then,
with a convulsive shudder, started from it; he pressed, with all his
strength, his hands upon his breast; his whole frame violently trembled;
he became cold as ice, and turning his dimly-glazed eyes upon his
daughter, as a deep sigh burst from and seemed to relieve his heart--he
cried,--“Oh, my God!--at length I am easy,--my heart has burst!--Did I
not, did I not tell you, I should never be at ease till then?”--Violent
struggles seized him, and the dews of death gemmed his forehead.--The
wretched Gabrielle alone, incapable of rendering him any assistance,
could scarcely restrain him in his bed. At length he became calm; his
struggles subsided; a ray of perfect recollection beamed through his
mind; he regarded his weeping daughter with a mournful
air.--“Gabrielle,” he murmured, “my heart is broke!--Dear girl, I
forgive thee! Heaven look down with mercy, and forgive us both!” The
last words were scarcely formed upon his lips; he could say no more,
but his closing eyes were still turned upon his daughter, with an
expression such as shewed that reason had returned in his last moments,
to harrow up the fleeting soul, and double the agony of death. He made a
feeble movement for the hand of Gabrielle, who now knelt beside him;
with his cold damp hand he tremblingly raised, and placed it upon his
eyes, from which the sight was waning fast, as though he would have
said, “Thou shalt close my eyes.” Short and tremulous breathings heaved
his breast, they became fainter and fainter,--irregular,--now for a
moment they ceased,--and now they ceased for ever!

For a few minutes after the last breath had issued from the lips of
Montmorency, Gabrielle, her trembling hand still placed over his eyes,
neither spoke nor moved, for she believed that her father was sinking
into sleep, and feared to disturb him; at length she ventured softly to
remove her hand; the fixed features struck a fearful anguish to her
soul. She gazed upon him, and still dreading to admit the terrible
conviction, placed her hand near his mouth; she felt no breath;--upon
his heart she felt no movement;--a piercing and distracting shriek
escaped her lips; she rushed wildly towards the door, but ere she could
reach it, overpowered with unutterable horror, sank insensible on the
floor.




CHAPTER VI.


How long the wretched Gabrielle might have remained in this situation,
or what might have been her dreadful fate, admits not of conjecture, had
not the amiable Madame Bertrand, who had not seen her the preceding day,
deemed it an act of duty and propriety to visit her as early as possible
upon this. Raising the latch of the door she entered; but perceiving no
one in the outer room, she advanced to the interior, where a scene of
horror met her view.

Well aware of the situation of Gabrielle, with courage of true
friendship, unchecked by selfish terrors at an hour like this, she
hastened instantly towards her, and raising her in her arms, placed her
as well as she could by the side of the bed where the unfortunate
Montmorency had breathed his last. By slow degrees Gabrielle recovered,
but awakened to life rather by the severest bodily pangs, than the
efforts of friendship. To what did she awaken? to recollections that
almost quenched, in a sea of horror, the feeble ray of returning reason;
yet she did not relapse into insensibility, for increasing agony kept
too dreadfully alive the sense of feeling. But of herself she thought
not; it was of her father she raved--of the pangs, the pangs of the
_heart_ that she had occasioned him. Madame Bertrand had covered over
the face of Montmorency; Gabrielle beheld him not, and the idea of his
death appeared like a frightful dream to her mind. Alarmed for her;
fearing the consequences that might ensue, even to the risk of her
life, should she remain where she was, and insist on contemplating the
cold body of her father, the wish of the good Bertrand was to take
advantage of the present distraction of her mind, to withdraw her from
the chamber of death; in this she succeeded, partly by intreaty, partly
by stratagem; and having brought her to her own room, induced her,
without much solicitation, for the wretched girl was incapable of
resistance, to repose on the bed. Steady and courageous she remained
beside her, and ere long, in pain and in sorrow, the forlorn Gabrielle
ushered on the world a female infant.

Every attention, every aid in the power of the most sincere and ardent
friendship to bestow, was administered by the excellent Bertrand to the
distressed mother, and extended to the unconscious infant. She watched
by her with the most unremiting care, and left her only to facilitate
the means of procuring such assistance as her situation might further
render necessary. This she did through the means of her ardent admirer
Boffuet, who, too happy in an opportunity of obliging her he so
assiduously courted, ransacked the canton for such things as Madame
Bertrand informed him she required, and desired no other reward than the
permission of visiting her sometimes, during her stay at the cottage of
Gabrielle.

The bodily sufferings of the unhappy Gabrielle being at an end, those of
her mind increased ten-fold; she beheld the picture of the past as it
was, no longer confused or distorted by transports of agony, or
bewildered by distraction of idea; all was before her frightfully
clear: she contemplated it in horror; and weakened nature, incapable of
enduring the renewed torments of reflection, sunk under such accumulated
sufferings; and fever, with raging delirium ensued, threatening to put a
speedy period to the life which still feebly existed.

Five days had now elapsed since the death of Montmorency, when Madame
Bertrand conceived it proper that his sad remains should be consigned to
their parent earth. She consulted with Boffuet, without suggesting aught
to Gabrielle upon so melancholy a subject, and agreed with him, that his
burial should not be deferred beyond the following day.

From the time of her confinement, whatever Gabrielle had said of her
father had been but in incoherent ravings; it seemed, as it were,
impossible for her to dwell on the idea of his being no more, and
retain her reason; upon this subject never had she for long been
rational; and when the vague harrowing recollection of his death darted
like the lightening’s flash through her chaotic brain, it became
immediately followed by the wildest effusions of an horror-stricken
fancy.

It happened on the morning of the day fixed for the interment of the
unfortunate Montmorency, that having been tolerably calm during the
night, and towards morning falling into a slumber, Madame Bertrand
imagined that she might venture for a few minutes to leave her, in order
to speak with Boffuet in the adjoining room, respecting some requisite
arrangements; she accordingly closed the curtains round the bed, and
softly stepped out of the chamber, drawing the door gently after her.
This movement however, slight as it was, interrupted the light and
feverish sleep of Gabrielle; she started, and opening her eyes, missed
from her side her accustomed friend and guardian; at the same time she
heard whispering, and some little bustle in the adjoining chamber,
separated from her’s only by a thin partition, in which was, likewise,
the door which Madame Bertrand had purposely not entirely closed.

She listened eagerly, and heard Madame Bertrand say, in a low voice,
accompanied by a sigh, “Poor Montmorency; alas! what now must be the
fate of the daughter thou hast left, of her who was thy pride?” The
heart of the wretched Gabrielle beat hard against her breast, her cheek
flushed with the wild crimson of agony, when she distinguished the voice
of Boffuet, in reply, “Poor Montmorency, say I too; he disdained us all
when he was alive; but he is now no more, and his pride must be
forgotten.” Gabrielle heard no more; the scene that was passing in the
next room was now fully revealed to her; nerving horror lent her bodily
strength, she sprang from the bed to the door, and rushed into the room,
despair and madness painted in her countenance. Madame Bertrand, in
dismay, turned towards her, and sought to force her back; while Boffuet,
standing before the pale corpse of Montmorency, endeavoured to hide it
from her view. Gabrielle spoke not, but she resisted the efforts of
Madame Bertrand with an immoveable strength. Her hands were clasped
together in agony; her eyes started from their sockets; and in defiance
of every intreaty or attempt to restrain her, she made her way towards
the bed, where she stood gazing, with a wild and steady stare, on the
livid features of her father, majestic even in death,--on those
features which so fully conveyed the idea, that _he_ never could survive
a stain upon his honor,--on those features which bespoke a courage and a
pride to be conquered only by disgrace!

At length, in a low voice, she murmured, bending over his body--“Oh!
God, is it even so?--my father--what a wreck!”--Her hands, before
clasped, were now twisted together--her whole frame became convulsed;
yet in the midst of these dreadful workings of nature, her eyes still
strained upon the harrowing object before her, as some
conscience-stricken wretch gazes on the goary phantom of his disturbed
imagination.--A deathy film spread itself over her sight--surrounding
objects became misty and confused--all appeared a fearful scene of
visionary horror, too dreadful to be real,--completely overpowered,
every nerve relaxed, she fell prostrate on the bed upon the unconscious
form that lay stretched before her.--In that state the terrified
Bertrand conveyed her in her arms to bed, exerting a strength of which
her energetic friendship alone made her capable.

In a situation so dangerous as that of Gabrielle, it may readily be
conceived there was every probability that the scene she had undergone
must in its consequences become fatal to her. Thus however it did not
prove; those only who have survived the most dreadful sufferings, and
overcome the most imminent dangers, know what human nature is capable of
sustaining; certain it was, that though for long even after the violence
of her mental paroxysms had subsided, and the malady of her body yielded
to the strength and goodness of her constitution, her recovery remained
more than doubtful; and when some slight portion of returning
convalescence enabled her to quit, for a few hours in the day, her bed,
her appearance bore every symptom of alarming atrophy, threatening soon
to terminate her miserable existence. Yet still she lived, and time and
nature triumphed over the ills of mortality.

Meantime her infant daughter increased daily in strength and beauty; the
good Bertrand, almost despairing to preserve the mother, had attended
with indefatigable and most assiduous care the child. Her plain and
benevolent heart, which knew only what the best feelings, and what
unsophisticated virtue, without the aid of philosophical refinement,
teaches us to practise, did not calculate whether by essaying to rear
the infant, and preserve its life, she did not perhaps commit an error,
by reserving it for incalculable evils, and unforeseen misfortunes. She
only considered that a tender and helpless human being was in question,
that if it perished a life would be lost, and if it were preserved a
life would be saved.--Upon these genuine and simple suggestions of
nature she acted, and the babe more than repaid her beneficent care, in
the pleasure it gave her to find it effectual.

Gabrielle, in process of time, became enabled to quit her bed
altogether, next to inhale the mountain breeze, and next to enjoy it
while taking gentle exercise. Still however, though now perfectly sane
in mind as well as body, a melancholy gloom oppressed her. Since the
fatal funeral day of the unfortunate Montmorency, she had never been
seen to smile; and the afflicted Bertrand, though willing to cherish
hope, sometimes was compelled to fear, that this unvarying depression
would end ultimately in confirmed and moping madness. To avert this
dreadful result, she exerted every effort to rouse and call forth her
feelings, “Come my dear Gabrielle, would she say, look at our child,
speak to it--kiss it--see how it smiles upon you.” But at this the
unhappy Gabrielle would mournfully shake her head, while she gazed sadly
upon its innocent countenance. At other times, when she seemed totally
absorbed, and her tender friend feared with increased anxiety for her
intellects, she would endeavour to affect her even, by presenting to her
mind the most painful images.

“My dear friend,” then would she say to her, “why this incessant
melancholy? consider, that though your father no longer lives, your
sufferings have more than expiated the uneasiness you may have given
him.---- Heaven has accepted the atonement, and when heaven forgives, it
becomes impious to persevere in a grief that implies a doubt of, or
ingratitude for its mercy.”--At these words Gabrielle would exclaim,
“Ah, cruel Bertrand, what tell you me of heaven’s forgiveness--dare you
outrage the great God, in supposing that he could ever forgive such
crimes as mine?--Am I not a wretch?--have I not sinned against the
purity of virtue?--did I not disgrace my honorable father?--did I not
destroy him by so doing?--have I not brought his grey hairs in sorrow to
the grave?--did he not fondly cherish me--and I repaid him by breaking
his heart?--What tell you me then of heaven’s forgiveness? No, no;
horror be my portion, no grief, no remorse, can blot out at the bar of
holy heaven guilt and crimes like mine.” In speaking thus she would
burst into a passion of tears, she would weep long and copiously, and
her mind becoming thus in a degree relieved from the vent given to her
feelings, she would for some time afterwards appear less gloomy and
despairing.

One morning that Madame Bertrand had been out, with the little Agnes,
for so had she named her, she found on her return, that Gabrielle was
not in the room where they usually sat, and she proceeded to seek her in
her chamber; she was not there either; and as she was retiring, she
perceived that the door which led into the chamber that had been her
father’s, and which for long had remained unopened, appeared now not
perfectly closed.--Somewhat surprised, she approached and gently pushed
it, when by the side of the bed on which the high soul’d Montmorency had
breathed his last, she beheld his daughter kneeling, her face hidden on
the coverlid.--She drew near her; deeply affected, and slightly touching
her shoulder, she said “Wherefore thus; my dearest Gabrielle? suffer me
to lead you hence.”

Gabrielle raised her face from the bed--its expression was neither wild
nor desperate, but it was paler then death, and bedewed with tears.--“My
dear friend--my kind Bertrand,” she said in a calm and solemn voice,
without rising from her knees, “this is my birth day; the fevered and
lamented being who expired on this bed, kept this day ever with a little
feast, and with fond rejoicing.--He would with a tearful eye of love
gaze upon me--retrace the days of my childhood, and bless the Almighty
that he possessed such a daughter!”--Stifled sobs compelled her to pause
for a moment, and she resumed--“he is now no more--this day, therefore,
I shall pass in sorrow and mourning; _I_ too shall retrace the days of
my childhood--the tender love he bore me, the tender care he lavished
on me--how he cherished and protected me, and the reward I gave
him!--All this will I remember, to new point the pangs of my remorse--to
increase my sufferings, and shew me how unworthy I am of the forgiveness
of heaven.---- When midnight has passed, and not before, will I quit
this room, where that dear father died, and retire to my own; therefore,
dear Bertrand, attempt not to oppose me, for my resolution is fixed.”

“But dearest Gabrielle,” cried Madame Bertrand, while the tears coursed
down her cheeks, “such incessant suffering will kill you.”

“How _he_ suffered who died on that bed, Bertrand,” with affecting
solemnity, answered Gabrielle, pointing to the bed--“his sufferings
killed him;--I inflicted those sufferings--and yet live;--oh, just God,
chastise me; heap pain and misfortune on my head;--let me not go
unpunished for my dreadful crimes;--so shall I know that, great as they
are, thou hast not wholly forgotten me; for if thou hast not, thou must
in thy justice punish me.”

“Oh! forbear, my friend,” cried Madame Bertrand, “you rive my heart.”

“Leave me, kind Bertrand,--yet stay;--first let me kiss my child.”

The weeping Bertrand brought near the child to its penitent mother, who
taking it in her arms was on the point of kissing it, but suddenly
drawing back, exclaimed--“No! I who have killed my father, deserve not,
on _such_ a day, the happiness of kissing my child:--Leave me, leave me!
dear Bertrand, even the sight of you, with that cherub in your arms, is
a pleasure greater than I merit.--Oh, God,” she added, “as I gaze on her
did my father gaze on me; what if she should curse me with ingratitude,
as I have cursed him!” So spoke the unhappy Gabrielle, and hiding her
face on the bed, wept in the eloquence of silent woe.

Madame Bertrand readily perceived that to attempt to dissuade her from
her present purpose would be both useless and distressing; she
therefore, after silently contemplating her for a few moments in tender
compassion, quitted with gentleness the apartment, respecting even the
wild enthusiasm of her grief.

Steady to her purpose did Gabrielle remain, fasting, and solitary in the
dying chamber of her father, fixed on her knees beside his lonely bed,
contemplating, with deep remorse, her past guilt, and its terrible
consequences; and looking to the future with nought but saddest
anticipation. Oft, from extreme debility, and remaining for long in one
painful position, did she feel on the point of being overcome; but
determined not to relax, she hail’d sickness, pain and uneasiness, as
expiations, though slight, for her offences, and resolved to die rather
than abridge an instant of her prescribed time of penance.

Night drew in, and she became involved in darkness; fancy presented to
her, her departed father, now as sitting with her in the days of their
peace, his eyes fixed on his book, or raised only to look fondly upon
her; now she beheld him walking in unsuspicious confidence with Angelo;
now plunged in melancholy madness, brooding and suffering from the
dreadful effects of that confidence;--now, on the bed before her, she
saw him stretched in sleep, as he appeared the night previous to his
death; now, starting and looking wildly round, death closed these
visions of sad retrospection, and she beheld him a cold and pallid
corpse; it receded from her view; now his holy phantom hovered before
her, she saw it mount to heaven, and her strained eyes in fancy followed
till it was lost amid the clouds.

Midnight approached; she raised her hands to the throne of mercy, and
said, “Oh, my God! I ask thee not to pardon me, till bitter misfortune
shall have atoned my crimes in thy sight, if atoned they may be; but I
implore thee to direct my future conduct, and to chastise me in any way
that, by obtaining thy pardon, may permit me, after death, to be
reunited to my father, and obtain his pardon for my mortal sins.” She
then arose from her knees; though her feeble frame was sinking to the
earth, her heart seemed lighter, and her mind more calm, for she felt as
though she had performed a sacred and indispensable duty.

Gabrielle had retraced, brooded, and wept over the past; but she had
likewise imagined a plan for the future; thus, though still melancholy,
she was less so than before. Such is the power of moral, over physical
feeling; when the mind is ill at ease, bodily health is vain, and
sickness often vanishes when that is rendered tranquil. With tottering
steps she quitted the chamber of death, and entered that where the
anxious Bertrand impatiently awaited her. This excellent creature,
anticipating the enfeebled state to which so many hours of exhausting
penance must have reduced the scarce recovered Gabrielle, had prepared
a slight repast, in order to restore and refresh her.

Gabrielle perceived, on her entrance, this kind attention; and though it
grieved her to disappoint her tender friend, still, faithful to the
spirit of her resolution, she firmly, though with gentleness, refused
the smallest refreshment, determined to conclude the day as she had
commenced it, in abstinence and in prayer; for justly she argued, that
when a pain is succeeded by a pleasure, the memory of the former quickly
fades from the mind; therefore is its pressure but half sustained.
Madame Bertrand found herself as incapable of opposing this
determination as the first; her superior mind fully entered into the
sacred conceptions of the repentant Gabrielle, and reasoning as she did,
persuasions would, she felt, be useless and improper. She therefore
accompanied her to her chamber, and assisting her to bed, followed
speedily herself, as had been her custom since the illness and deranged
state of Gabrielle had rendered necessary the unremitting attentions of
friendship.




CHAPTER VII.


More than six months had now elapsed since Gabrielle had given birth to
a daughter; the infant, cherished by the joint care of a friend and a
mother, was healthful as the breeze of the mountain; by the latter, its
opening graces were often contemplated with a sigh and a feeling of
bitter anguish; and when Madame Bertrand would sometimes call her
attention, while gazing herself with enthusiastic pleasure on its lovely
features, she could not immediately reply, or give to her praises the
well-deserved meed of assent.

Meantime she had digested and arranged a plan for her future adoption,
which she waited only a favorable opportunity to declare to her tender
friend. One day they were sitting together at the door of their cottage;
the sun was fast shrouding in bright western clouds his brighter beams;
the shadows of evening were beginning to gather on the mighty brows of
the mountains, her dark grey mantle blended some with the horizon, while
a shadowy purple was cast on those below. The towering head of Mont
Blanc, father of mountains, invulnerable to the warm visitations of the
parting beam, though decked in the glittering beauties it bestowed, rose
like a hoary and majestic chief above them all, retaining still, in an
atmosphere of its own, a flood of dewy light. Gabrielle gazed on the
triumphant scene, so proudly rich in solitary beauty,--on the rugged
rocks, boasting here and there a vestment of green, given by the
patient hand of man; on the rushing cataract, whose foamy spray, as it
battled along, enveloped it in a thick smoke; she gazed on the eternally
varying scene, but it was familiar to her eyes, and her thoughts were
otherwise employed; she was meditating how best she might divulge to
Madame Bertrand, who sat beside her, the plan she had in view. Praising,
as usual, the beauty of the child she held in her arms, and receiving
from the pensive Gabrielle no reply, at length she said, hastily, “Why
is it, Gabrielle, that you have never a word, or a look, to bestow upon
your child?”

“I am bestowing my thoughts on her,” replied Gabrielle, seriously.

“You are thinking how beautiful she is,” said Madame Bertrand, gazing
on the child, with admiring fondness.

“Poor infant,” said Gabrielle, with a sigh.

“And why do you pity her?” enquired Madame Bertrand, somewhat angrily,
and kissing the babe with fervour.

“How can you, my dear friend, demand that question?” replied Gabrielle,
mournfully; “is she not a wretched, friendless babe? no father, no
friend!”--

“No friend?” interrupted Madame Bertrand, reproachfully.

“True, true my kind Bertrand; pardon me, she has a friend; but that
friend cannot supply to her a father’s place, and my heart dies within
me, when I reflect upon the misery, the dangers, the contempt, this
unconscious child may have to encounter; should she be thrown upon the
careless world, no father will step forth to shield, or to rescue
her;--if the breath of the defamer should blight her, no father will
revenge the insult; or, if the seducer should destroy her,” she added,
faulteringly, “no father will call him to account. Her birth will not
entitle her to respect or consideration; to defend her might be even
deemed disgrace. Ah! my poor child--would--would--”

“Would what, Gabrielle?” cried Madame Bertrand, sadly.

“Oh, would she had died!” cried Gabrielle, bursting into tears.

“Impious,” exclaimed Madame Bertrand, “dare you, rash girl, dispute the
wisdom of Providence?”

“No;” answered Gabrielle, “I express but the wish of an apprehensive
mortal, nor do I think, dearest Bertrand, that it is an impious wish;
for is it not better that this babe should die innocent and happy, then
live to become infamous or miserable? And how, offspring as she is of a
guilty mother, deprived of a father’s protection, dare I presume to hope
that it may be otherwise? Like a frail lily on a barren heath, she will
be exposed, defenceless, to every storm;--she will fall, and be
destroyed! Alas! what reproaches may I not endure for ushering her into
life? Thus then, my friend, do I say, better for her to die now, than be
reserved, perhaps, for incalculable ills.

“Why refine, thus,” cried Madame Bertrand; “let her then never enter the
busy world.”

“That it is impossible to command,” answered Gabrielle, “and therefore
is it my duty to provide for her a shield that may preserve her from its
dangers; and, for that purpose--I must quit these solitudes!”

“What mean you?” cried Madame Bertrand, with alarm, “would you quit your
child? for assuredly I will not part with her.”

“Neither do I desire that you should, my good Bertrand; but hear me.
That tender, helpless, and forlorn child has a father, a father, too,
capable of protecting her, and making unfelt, at maturer years, the
misfortunes of her birth. As much as obloquy and shame can be
extenuated by the rank or elevation of those to whom it attaches, in so
much may this babe hereafter claim consideration in the world, from the
situation in which she shall be placed. I, indeed, cannot give her any,
but her father, from his rank and power, can; therefore is it my duty to
neglect no means of inducing him to perform towards her the part of a
parent; and I am determined to direct my utmost energy to that point,
humbly hoping, that however I may have been the unhappy means of
ushering her upon evil and danger, I may yet place her in such a
position, and surrounded by a guard so strong, that the deep error of
which I have been guilty may be, as far as relates to her, in great
measure retrieved. Oh, God!” she added, in a voice of anguish, “I robbed
a father of his existence; let not my punishment be visited on the head
of my child, nor let me sink into the grave, with the dreadful
conviction of having destroyed the two beings dearest to my heart.”

When Gabrielle spoke the dictates of reason and virtue, her friend
always found it impossible to oppose her, and had too much of both
herself to make the attempt; she therefore remained silent, listening to
what further she was going to add. Gabrielle, after a few moments,
resumed:

“I will seek the Conte D’Albini;--I will seek the father of my child;
that forlorn child calls upon me to do so; obstacles shall not deter me;
my plan is arranged, my resolution taken; difficulties will but increase
my perseverance, nor, if still he exist upon the earth, shall aught but
death force me to resign my search.”

“But, dearest Gabrielle,” said Madame Bertrand, trembling at an
animation that bordered on wildness, “surely you are ignorant where to
seek the Conte; he has written to you but once since his departure.”

“I know it,” answered Gabrielle, her eyes darting fire, and her cheeks
burning with the shame of despised love; “I know it well, but that shall
not deter me. Self is from the question at present; I know no delicacy,
no punctilious feeling, no idle resentment for myself; those fugitive
sensations, whether well or ill founded, belong to happier loves; higher
considerations must be mine,” pointing to her child.

“But consider, dear girl, where can you seek?”

“Over the world, if necessary; but first I will visit Italy;
perhaps--perhaps he may be still at Naples.”

“Oh, Gabrielle,” exclaimed Madame Bertrand, “what is it you would
attempt? assuredly I can participate in your feelings; I perceive your
views, and I admire the noble spirit which would excite you to pursue
them, but at the same time I cannot help perceiving the insurmountable
obstacles which oppose you. How are you to become a traveller, how are
you to encounter dangers of which you have scarcely an idea, bred and
educated as you have been in the profoundest solitude, and knowing
nothing of a world beyond these mountains?”

“But little indeed,” answered Gabrielle; “I was but a child, when, with
my beloved father, I quitted it; but books have told me much, and his
extensive information still more; thus, though I have been, as you say,
educated in solitude, I am not wholly ignorant of the world I am going
to encounter.”

“Poor girl! you will find, that the conception of the world, which you
have acquired from books, and verbal information, will be insufficient
to guide you through it; think, think I intreat you, more
dispassionately, ere you attempt to act; here we may live for ever
peaceful, and unmolested.”

“No, no,” answered Gabrielle, “that must not be; a thousand casualties
might intervene to disturb your system; say then no more, my friend, and
spare me the mortification of being compelled to shew you, that there is
a subject on which even you have no power to influence me. I shall
go,--I shall tempt the fearful world, beyond these peaceful mountains,
which to me, alas! have not proved walls strong enough to protect from
guilt and misfortune; offer then no further opposition, my tender
Bertrand, but promise me only to protect, till my return, this infant
that you now so fondly cherish.”

Madame Bertrand, pressing the child to her bosom, replied, “Do as you
will, Gabrielle; believe that in me this child will ever find a mother.”

Gabrielle seized her hand, and fervently kissing it, exclaimed, “Thank
you, dearest friend, you have lightened my heart of its chief care; I
have now courage for any thing.”

Madame Bertrand wept, but did not reply; and fearful that the dews of
evening should injure her tender charge, she arose and entered the
cottage.

Gabrielle remained, still meditating on her well-digested plan; and
organising in her mind its minuter parts, fully appreciating, and,
perhaps, rather exceeding in her ideas, the imminent perils she would
have to encounter, by venturing into the world a forlorn and defenceless
female. She resolved, therefore, to assume the habit of the opposite
sex, and, as a further precaution against discovery, to change the
delicate hue of her complexion, by the expressed juice of certain herbs,
the properties of which she well knew. Her cottage, and what little it
contained, she decided to convert into money, and to divide it equally
with her kind friend, previous to her departure. While still she
ruminated, the gentle voice of Madame Bertrand, praying her to remain
no longer in the air, roused her from her abstraction, and hastily
rising, she joined her in the cottage. The evening was past in detailing
her plan at large to this excellent creature, and in requesting her
assistance, to which, finding opposition vain, she yielded melancholy
acquiescence. Though shuddering at the evils to which she might be
exposed, she could not, in her heart, deny that her plan was carefully
and correctly arranged. It was settled that Boffuet, the still
persevering admirer of Madame Bertrand, should be entrusted with her
intention; for his assistance would be necessary, as he would be the
fittest person to dispose of the cottage, and to purchase a disguise for
Gabrielle.

On the following morning, desirous to expedite her movements, she
pressed Madame Bertrand to apply at once to Boffuet; to this, though
with tearful reluctance, her friend agreed; and Boffuet, as usual, proud
and solicitous to oblige his mistress, undertook, with the greatest
alacrity, all that was required of him. So strenuously did he exert
himself, that in a few days every thing was in readiness for the
departure of Gabrielle, who found herself, by the disposal of her
cottage and its contents, in possession of a sum far greater than, with
her ignorance of the world, she could believe requisite for her
necessities. According to her original intention, she divided the money
into equal portions, and as she presented one half to Madame Bertrand,
she said, “Here, my beloved friend, is a sum which is useless to me; to
you, who have my child under your protection, it more justly belongs;
and will, perhaps, be more necessary.”

Madame Bertrand, indignantly putting back the proffered sum, answered,
with a reproachful look, while a tear trembled in her mild eye, “I
thought, I hoped, Gabrielle, that you had known me better.”

Boffuet, who was present, observed, while his eyes fastened on the gold,
that with all due deference to Madame Bertrand, he humbly conceived her
delicacy was misplaced, as in case of any accident arising to
Mademoiselle de Montmorency, her beautiful little daughter would not be
wholly unprovided for.

Madame Bertrand glanced on Boffuet with an air of scorn and indignation;
but Gabrielle seeming forcibly struck by this remark, and almost
regretting that she had disposed of the cottage, which would have been a
certain asylum for her daughter, hastily answered, “How much truth and
reason is there in your words, my good Boffuet, and how infinitely ought
I to thank you for your seasonable anticipation; here, then,” she added,
dividing the half she had reserved for herself in two portions likewise,
“I add this to my daughter’s share, and since Madame Bertrand refuses
it, do you, my kind Boffuet, take charge of it; for, in case of need,
sure am I that you will prove a faithful steward.”

Boffuet eagerly longed, yet durst not stretch forth his hand to take the
tendered sum, lest he should displease his mistress; he therefore only
said, “If Madame Bertrand permit, I think, indeed, it is an advisable
precaution in Mademoiselle de Montmorency.”

Madame Bertrand still remained silent, but her silence was eloquence
itself.

“I have only further to observe,” said Gabrielle, perceiving the
delicacy of her friend, “that if my kind Bertrand will take the gold,
she will set my heart at rest; but if she refuse, I will throw it down
the first precipice in my way.”

This last observation, strengthened by an idea which at the moment
struck the worthy Bertrand, decided her; for she mentally resolved, that
while she possessed this sum, her dear Gabrielle could never want;
stretching forth her reluctant hand, therefore, she said, emphatically,
“It is enough, give me the gold, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle was rejoiced, and the countenance of Boffuet brightened, as
his twinkling eyes watched the transfer of the gold, from one hand to
the other.

The following day was now agreed upon for the departure of Gabrielle;
Boffuet left them, and was to return in the morning, to accompany
Gabrielle a short distance on her way. This, the last evening that they
were to remain together, was passed in tears by Madame Bertrand, and by
Gabrielle alternately in deep thought and in administering consolation
to her friend. Their melancholy supper passed untouched, each tenderly
pressing the other to eat, yet finding it impossible to practise what
they urged.

At length, before retiring for the night, Gabrielle taking from her
bosom the medallion which had been given her by Angelo, opened it, and
gazing for a moment upon his youthful portrait, hastily closed it, and
passed the chain by which it was suspended around the neck of her
sleeping infant: “This, my child,” she cried, “belongs rather to thee
then me, for it is the gift of _thy_ father, who to me, alas, is
nothing. In resigning it to thee then, I do not break the promise which
I made him, when I said I would never bestow it but on one I should love
equally with himself. Little did I then think that such possibility
could ever exist; but I love the child of Angelo, as I loved himself.
Oh! my friend,” she continued, turning to Madame Bertrand, “be it, I
most earnestly implore, your care to preserve to my child this only
gift, this only memorial that I have to bestow on her from a father. Oh!
may no casualty deprive her of it while under your protection; keep it,
I conjure you, from all eyes, even from those of----” The name of
Boffuet was on her tongue, for she had remarked the expression of his
countenance as he viewed the gold; yet, unwilling to pain her friend,
she only added, “From the eyes of all that you may even think well
of--for if I should die before the accomplishment of my purpose, and
this child be hereafter cast upon the world, it might--it might be a
means of conducting her, or revealing her to a father!”

“Be assured, I will watch over your child, and carefully preserve to her
this gift, so justly prized by you from the united portraits it
represents, and from containing the date of the Conte’s birth, his name,
and age, at the period when the portrait was taken; particulars which
must ever place its originality and relation to the family beyond all
doubt.”

“Therefore is it,” answered Gabrielle anxiously, “that I affix such
consequence to its preservation; and affixing such consequence, bestow
it on my child, rather than retain it myself. When she is of an age to
understand, should I continue far away from her, or perhaps no more
exist, for something tells me that these longing looks with which I now
regard her, will be the last I shall ever bestow on her, oh! then
impress upon her mind, the extensive value of this gift, make it an
almost primary object of her consideration, that thus the impression
received in her childhood may be permanent, actuate her at maturer age,
be daily strengthened by you, and have all the importance attached to it
in her idea, which will be necessary for its preservation. No more now
on this subject, my dear Bertrand, but let us retire to rest; for
to-morrow I shall rise with the dawn.” Then filling out a glass of
wine, she handed it to her friend, saying, “Exert, rouse yourself, dear
Bertrand, conquer this excessive grief, let us drink a glass of wine,
and hope that happiness may yet await us in the happiness of others.”

This very observation of Gabrielle brought the tears afresh into the
eyes of Madame Bertrand, for did it not evince how completely she
despaired of happiness herself, by placing her only hope in viewing that
of others? she forbore, however, to express the painful ideas she
excited, and said only, while the glass trembled in her hand, and her
lip quivered with emotion, “This then, Gabrielle, may probably be the
last glass of wine we may ever drink together.”

The possibility of this, deeply affected even the strong mind of
Gabrielle, and she could not restrain her tears; yet, anxious to impart
happier thoughts to the mind of her friend, she answered, “Banish such
gloomy ideas, and let us hope rather that we do not part for long.”

“I have a foreboding at my heart,” answered Madame Bertrand, in a
mournful voice, “that we shall never meet again!---- and--and that you
behold even your child, for the last time.”

“Oh, my God! think you thus likewise?” cried the agitated Gabrielle, “I
must listen to you no longer--you will enfeeble, nay destroy the little
firmness I have been endeavouring to collect for our painful parting,
and this hazardous, though necessary step. Let us then retire at once,
nor embitter, by anticipations so dreadful, the few hours we have to
remain together.”

The first streak of dawn beheld Gabrielle prepared to abandon the once
peaceful asylum of her innocence and youth, and now, though become the
tomb of her happiness, viewed still with a sensation of melancholy
regret. She was habited in her male attire, her dark hair fastened
behind in small compass, and her fair complexion changed to a creolian
hue with the juice she had prepared, and of which she provided herself
with a sufficient quantity. Complete throughout appeared the
transformation, and Madame Bertrand, as she embraced her, almost
started, saying, “So much do you seem changed in my eyes, that scarcely
can I persuade myself it is my Gabrielle with whom I am parting.”

“Ah, beloved friend,” answered Gabrielle, returning her embrace with
fervour, “think, then, that it is not me, if by that means your sorrow
may be diminished.”

Madame Bertrand shook her head, and burst into tears; at this moment
Boffuet appeared, and interrupted the melancholy scene; when Gabrielle,
quitting the room, sought the chamber where Montmorency had expired,
intent on paying the last sad duty of a visit to a spot which brought to
her ever mourning mind the most vivid and harrowing recollections.
Already, as she entered, a cold chill crept through her blood;--o’er the
lattice the uncropped vine and honeysuckle twined in unmolested
luxuriance; no one attempted now to check or to direct their growth; for
it was not meet, that, when the tenant of that room was no longer
animated, aught around it should be rendered, as in unholy mockery,
trimly gay; the wild branches covered the window, and the chastened
light, which gleamed through their interstices, filled the chamber with
that sad and pensive gloom best suited to the sacred memory of a
departed friend. With slow and reverential step, with inclining figure,
Gabrielle approached the lonely bed;--she gazed on it, her eyes filled
with tears, and agonizing retrospections began to crowd upon her
mind.--She raised her hands to heaven, and groaned; plain, in mental
vision, she beheld the martyr’d Montmorency stretched on the bed before
her, his dying eyes seemed turned upon her. “Shade of my father!” she
exclaimed, “I quit your sacred haunts; curse me not in your wanderings
through this deserted spot,--but pity and forgive her, whose crimes have
created the duty which calls her hence.”

She then hurried from the room; on her return she beheld Madame
Bertrand, though still weeping, more composed; she drew near the bed
where reposed her child, yet calmly slumbering; she knelt down beside
it, and taking one of its little hands between her’s, she imprinted a
gentle kiss upon its blooming cheek, and cried, “Sweet babe--to God I
commend thee; may he look down upon thee, guard thy innocence, and
protect thee from ill; may’st thou become happy, virtuous and
honourable; uninjured by the misfortunes, and unaffected by the errors
of thy mother.” Once more she kissed it, and her big tears settled on
the bloomy cheek of the babe, as the dew of the morning gems the early
and tender rose of spring. Her emotions became too powerful; she felt,
either she must waver in her resolution, or must instantly fly. Starting
up then suddenly, she exclaimed--“Yes, yes, I go my child--thy interest
calls--farewell--Bertrand, my friend!” and she pointed impressively to
the child, “my friend, adieu!”

“Yes, yes, rely on me--you _may_,” cried the good Bertrand, and sinking
on a chair she burst into tears, as Gabrielle, her eyes shaded with her
hand, rushed from the cottage.




CHAPTER VIII.


The scene is now changed, and passing over what is not immediately
material to be detailed, we behold Gabrielle de Montmorency in Naples,
unmolested, and unnoticed in her male attire; and having no imbecile
fears of her own to contend against, she had performed her journey
without danger, and with little difficulty. She was entering on a world,
where all was strange and new to her; but yet her strong mind felt no
alarm, nor did she suffer herself to be discouraged; the reflection of
her purpose armed her with resolution, and tower-crested fortitude lent
her treble shield. Determined to dare the worst in the prosecution of
her duty, undismayed she considered every obstacle that might arise,
and, undismayed, planned how to surmount them.

Angelo had in his letter informed her, that his stay at Naples would be
uncertain. It was not impossible, therefore, but that still he might be
there. He had named the place of his residence; at least, the attempt
might be made to gain from thence some intelligence of him. Gabrielle
had, under the instructions of her departed father, obtained
considerable knowledge in various languages; among others, the Italian.
She did not, therefore, find it difficult to make herself understood,
and by dint of enquiry, and the most patient perseverance, found herself
at length on the spot where he had described himself to have taken up
his abode.

What now were the sensations of Gabrielle, as she contemplated the
exterior of an edifice, which contained, perhaps, the destroyer of her
peace and innocence! but still the being whom her heart, in despite of
herself, most fondly loved. Trembling, almost overpowered from excessive
agitation, the beating of that wayward heart became almost too powerful
for its feeble tenement; she leaned for support against some palisadoes,
near which she stood, and, for the first time since her undertaking, her
firm soul shrunk at what she might have to encounter. Almost in the same
instant, however, she became ashamed of this emotion, higher thoughts
pervaded her mind, and she determined, ere she left the spot, to be
informed whether or not Angelo still dwelt in the mansion before her.
It was a late hour of the evening, lights began to appear in most of the
apartments; and at least she was convinced that it contained some one
who might perhaps, if Angelo were even departed, give her information
respecting him. Now she walked to and fro; and now paused in eager
examination; presently she beheld the door open, and a servant come
forth, who stood beneath the portico. This was the moment for Gabrielle;
she hastened towards him, and with as much indifference as she could
assume, enquired of him if il Conte D’Albini dwelt in that house.

“He does;” the servant replied, “why do you ask?”

The heart of Gabrielle beat with redoubled violence; but, gathering
courage, she said, “Know you if the Conte wants a page? if he does, I
would willingly----”

“A page,” interrupted the man, “how came that in your head--who do you
come from?”

“I would see your master.”

“No doubt you would, but he’s not to be seen,” he answered, (with a
malicious grin) “no page is wanted here;” and entering the house the
door was shut, with rude violence, in the face of the disappointed
Gabrielle.

Desponding, but not discouraged, she retraced her melancholy steps to
the quarter where she had taken up her residence; and though mortified
for a moment at the treatment she had experienced from vulgar ignorance,
she felt every uneasy sensation more than counterbalanced by the
unhoped for conviction that D’Albini was still in Naples; the thought of
this was balm for every wound. “Ah!” she mentally cried, “is it then
possible,--and shall I again behold that beloved---- Heaven,” (suddenly
interrupting herself,) “is this the language for a betrayed forsaken
wretch? Oh, let me banish from my mind ideas so degrading, let me think
of him as the father and protector of his child, but not as the man who
once loved me, and whom I loved.”

Virtue can slumber, even in the midst of misfortune, and Gabrielle was
still virtuous, though no longer innocent; she retired to her melancholy
bed, and wearied by the succession of new objects during the day,
exhausted by fatigue, she soon sunk into peaceful rest, resolving that
on the morrow she would renew her endeavors to procure an interview
with D’Albini.

On the following morning, at an early hour, she bent her eager steps
towards his house; and, now decided that no insolence should check or
intimidate her, she placed herself beneath the portico, with firm intent
to remain there till she could catch a glimpse of him she sought. A
beautiful English carriage stood at the door, and from this circumstance
Gabrielle hoped that he would speedily appear. She had not long occupied
her position, ere the door was hastily opened, and a servant, whom she
perceived was not the same that she had addressed the proceeding
evening, came forth. She was on the point of speaking to him, when he
exclaimed, “What do you here, boy,--who do you want?” Gabrielle
disdained an answer, but did not move, when the same man who had before
insulted her made his appearance, and joined his companion. “Ho, ho,”
cried he, on perceiving Gabrielle, “what here again, my young Cavaliero,
after what I said to you last night? Go, go, get you gone, for my Lord
is coming out.”

“I am waiting for him,” coolly answered Gabrielle. The men looked at
each other, and he who had first spoken to her, cried, “Why, stripling
as thou art, of what service canst thou be?” and turning to his
companion, added, “He wants to be page to our master, forsooth.”

“Oh, is it so!” replied the other, “Go, go, my boy! if you want bread,
you are light and supple, enlist with the Lazaroni, you would soon out
do the best of them, I’d warrant you.” This observation was seconded by
a loud laugh from the first man, when, at this very moment, the voice of
Angelo was heard, and the mirth of his menials gave way to the most
obsequious appearance of respect.

Gabrielle heard too that well-known voice, and her heart died within
her;--in a few moments he was before her;--she dared not lift her eyes,
but she felt that his were fixed upon her, and she was ready to sink
into the earth. In truth, Angelo was regarding her with attention, and
turning to his servants, he enquired if they knew aught of the youth, or
what he desired; at this question they looked confusedly at one another,
uncertain what to reply; when Gabrielle, gathering courage, said, “My
Lord, I am an unfortunate orphan, I have no friend,--nor have I the
means of procuring bread in this country; if, therefore, you deem not
the request too bold, humbly I would entreat, that you should take me
into your service.”

“If I were not in want of a page,” returned Angelo, with one of those
soft smiles that Gabrielle well remembered, “so interesting a youth as
you appear must ever be an acquisition.”

“Do you consent then, my Lord, do you grant my wish?” cried Gabrielle,
with undisguised joy.

“I do, most readily;” replied Angelo, “and since you are friendless, I
take you into my service without other recommendation than your
countenance and appearance.” And nothing, surely, could be more
calculated to interest than the countenance and appearance of Gabrielle;
her attire, though simple, and that of a page, was highly becoming,--it
was grey, van-dyked with black; and a large Spanish hat and feather,
while it partly shaded her face, rather added to, than detracted from
its beautiful expression.

“I am going,” continued Angelo, “to the Corso; enter the house, and on
my return we will have some further conversation.” Then seating himself
in the carriage, he gracefully, with a smile, waved his hand to the
agitated Gabrielle, who, gazing after him while he remained in sight,
with eyes that in another garb would have betrayed her, slowly, as he
disappeared, entered the house.

Behold her now in the habitation of her lover, near his person, and
empowered to watch his every action; this point gained, she had leisure
to re-consider, or improve her plans, and decided that she would not
discover herself to him, now that she possessed the means of doing so
when she chose, till time had developed to her his present pursuits, and
how far, if possible, his sentiments had changed towards herself.

In the capacity of a page, she was almost a constant attendant upon his
person; this circumstance of itself produced frequent conversation
between them, but, independently of that, there seemed to Angelo so
interesting and peculiar a charm in the manners and deportment of the
young Eugene, (for so Gabrielle had designated herself) that often he
unnecessarily summoned him into his presence, and contrived pretexts for
detaining him, in order to indulge, without committing his dignity, in
the pleasure he took in his society. In the reply that Gabrielle had
made to his enquries, respecting her history, she had added little of
embellishment; she had represented herself as an orphan, and most truly
she was such; that she was of French extraction, and having been fondly
educated and cherished by a tender father, her only surviving parent,
was, on his death, which had recently occurred, thrown without support
upon the world; that unwilling to struggle for bread in her native
country, France, it had been more consonant to her feelings and
inclinations, to seek it in another land; for this purpose she had
travelled into Italy, and, fortunately, as she would observe, with an
animated look which powerfully affected Angelo, she had obtained her
object far sooner than she could have presumed to hope. But though
Angelo had heard all this often and often, he was still unsatisfied, and
could not reconcile to himself, that a youth of such extraordinary mind,
seeming so superior to present circumstances, should have nothing more
peculiar attached to his history. Sometimes he would make him repeat his
little narative, to discover if possible some variation; but no,
Gabrielle, ever on her guard, related still the same, and with a look of
interest Angelo would occassionally suggest his doubts, and seem to
solicit further confidence. Eugene, however, as we must call Gabrielle,
would then only bow, and reply, with an air of indifference, that such
was his history.

But a short time elapsed, and the supposed page became so endeared to
his master, that he could no longer suffer him to associate at any
period with his other dependants, which painful degradation the
mortified, yet determined Gabrielle, had been sometimes obliged to
submit to, and had endured with that forbearing patience that ever
attends the consciousness of an exalted motive. Now, however, this
temporary humiliation was at an end; she was more properly the companion
than servant of Angelo, and was seldom from his presence. When he rose
she attended his breakfast table, and partook with him the morning’s
repast; the hours of noon she whiled away, by reading to him the newest
productions of the day, or often, sighing with the tender Tasso, or
lovelorn Petrarch, or smiling with the romantic Ariosto. Sometimes the
philosophical works of her countryman, Voltaire, engaged her, or
history, or metaphysics, and sometimes even the best English authors;
each had its turn, and at these periods the surprise and admiration of
Angelo would increase. “Your father must have given you, indeed, a
superior education,” would he involuntarily exclaim, fixing his eyes
upon her.

“He did his utmost,” Gabrielle would answer, with a sigh, and without
raising her eyes from the book she might be reading.

Angelo usually dined abroad, or otherwise had large companies at his
house; yet even then he felt uneasy, dissatisfied and anxious to escape
again to his youthful companion, in whose society he felt almost
exclusively happy, and who, distant from these scenes of revelry, adding
in his solitary chamber to the treasures of his well-stored mind, he
fancied superior to all present. To excuse his frequent unlooked for
appearance, and to prevent Eugene from surmising the true reason of his
visits, he would say that he felt not well, that conversation was
fatiguing to him, or that he had drank too much wine, and had escaped to
avoid drinking more; then, in his presence, enjoying his society, the
lassitude or melancholy of Angelo would speedily vanish, and books,
music, or conversation beguile agreeably the night, till the hour of
repose. Often on his pillow would he enquire of himself, and endeavour
to trace the cause of the excessive interest he felt for a comparative
stranger, but he could discover only the absoluteness of the sentiment,
without being able to ascertain its source, and, half uneasy at the
inexplicable feelings he experienced, he determined to see less of the
youth, and to treat him if possible with greater coolness. These
resolutions however, vanished always with the night, and the next day,
and the next, found him still the same, still irresistibly associating
with the attractive Eugene, and becoming more and more attached to him.

Meantime Gabrielle, blessing the Providence which had thus early
conducted her beneath the roof of him, on whom her best hopes were
fixed, began to experience some melioration of that deep-seated sorrow
which for long had corroded her heart; yet hoping nought, nor presuming
to expect aught, her thoughts and feelings were resolutely suppressed,
or concentered to a single point--the future interests of her child. Her
genuine and unsophisticated ideas of duty taught her that to ensure
protection for the unconscious being she had been the means of ushering
into life, her whole efforts should be directed, and no sacrifices of
self be esteemed too great to achieve an end so momentous, and so simply
due to the object for whom they were made. Such was the pure morality of
a nature uncontaminated by association with the world, unbiassed by its
contracted estimates of right and wrong.

In various ways had Angelo evinced extraordinary friendship towards
Eugene; it now remained to demonstrate still higher his regard for him,
by giving him his confidence. On those days when he dined abroad, it
sometimes happened that he did not return till a late hour of the night,
or towards morning; and sometimes not till the following day. Gabrielle,
who never accompanied him from home, knew not whither he went at these
times; but naturally concluded that convivial or agreeable society
occasionally detained him thus long. It remained, however, for her to
become more accurately informed.

The departed Montmorency had taught her to play on various instruments,
among others on the lute; with that was she occupied when, one evening,
Angelo entering her apartment, caused her to cease, and she arose.

“Resume your seat, Eugene,” cried Angelo, “why all this ceremony? will
you never forget the idle distinction fortune has placed between
us?--Come, I have something to say to you.”

“I am attentive,” replied Gabrielle, immediately seating herself.

“Your secrecy, first,” cried Angelo, with a smile, and taking her hand.

“On what subject, my Lord,” asked Gabrielle, faintly smiling in return.

“I am going to give you my confidence, Eugene,”--he paused--“I have a
mistress!”

Gabrielle involuntarily started; the lute fell from her nerveless hand,
and she was on the point of sinking, when suddenly recollecting
herself, and rallying her perturbed spirits, she said, laying her hand
upon her heart, “Excuse me, my Lord,--I felt a pain here!”

“Poor boy!” said Angelo, looking anxiously in her face, “are you often
thus?”

“Sometimes, my Lord; but this is the severest pang I have had for some
time past,” answered Gabrielle, with a quivering lip--“I feel better
now.” Angelo still held her hand, and his eyes were rivetted upon her
countenance; at that moment how did Gabrielle bless the artificial
colouring which veiled from his eager glance the strong and momentary
changes of her natural complexion.

“I am indeed recovered, my Lord,” she said, withdrawing her trembling
hand, and stooping for her lute to divert his attention.

“Well, then hear me, Eugene,--I have, as I have said, a
mistress!”--Gabrielle could now bear the word, though it grated on her
ear.--“This evening I am going to visit her;--certain reasons, which I
may in time explain to you, render it necessary that I should do so
secretly. I seldom visit her during the day, and am never accompanied by
any one to her house; it would, however, be highly agreeable to me,
Eugene, that you should accompany me, first for the pleasure of your
society, and secondly because I frequently require one whom who I could
trust to convey to her my letters, bring me her answers, and
occasionally reconnoitre the space before her house;--indeed it is far
from impossible, Eugene, but I may introduce you to her; she will not, I
am certain, disdain one whom I regard, and thus I could often enjoy, at
the same time, your society and the society of her I love.”

“Her I love!” repeated Gabrielle to herself with horror, and a
half-stifled groan escaped her.

“Are you ill again, Eugene?” cried Angelo, with alarm.

“No--no, my Lord,--a slight oppression only at my breast.”

“I will not say any more to you, my dear Eugene,--you shall not
accompany me this evening; retire to your bed, and I will go alone.” He
gazed affectionately in her agitated countenance, and again took her
hand to bid her farewell.--A tear dropped upon his hand as he held
her’s, and his eyes following the pellucid gem, he exclaimed, “Does
your pain cause you to shed tears, my dear boy?”

“Yes, yes; or it would kill me;” replied Gabrielle, unable to controul
her emotion;--“but let me not distress you, my Lord, I shall recover
when alone.”

“Indeed I will not leave you, Eugene,--lean on me, I entreat you, and
give free vent to your tears, if they relieve you.”--So saying, he
supported the trembling Gabrielle on one arm, and gently laid her head
upon his shoulder, while with the disengaged hand he tenderly pressed
her forehead, as though he sought to allay the throbbing of her burning
temples. “Ah!” thought Gabrielle, “these kind offices, performed in
friendship,--would he thus, if he really knew the object on whom he
bestowed his pity?” This thought, while it conveyed an additional pang,
yet helped to arouse her spirits, for she felt the necessity of
checking this excessive emotion, lest it should indeed excite some ideas
detrimental to the prosecution of her purpose; she therefore made an
effort, and raising her head from the shoulder of Angelo, she said,
brushing off her tears, “My Lord, I am grateful to you for the interest
you are pleased to manifest; my heart thanks you;--I am well.”

“I am most happy, Eugene; but you shall remain at home this night;
retire to bed, and I will leave you.”

“Ah, whither to go!” thought Gabrielle, as Angelo, rising, drew near the
door, and gazing after him, a sigh escaped her; Angelo turned, but
perceiving a faint smile, which with a heavy heart she had forced upon
her features, he concluded that the sigh was merely accidental, and
waving his hand towards her, left the room.

Now alone, Gabrielle had leisure to ponder over the imprudence of which
she had been guilty; she justly feared another such scene, if it led not
to discovery, must inevitably to suspicion, and might ultimately defeat
her every view; she therefore, after severely arraigning herself,
determined to keep in future a strict guard over her feelings, and
never, upon any occasion, permit them to overcome her. True, Angelo had
imparted to her a most painful secret; but even so, was it not far
better that a secret so material for her to know, should not have been
withheld, she might otherwise have acted erroneously, her plan of
conduct wholly undirected by the knowledge of important circumstances;
the chief advantage to be obtained under her disguise, was in the
discovery of events, in which he could not thus suppose her interested,
and of which she must otherwise have remained in ignorance.

Perhaps the attempt in her own person to have banished from his breast a
later passion, might have been vain; her claims might have been
slighted, her remonstrances disregarded; as a youth, however, the task
appeared less difficult; she would see this favourite, yes, painful as
would be the effort, she would see her; perhaps she might discover much
respecting her; she might be unworthy of the love of Angelo; she might
be even infamous; as a female any conviction of this nature must be
useless, for whatever she might reveal, whatever she might urge upon the
subject, would in all probability be attributed to envy, jealousy, or
disappointed love. As a youth, the confidant and friend of Angelo, no
motive, no interest could be supposed to influence such representation.
Suspicion must at all events be excited, and thus some steps would be
advanced; Angelo would be weaned from an improper attachment, and then
would be the favourable moment to appear before him.

What grief and anguish filled her breast to discover that he had not
only forsaken and forgotten her, but that her image in his heart, or
rather, as she believed, in his fancy, had been displaced by another.
She had thought him cruel and insensible, she now beheld that he was
faithless; but must this deter her from her purpose? no, his infidelty
to her could not exonerate her from prosecuting, with undiminished
energy, the interests of her child; why, because self-love was wounded,
her tenderness outraged, or weakness despised, turn traitor to an
innocent cause, or neglect the claims of one who called imperiously for
the most persevering efforts? Well she argued, that to remain unshaken
she must be divested of self, she must require no tokens of a former
love, no tenderness, no homage, no consideration; her aim must be
higher, nobler, more honorable; she had the welfare of another to
contend for, one whom her own errors had rendered dependent on her
exertions. “Let me then acquit myself of my high duties towards that
other,” she cried, “and then let me die.”




CHAPTER IX.


By the mere force of reason and virtuous principle, Gabrielle became
enabled to conquer, or at least repress every personal feeling,
sufficiently to hear without apparent emotion the enraptured praises
which Angelo bestowed upon his mistress, and even frequently to
accompany him to her house. In proportion as his confidence grew less
restrained, he informed Gabrielle, “that his fair Oriana was a female of
birth and reputation, an orphan, and a native of Genoa; that her parents
had left considerable property to herself and a brother, with whom she
resided, and that inclination alone had prompted them to fix their
residence at Naples: consequently,” added Angelo, “as the fair girl has
a severe guardian in her brother, I am under the necessity of timing my
visits, chiefly in his absence, although it was with him that my
acquaintance first, by accident, commenced, and through his means that I
became introduced to his lovely sister. I own, from the first moment I
beheld her, I felt a sensation which, however philosophers may define
it, I know was love; I repeated my visits again and again; her brother
was frequently absent; at length I declared to her the passion with
which she had inspired me; she did not turn from me with disdain, and I
became speedily convinced that I was far from being indifferent to her.
A most tender intercourse ensued, and the secrecy with which it was, and
is still conducted, detracts nothing from its charms; it is most
strictly enforced by Oriana, who has informed me, that independently of
her brother’s vigilance, he has it in firm contemplation to unite her to
a friend of his own, for whom, having been the associate of his youth,
he entertains a decided preference, and who is daily expected from
Genoa.”

“But why,” asked Gabrielle, having betrayed no symptom of her keen
emotions during this recital, “why have you not proposed to her brother
to marry her yourself, since, as you say, the Signora is more attached
to you than to him designed for her?”

Angelo burst into a laugh; “My dear young friend,” he cried, “how very
innocent you are; what! marry the kind creature who gave herself to me
without exacting that serious ceremony!--but, supposing I were even now
to do so--what security could I have for her honor?”

Bitter was the pang conveyed by this observation to the heart of the
humbled Gabrielle “Oh, Heaven!” thought she, “these are then his
sentiments;” and self for a moment intervening, “what then must be his
thoughts of me?--what have I to expect?” Gabrielle little knew, as she
made this reflection, that such are the sentiments of men in general
upon these subjects.

When Angelo visited his mistress, Gabrielle now almost invariably
accompanied him; he had introduced her as a youth for whom he had a
singular regard, and the condescending Oriana treated him in consequence
with the most flattering attention. Gabrielle, whom circumstances had in
some points altered materially from the unsuspicious Gabrielle she once
was, now watchful, reserved, and cautious, suffered nothing to escape
her; she availed herself of the kindness shewn to her by Oriana, to be
frequently at her house when Angelo himself was not there; and in so
doing she besides acted consonantly to the wishes of Angelo, who
considered that while his Eugene was there, he was not himself entirely
separated from his mistress, in as much as one on whom he could rely was
a faithful witness of her actions and conduct, which, by relating to him
afterwards, considerably diminished the pains of absence.

From the circumstance of her having become an admitted and unrestrained
visitor at the house of Oriana, she made certain observations which
convinced her, that the statement of the fair Genoese to her lover was
not strictly correct. The man she represented as her brother, she soon
ascertained to be no other than a favoured and most imperious lover, who
reigned over her with a sway almost despotic. This discovery of a most
gross imposture, while it dismayed Gabrielle at the novel view it
presented of human depravity, yet certainly gave her more pleasure than
if she had discovered a proportionable degree of virtue, for it pointed
out the possibility of disuniting her with Angelo, by unmasking the
deception she was guilty of towards him. Yes, Gabrielle almost exulted,
and with alarm asked of her heart, how it could rejoice at the turpitude
of any human being.

She resolved for the present, however, to keep her knowledge secret;
“For,” thought she, “if the love of Angelo for this female be not of a
nature such as I consider true love to be, that prizes as much the
honor and fidelity of a mistress as her personal charms or attractive
manners, then may he, perhaps, not attach to this conviction of her
infamy all the consequence that I may think it merits. It is evident,
however he may appear to love, that he does not esteem her, and I may
gain nothing by the unwelcome disclosure of what I know but his secret
dislike for having attempted to interrupt him in a pursuit that yielded
him pleasure, and flattered his vanity. No, I will as yet be silent;
time may develope still more, and perhaps some circumstances that may be
less liable to doubt of the effect they may produce.”

The fair Oriana, whose character events will sufficiently delineate,
though affecting to bestow all the love of which her heart was capable
upon Conte D’Albini, yet preferred to him Fiorenza de Vinci, the man by
him supposed her brother, and whom once she had passionately loved. Yet,
although she still cherished for him some sentiments of latent regard,
she liked the society of the young Eugene, and infinitely admired his
person; so far, therefore, from deeming his frequent visits intrusive,
she always welcomed him with the most lively pleasure, and gave him to
understand, she was never more happy than when in his company. Sometimes
she would say to him, with a smile, “Eugene, how handsome you appear; in
spite of the darkness of your complexion, you have the softest and most
beautiful countenance I ever beheld. If D’Albini really loves me,” she
would add laughing, and placing her hand upon his arm, “he should not
send to me so charming a youth as you are.”

Gabrielle speedily perceived, by similar observations and appropriate
conduct, that in her male character the fair Genoese viewed her with no
slight partiality; but although she saw, she would not appear to see it;
and yet did not wholly discourage it, lest she should become obnoxious
to Oriana, and thereby be removed from the field of action.

Some months passed on thus, and nothing material occurred; Gabrielle
kept up with her first and only friend, Madame Bertrand, a regular
correspondence; she informed her of every circumstance that took place,
and confided to her those anguished feelings that otherwise were never
breathed but to her pillow. She confided to her her alternate hopes and
fears, but expressed, along with them, her determination to persevere in
the path she had marked out, uninfluenced by any selfish consideration
of severe trial, or deep humiliation. “A wretch like me,” she would add,
“no circumstances can humiliate to a level with the degradation in which
her own guilt has plunged her; nor can any sufferings expiate the crime
of which she stands convicted. Oh, spirit of my murdered father!
could’st thou look down upon me, perhaps thou would’st be appeased by
the unceasing torments I endure.”

From Madame Bertrand she heard, in return, of the welfare of her child,
of its increasing beauty, and undiminished health; and that the
persevering Boffuet still continued his attentions towards her. Her
letters were usually concluded by entreaties to Gabrielle to return to
her peaceful mountains, and leave for ever the perfidious Angelo to his
worthless and ignoble pursuits. “God,” she wrote, “is all sufficient;
he would look down upon your innocent child, he would be to it father
and protector, and render of no import the neglect of its earthly
parent.” To these suggestions, Gabrielle constantly opposed her duty,
the sacrifices that it ordained her to make for the welfare and security
of the being she had brought into life defenceless and forlorn, and of
the necessity therefore that there existed of remaining firm,
undiscouraged by the present errors or misconduct of Angelo.

Still spell-bound in Naples, the careless Angelo thought not of taking
his departure; the bewitching Genoese continued to engage him; nor as
yet did his love or admiration appear to suffer diminution. Nay it
appeared on the contrary to increase, and to the dismay and anguish of
Gabrielle, had he more than once hinted, that while Oriana continued
attached to him, he would never think of marriage with another, that he
might be at liberty to will her at his death the bulk of his personal
property.

One morning, having indispensibly engaged himself for the day with a
party of friends, and deeming it probable he might not return till the
following morning, he bade Eugene visit his mistress, and present to
her, in his name, a superb bouquet and a basket of the finest fruit that
could be procured; to inform her of his intended absence, and to express
to her, in the strongest terms, his unhappiness at being compelled to
remain away from her so long; adding, that unaccompanied by her, the
charms of convivial society would be lost upon him. Painful and severe
task for the unhappy Gabrielle, but frequent wounds of the same
description had considerably blunted the keenness of her feelings on
these points, and she consoled herself with the reflection that her
humiliation was unknown by any but herself.

She obeyed therefore, in silent sorrow, the injunction of Angelo, to
depart the moment he was gone, and with a heavy heart bent her steps
towards the residence of her rival, loaded, for her, with the delicate
offering of fond affection, selected by him who had once loved her with
equal tenderness. Oh, triumph of powerful Virtue over the weakness of
the heart, if such are the sacrifices thou exactest, few must be the
votaries at thy hallowed shrine! Who, banishing all thought of self,
could unshrinkingly lead a life of penance and affliction, in pursuing
thy rigid laws? But, says the philosophic analist of the human heart,
self predominates throughout nature; it is not banished even here, it
was love which gave to Gabrielle the imagined fortitude of virtue;
moving in the orbit of him she loved, she saw him, she heard him, and
had strength to persevere. Such with ignobler minds might be the
actuating principle, but thus it did not operate with Gabrielle; her
delicate love received daily and hourly the bitterest wounds; had love
alone instigated her, it must thus have become lessened, and her
perseverance enfeebled; it was her love which, so far from diminishing,
increased the _virtue_ of her conduct, which had she hated, had been
less difficult to preserve; love such as her’s threw perpetual torments
in her way, sufficient to have annihilated the most patient affection;
but she shielded herself _against herself_, and bore resolutely her own
pangs for the sake of another.

She arrived at the house of Oriana with her basket, which weighed far
heavier to her than its contents rendered it, and entered without
ceremony the apartment where she usually sat; it was empty, and knowing
that it communicated with a little chamber where sometimes Oriana
retired to enjoy the delightful breezes from the bay on which it looked,
she was approaching the door to open it, when voices from within caused
her to arrest her steps. She listened for a moment, and heard the
authoritative voice of Fiorenza pronounce the name of Angelo; this was
sufficient for Gabrielle, she thought herself fully justified in
attending to what that man could possibly have to observe respecting
Angelo, and she drew closer to the door in order to ascertain, when
distinctly she heard him say, though in an under voice, “If such be the
case, why not consent at once? I repeat, the fool D’Albini must be loved
by you, or you would not hesitate.”

“But, dearest Fiorenza,” replied Oriana, in remonstrating voice, “listen
to reason; though the fool, as you say, did tell me that at his death
all he possessed should be mine, and that he had already taken every
necessary legal step to secure to me, as he expressed himself, all he
possessed; still it may not be exactly so, and he may perhaps have only
prematurely disclosed his intentions; in such case, we should gain
nothing by hastening his _death_; but, on the contrary, lose all by our
precipitancy.”

“But, woman!” cried the despotic Fiorenza, in a stern accent, “though
he is himself but a half-born Italian, he has reason to believe that my
blood is unmixed; he regards me as your brother, he thinks me noble; he
would not presume, therefore, to speak falsely even to you; besides, did
you not long since inform me of his intentions? Did you not
progressively inform me, as he spoke more decisively? and ultimately,
did you not state to me, when he told you that he had completed his
intentions, and that let death overtake him when it might, you would
find yourself mistress of his fortune, as you had been of his heart
during life?”

“It is true, indeed.”

“Well then?”

“Suppose our plan should fail? suppose some discovery--”

“Weak, unsteady woman! your idle objections move my scorn; yet beware
how you offend my pride, by shewing me too clearly that I am loved no
longer.”

“Be not so irritable, Fiorenza, I love you indeed.”

“Love me!” scornfully answered Fiorenza, “you are incapable of love; it
is enough if you prefer me, and that I demand; for remember _my_ claims
are prior to those of any one. Did I not raise you from obscurity? when
you lived in a little hut by the side of the Bonzevere, did I not give
you riches? for I was the means of your obtaining them. Your folly has
disgusted every one but me, and even this half Italian, if you do not
turn him speedily to account, will find his _English_ blood beginning to
cool the half which is Italian, and soberly divesting himself of the
mere atmospheric heat which influences him in this country, return to
his own frigid clime, as indifferent as he left it.”

“Well, Fiorenza, whatever benefits you have been instrumental in
procuring me, you have _shared_,” observed Oriana, without attending to
the latter part of his speech.

“It is clear to me, you love D’Albini,” cried Fiorenza, in his turn not
chusing to notice the remark of Oriana, though secretly commenting on it
with the deepest rage; “nay so wandering and fickle are you, that I do
verily believe you would prefer to me, even the boy Eugene.”

Oriana burst into a loud laugh, exclaiming, “Oh, now indeed, Fiorenza,
you have exactly guessed; how is it you never thought of this before?”

“Come, come, no foolery; do you not love D’Albini?” asked the rude and
jealous Fiorenza.

“I do not love him!” answered the Genoese.

“Then why hesitate?”

“I dislike the mode,--_poison_,” lowering her voice, “is not the safest
expedient.”

Gabrielle scarcely breathed as she listened to the increasing infamy
which the conversation of these two persons developed.

Fiorenza answered with mingled contempt and indignation, “You are
endeavouring to find objections,--you were not thus backward, methinks,
Signora, in the case of il Conte Vincenza, the Venetian.”

“Nor you thus precipitate, Signore; our measures were more deliberately
taken.”

“But deliberation in the present case would lose all; Vincenza was a
true Italian, steady, faithful, to be depended upon; D’Albini partakes
of the hot-headed, but cold-hearted, fickle and deceitful Englishman.
Come, Oriana,” he continued, stretching forth his hand, with a haughty
air; “be reasonable, and let us not waste the time in reflecting on each
other; I love you more than you are loved by any one, spite of your
folly, and bereft of me, you would lose your compass; let us then remain
true to one another, nor suffer aught to intervene between us and our
mutual interests--say then at once--to-morrow night _D’Albini dies_!”

Gabrielle started, and almost fell backwards; her head grew giddy, and
her heart became sick; scarcely had she strength to pay the requisite
attention to what was to follow.--

“Well,--if you absolutely insist,” said Oriana, slowly,----“you will be
present--”

“I will.”

“Will you administer it yourself?”

“The boy, Eugene, will be with us at supper; I shall fill out the wine,
having previously introduced the poison into the glass; I shall present
it to you through the medium of Eugene, who must sit opposite to me,
and between you and D’Albini; he, as usual, with his fond foolery will
desire you to change glasses with him, and Eugene, as he will be
situated, must unconsciously make the transfer; thus, you perceive,
allowing the utmost latitude to your fears, neither of us could possibly
become implicated, because I shall appear to have intended the wine for
you; you will not even present it to D’Albini, consequently suspicion,
if any, must fall on him who will sit between you.”

“Great God! then,” thought the trembling Gabrielle, “it is intended to
make me the murderer of Angelo--of him I adore--of the father of my
child,--oh, be praised Heaven, that directed me hither in such an hour
as this!”

Oriana observed, after a pause, “Well, all that is well enough arranged;
but afterwards--”

“Leave the rest to me; I undertake every thing;--if he hath spoken
truly, his possessions must be your’s;--if not, though by his death we
gain nothing, it is the merited consequence of his presumptuous
falsehood.”

So saying, Fiorenza arose and kissed the forehead of Oriana, who taking
his hand to detain him, said, “Well, but if it be finally determined for
to-morrow night, how shall I be informed which of my glasses to exchange
with D’Albini? I may give him one of pure wine, and drink that which is
destruction myself.”

“To avoid the possibility of so fatal an occurrence,” answered Fiorenza,
“or lest you should not fully interpret my looks, it shall be the
_first_ glass when supper is finished; and,” lowering his voice, “the
_fifth_ round which shall be drank;--therefore take heed, and remember
the _fifth_.”

“The fifth?--very well.”

“Yes, for the Count’s gallantry is never sufficiently roused to make the
tender proposal of exchanging glasses, till after several rounds have
been drank.”

Oriana laughed, and the base Fiorenza who had been formerly one of the
most desperate Bravoes in all Italy, and consequently could plan and
execute the murder of a fellow creature with as much coolness as he
would destroy an insect, stalked deliberately from the room through a
door which opened on a terrace. On hearing this, Gabrielle hurried from
her situation to the further end of the apartment, and seated herself
upon an Ottoman near the window; a large Venetian mirror opposite
reflected to her, her face and figure, and as she felt the blood
curdling round her heart, which had receded from her cheek, she had new
reason to rejoice in the artificial veil that overspread it, and
suffered no trace of paleness to be visible.

In the course of a few moments Oriana entered the room; on beholding her
she slightly started, and exclaimed, “Eugene, have you been here long?”

“Not long, Signora.”

“How long?”

“A few minutes.”

“And sitting so melancholy,” in a re-assured voice,--“why did you not
come into the other room?”

“This basket of fine fruit, Signora,” observed Gabrielle, desirous to
change the conversation, “which il Conte D’Albini has sent you, is not
very light, let me inform you, and I sat down with it, because I
literally felt myself overpowered!”

“Poor boy,” observed Oriana, “you are so delicate--too delicate almost,”
she added, seating herself beside him, and putting back the ringlets
from his forehead.

“Look at these flowers, Signora; are they not beautiful?--and this
fruit, how fine.”

“Indeed, Eugene, I had rather look at you, you appear so handsome
to-day.”

“Signora,” embarrassed, “you flatter me; the Conte desired me to inform
you he cannot have the happiness of seeing you for the whole of this
day.”

“But you are going to remain, Eugene; are you not?”

“I will rest a little longer, Signora, if you will permit!”--Gabrielle
had in effect proposed to remain for the day; but the present unreserved
deportment of Oriana staggered her in her intention.

“You are always so reserved, Eugene, I protest I think you hate me.”

Gabrielle averted her countenance, on which a blush almost pierced
through the covering of art.

“Why do you not answer me, Eugene?” asked Oriana, taking her hand.

“What answer can I make to such an observation, Signora?” asked
Gabrielle in return.

“Do you love me then, Eugene? will you reply to that?”

“As much as I possibly can, Signora;” answered Gabrielle, with truth;
but little aware of the effect these words were calculated to produce on
Oriana, she felt surprise mingled with alarm, when throwing her arms
round her neck, she exclaimed, “And I love you, Eugene, more than I can
express! I love you better than D’Albini, better than Fiorenza,--my
brother,” she added, with slight embarrassment,--“in short, so much that
I would sacrifice them both for you.”

Gabrielle shuddered at such a mixture of depravity and deception; but
the inconstant Oriana did indeed, at this moment, prefer Eugene to
either of her lovers, and the deception was towards them alone. “Come,
Eugene,” she added, fondly, “say something to me; say again that you
love me.”

The embarrassment of Gabrielle was momentarily increasing; she was at a
loss how to reply, while Oriana, attributing her confusion to the
timidity of youthful innocence, still gazed with tenderness upon her
downcast countenance. Suddenly the door opened, and Fiorenza entered the
room; he cast a suspicious look upon his mistress, and one of scorn on
the supposed Eugene, who felt overwhelmed with horror at being in the
presence of so dark an assassin, and scarcely considered safe the
trembling life that she held while near him. Availing herself, however,
of the seasonable interruption his entrance had occasioned to the
unequivocal language of Oriana, she arose to depart, when Oriana,
seizing her by the hand, exclaimed, “You must not go indeed, Eugene, you
must remain with me to-day, I know D’Albini wishes that you should.”

“Let the youth depart, Signora,” cried the fierce Fiorenza, in a voice
that shewed he would be obeyed, though he spoke without passion; “do you
not perceive that he has not an inclination to remain?”

“Indeed, Signore, it is impossible for me to remain,” said Gabrielle,
“but I shall accompany the Conte here to-morrow night,” he added,
turning to Oriana.

“You are certain the Conte intends to honor us with his company to
supper to-morrow night then?” observed Fiorenza.

“Such I know to be his intention, Signore, and I shall take care to be
of the party.”

“I shall be most happy,” replied Fiorenza; “inform him I have been long
anxious to see him, and hope he will not fail.”

“I will, Signore;--Signora, farewell!”

“You are very unkind to-day, Eugene,” cried Oriana, reproachfully.

“Fool!” muttered Fiorenza, looking on her with an eye of jealous rage,
as the object of her regard closed the door.




CHAPTER X.


Gabrielle returned home in a state of agitation and alarm; the
commixture of events too, in so short a space of time, the conversation
she had overheard, and the subsequent conduct of the Genoese, distracted
and confused her to such a degree, that, for a certain space, she was
unable sufficiently to arrange her ideas to resolve upon the line most
proper to be pursued. She easily perceived, from the observations she
had heard, how much the unguarded Angelo had committed himself with the
base Oriana, in having taught her to anticipate the period of his death
with pleasure and impatience; from this too she saw the extent of his
infatuation, since it could lead him thus far. When one moment,
therefore, she resolved to expose to him the infamous character of the
Genoese, and reveal to him the plot meditated against him, she discarded
that resolution in the next; first, lest her mere assertions should not
obtain unlimited credit; and secondly, from knowing the warmth and
precipitancy of Angelo, lest he should instantly fly to his mistress,
tax her with what he had heard, and thus leave himself open to her
blandishments, by which she might convince him that the whole was an
infamous fabrication; she, in such result, as the supposed incendiary,
might be driven with rage from the presence of Angelo, and these
machinating fiends would ultimately achieve their dreadful purposes.

At length, after long consideration, alternately dwelling upon and
rejecting every idea that presented itself, she determined on preserving
silence towards Angelo, to guard him from the mischief intended, and let
him form his own opinion upon what he should observe.

She passed the day in her chamber, ruminating and reflecting upon the
procedure necessary to be adopted; night came on, and found her still
there, and when the hour of repose arrived, she felt an irresistible
desire to remain up, in case Angelo should arrive, as sometimes he did
at a late hour, that at least she might have the happiness of
ascertaining he was at present in safety. Accordingly, taking a volume
of Lorenzo de Medici, she threw herself upon a sopha to be more at ease,
unfastened her hair, and suffering it to flow loose over her shoulders,
began to enjoy a moment of peace and relaxation from the consuming
cares and agitations of the day; she soon became deeply engaged with the
beauties of her author, and her mind in a degree diverted from the
contemplation of more gloomy images.

A single curtain of silk separated the chamber of Angelo from the
apartment where she was; several hours elapsed; she no longer
entertained an idea of his return, and though she still held the book in
her hand, she fell into a train of musing that completely abstracted all
attention from external objects. It happened, however, that Angelo
having unexpectedly been enabled to make his escape, returned home, and
entered, unheard by Gabrielle, his own apartment, with intent to retire
immediately to bed, little surmising that his companion still remained
from her’s.

He placed his lamp at the further end of his room, when the tender
light that shone through the curtain became visible, and convinced that
his Eugene must be within, none other being permitted to sit in the
apartment adjoining his; being in a sportive mood, he felt inclined to
surprise him, and extinguishing his lamp, softly approached the curtain,
to steal on him by degrees, and not to be heard till he was seen. For a
few moments he remained looking on her in silence, irresistibly
attracted by the sensation of mingled surprise and admiration which he
experienced; carelessly and unconsciously reclining, her hair loosely
flowing, and shading in part her pensive countenance, Gabrielle
presented a figure at once beautiful and interesting.

“How lovely he is!” mentally ejaculated Angelo, as he gazed; “yet though
he appears lovely, how little do those fine and tender features seem to
assimilate with that dark complexion; what delicacy of shape too!--what
elegance!”

As thus he viewed the supposed youth, again he felt the warmest
sensations of affection for him rising in his bosom. “No wonder,” said
he uneasily to himself, “he is formed to inspire friendship and interest
in the coldest heart; whoever sees him must _admire_; whoever knows him
must love.” He looked no longer however, but gently drawing aside the
curtain, he advanced into the room, in an oblique direction, and gliding
behind Gabrielle, when she did not dream of his being in the house, he
placed his hands lightly over her eyes, and cried as he glanced on the
book, “Always reading amatory verse, Eugene, you are certainly in love.”

Gabrielle at first uttered a slight exclamation, but at the soft voice
of Angelo her fears vanished, and gently taking his hands from before
her eyes, she involuntarily drew them to her lips and kissed them,
utterly unable, from sudden thought of the danger that threatened him,
to restrain this impulse of the joy she felt at beholding him in safety.

Angelo was sensibly affected; he gazed on her with tenderness, and while
tears almost started to his eyes, he said, “You are glad to see me, my
dearest Eugene--this is the happiest moment I have had to-day.”

Gabrielle sighed at this observation, but answered with energy, “I am
indeed most happy to see you, my lord, and I even thank you for your
remark.”

“What a formal speech, my dear Eugene, how unlike the tender freedom of
your action; henceforth, I intreat you, call me no more my lord, call me
only Angelo; for I consider you my friend, and regard you as my equal.”

“Ah! what happiness would be mine, if knowing me he spoke thus,” thought
Gabrielle, “but, my lord,” she modestly observed, “it would not be
proper for a poor, unconnected orphan, whom a happy chance alone
introduced beneath your roof, to forget the distance that exists between
us.”

“No more of this language, Eugene, if you love me--call me Angelo, and
forget the imaginary distinction you speak of--the distinction of
fortune merely, in all else you are my superior--ah, my dear young
friend,” he added with animation, “would, if you can wish it, that your
fortune more nearly resembled mine, and my mind your’s; you have a firm
mind, Eugene, and mine is weak and wandering; you have virtue, and I am
full of errors.”

“Ah! heaven bless and aid him,” silently ejaculated Gabrielle; “since he
perceives that he has errors, he will conquer them; his heart is yet
uncorrupted, and I may indulge the fond hope of his reformation.”

“But we are growing too serious,” cried Angelo in a gay tone, “tell me
Eugene,” he added sportively, and twining a lock of her beautiful hair
round his finger, “how is it that you have such luxuriant hair? one
might almost imagine you were a woman; absolutely, you must consent to
part with it.”

For the first moment, Gabrielle remembered the circumstance of her hair
being loose; in the deepest confusion she twisted it round her hand, to
fasten it up as usual, and in an unequal voice said, “it fell down by
accident, I know not how.”

“Well, let it remain so,” cried Angelo, laughing at her confusion, and
withdrawing the hand which confined it, when again it fell loose; “let
it remain so, it looks picturesque and beautiful; but pray, Eugene, I
had almost forgotten--how fares the charming Oriana?”

A pang of waking misery aroused Gabrielle from her fond delusions--she
falteringly answered, “the Signora is well.”

“And as gay, and as fascinating as ever?”

“Quite so.”

“Did she not say aught?”

“She expects you will sup with her and il Signor Fiorenza, to-morrow
night.”

“Most assuredly I will, and you likewise, Eugene; will you not?”

“I would not for worlds be excluded, my lord; will you permit me to
retire?” she added rising.

“Certainly,” Angelo answered abstractedly, for his mind was now engaged
with a new image, and new ideas; Gabrielle moved towards the door, and
her heart swelled with grief. “Good night, my lord,” she said looking
back.

“Good night, Eugene,” cooly returned Angelo.

Gabrielle hastened from the room; she perceived of whom he was thinking,
and felt for the moment indignant. “But I would save him,” said she
mentally, “even though he hated me.” She retired to bed, immersed in
plans for his safety, and meditating on him with tender compassion,
while he retired to his, absorbed in fond fancy of another--that other
conceiving his destruction.

So dangerous and untrue are the blandishments of the wanton, and he who
trusts to them hovers ever on the brink of perdition. On the following
evening the misguided Angelo, accompanied by Eugene, attended punctually
to his appointment at the house of Oriana. She received him with the
false smiles of a Circe, and stretching out her hand, that hand which
was intended to present him ere long with the draught of death, she
softly reproved him for his absence the whole of the preceding day.
Gabrielle shuddered, and shuddered still more when approaching her she
whispered in her ear, “I am angry with you Eugene, nor will I be
reconciled till, unaccompanied by your friend, you come and ask my
forgiveness.” To this she added, unperceived, an emphatic pressure of
the hand, and then exclaimed aloud, “Conte I have been taxing this young
robber with having stolen the finest peach out of the basket yesterday,
to present it to his own mistress; I missed it the moment he was gone.”

Angelo laughed; “Great Heaven, what a mixture of depravity and
deception,” thought Gabrielle, as with horror she looked on Oriana.
Fiorenza now made his appearance; he bowed respectfully to Angelo, and
cordially addressed his pretended sister. Gabrielle glanced towards him,
and trembled; such complicated guilt was new to her, beyond all that
ever her fancy even could have suggested.

With mingled impatience and dread she anticipated the hour of supper,
while almost continually her anxious eyes reverted from Angelo to his
treacherous hosts, marking their every movement; for scarcely could she
be persuaded that for the present moment he was safe. Supper was at
length announced; Gabrielle involuntarily started, and a cold chill
crept through her blood; she followed, however, with seeming composure
to the supper room, and observed, that Fiorenza, seating himself
opposite to Oriana and his unsuspecting guest, took good care to leave
the seat between them vacant, waving his hand to Eugene, as intimating
that he resigned it to him. Gabrielle took the seat, and the supper
commenced.

Fiorenza introduced brisk conversation; Oriana joined, and they
endeavoured, as much as possible, to amuse Angelo, and engage his
attention. Mean time the vigilant eyes of Gabrielle watched with
dreadful solicitude each successive glass of wine. Four rounds had now
been drank,--the supper concluded,--fresh glasses were brought, with
comfits and fruits, and the servants all retired.

Now came the fearful fifth round; Angelo was engaged in conversation
with the treacherous Genoese, and Gabrielle appeared listening to them,
as particularly intent upon the subject which occupied them, though she
did not fail to observe every movement of Fiorenza and remarked that
after placing his hand for a moment in his bosom he glided it under the
table, where he suffered it to remain. Now his dark eyes glanced
scowlingly around, no one seemed looking towards him--he drew his hand
from underneath the table, and taking up the bottle, held it with three
fingers only against the palm of his hand, while as he poured the wine
into the glass, dexterously from between his fore finger and thumb, he
suffered a subtle and almost impalpable powder to fall gradually, and
mingle with the wine, with which it thus seemed to incorporate.

Gabrielle experienced a pang of horror; had she been ignorant of the
plot, so artful had been the management of the villain Fiorenza, that
not the most suspicious observation could have imagined aught; the other
glasses he filled without moving the position of his hand, and pushing
that containing the poison towards Oriana, he said, with a terrific
smile, and slightly inclining his head, “Come, Oriana, since the Conte
will not, your brother will pledge you.”

“No, no,” cried Angelo, “leave your sister to me, Signor,” and lifting
his glass lightly to his lips, he handed it to his mistress, while
fondly he looked in her countenance, and said, “My glass for your’s,
fair Oriana.”

The fair Oriana, with a bewitching smile, held out her glass to exchange
with Angelo, when, “Stop!” exclaimed Gabrielle, “my Lord; a slight
ceremony must first be performed, which alone can render the exchange of
value to you.”

“What is that, Eugene?” cried Angelo, laughing; while rage, forced into
a smile, appeared on the dark visage of Fiorenza.--

“These glasses, my Lord,” pursued Gabrielle, “have been all brought
since supper,--the rosy lips of the Signora have not yet pressed her’s,
if therefore you would exchange with her, she must first touch it with
that lovely mouth, to add honey to the wine, and to render it a valuable
exchange for you.”

“Bravo! my dear Eugene, you know the laws of love and gallantry, I
perceive;--fair Oriana, we must be taught by this youth; deign then to
taste your wine, that my unworthy lips may press the spot where your’s
have touched.”

At this unexpected turn, great was the consternation of the Genoese; she
looked towards Fiorenza, with eyes that said, “Deliver me from this
terrible embarrassment.” Dark red murder glowed on the bronzed cheek of
Fiorenza! detected crime sat on his gloomy brow, his lips quivered with
bitter rage, hate, and fierce disappointment; but he gave no vent to the
tumultuous feelings of his breast.

“Why this timidity, Oriana?” he cried, with the look and smile of a
deceiving Demon,--“you may oblige the Conte, surely; _touch_ the glass
with your lips.”

By the emphasis he laid on the word touch, and by the glance of his eye,
Oriana understood that he wished her in effect to put the glass to her
lips, without drinking any of the wine; but she was too dreadfully
alarmed for herself to make this attempt, even though the keen glance of
Eugene might not have discovered the feint; she therefore still
hesitated, when Gabrielle exclaimed:

“Aye, indeed, Signora, why this timidity?--one should think you were
afraid of being poisoned!” At the same time taking the glass from her
hand, without Oriana’s daring to resist, she held it up towards the
light, and pursued, “I do not so much wonder, indeed, Signora, at your
hesitation,--this wine does not in truth appear most invitingly clear.”

At this moment the animated looks, and gestures of Fiorenza compelling
Oriana into immediate compliance with what they urged, she exclaimed,
with a laugh, “How absurd you are to-night, Eugene; I’ll not remain near
you any longer;” and affecting to rise with heedless haste, she struck,
as if by accident, the raised arm of Gabrielle with her shoulder, when
the glass falling out of her hand, immediately broke, and the fatal
draught intended for Angelo, flowed harmless upon the table.

Angelo had remained silent during this scene; there was something in it
which he did not like, yet he knew not what to think; the words and
manner of Gabrielle excited in his mind a vague suspicion that some
mischief had been intended, yet scarcely could he reconcile this idea
with reason; for so little inclined was he to think amiss of any human
being, that he could not conceive a motive sufficiently black to induce
the wish in any one to deprive him of life.

As the glass fell, his eyes were attracted to the table, it was strewed
with its fragments, upon some of which appeared a roughness, while in
the bottom of the glass, that remained almost entire, a dusky sediment
was clearly discernible. Angelo took it in his hand, looked at it with a
suspicious eye, yet did not speak, for he could not endure to believe
that the whole might not be accidental, or that the tender mistress, who
valued him sufficiently to sacrifice to him her honor, and endanger her
reputation, could in any point of view be so false, or so inconsistent,
as to desire his destruction.

The idea was not more abhorrent than it appeared heterogeneous to him,
and therefore he would not allow himself to express a doubt, well
knowing that if he did, he could never see her more.

Oriana, somewhat recovered, now that she had conquered the terror of
being compelled to touch the poison, took up with seeming indifference
one of the fragments of glass, and looking slightly over it, handed it
to the enraged and defeated Fiorenza, exclaiming with an air of
innocence, “See brother, this glass does look strangely, and observe,”
raising his glass to the light, “your wine appears turbid as mind did;
does it not Eugene? let us not have any more from this bottle, there is
some fault in it.”

Gabrielle made no other reply to her observation, that by an expressive
look, which Fiorenza observing, vowed in the deepest recesses of his
guilty heart, that he would take vengeance on the audacious stripling.
Oriana summoning an attendant, ordered more wine and different glasses,
then filling some for herself, and some for Angelo, she carelessly
observed, “this wine appears excellent; come, my lord, I will with
pleasure pledge you in this,” so saying, she tasted the wine, and with
a seducing smile presented her glass to Angelo, that part towards him
which her lips had touched.

Though Angelo was far from being perfectly at ease, he could not resist
the tender blandishment of his mistress; he took the wine from her hand,
and as he did so, said, fixing his eyes upon her countenance, which bore
the air of the most perfect innocence, “Oriana--I drink to you in all
_sincerity_.”

“Conte D’Albini!” exclaimed the wily Fiorenza, starting up and placing
his hand in his bosom, from which the hilt of his stilletto became
visible, “you lay strange emphases on your words--why that meaning in
your looks? if you suspect there is more than mere accident in what has
occurred, speak openly your doubts, and I will at once satisfy you of
my honor, as you must me for your suspicions.”

“I have not said any thing, Signor Fiorenza, to render this conduct
necessary on your part,” observed Angelo, “your warmth indeed appears
totally uncalled for.”

From the fierce looks of Fiorenza, panting to give some vent to his
dreadful rage, Gabrielle entertained a fear, that foiled in his first
aim, he now desired to provoke Angelo to resent his words, that he might
have an opportunity, in an unguarded moment, of achieving his purpose by
his stilletto. She therefore exclaimed, “Oh, certainly, Signor Fiorenza
you are too precipitate; il Conte D’Albini never gives hints, he always
expresses what he thinks. Why not therefore reserve the vindication of
your honour, till he avows his doubts of it?”

“I perceive, young gentleman,” cried Fiorenza, biting his lips, with a
distorted smile, “you are as prone to teach the laws of honour, as those
of gallantry.”

“Nonsense!” cried Oriana, and with that innocent sportiveness she knew
so well how to assume, she added; “my brother was ever passionate and
hasty from a youth, come, sit down good Fiorenza, no one chuses to
quarrel with you.”

“What, do you condemn me too, Oriana?” cried he, permitting his stern
features to relax; and taking his hand from his bosom, he presented it
to Angelo, saying, “Excuse me Conte if I have been intemperate, but when
an Italian conceives a friendship, he cannot brook the idea that
trifles or accidental circumstances should cause it to be suspected.”

Angelo, impressed for the moment by his words, took his proffered hand,
and Fiorenza re-seating himself, harmony appeared again to be restored.

Oriana exerted every effort to please and entertain Angelo, desirous of
obliterating from his mind the awkward accident that had occurred; in
these attempts the gloomy Fiorenza essayed to join, but their united
endeavours could not prevent him from now and then reverting to what had
passed, nor could he compel himself to the usual cheerfulness and gaiety
he evinced, when in the presence of his fair mistress. He therefore
earlier than common took his departure, and, accompanied by Eugene,
returned home.

In any other place than Italy, a circumstance like the one here detailed
might have been sufficient ground for the deepest scrutiny of the law,
for the disgrace or punishment of the persons convicted, and of course
for a total and eternal breach between the party: but in this country
the case is different; such occurrences are common, and a lover even
ascertaining the intent of his mistress to poison him, not only would
not feel himself induced to break with her, but would even continue his
visits to so dangerous an object.--Pique, anger, jealousy, will
sometimes excite to this violent degree the resentment of the Italian
fair, and if the venturous lover has reason to believe that either of
these momentary sensations is the actuating impulse of his mistress’s
attempt, he can forgive her, and entertain no fears of future mischief:
besides, the mode of thinking on this point is somewhat reciprocal; the
lover indeed will not poison his fair one, if he suspects her fidelity,
but he takes a shorter method; he plunges his stiletto in her breast,
and often gives her no opportunity of vindication. Thus the country
stamps the degree of crime, marks the criterion by which it is to be
estimated, and gives the law to the opinions of the people. In Sparta,
it was ordained to expose to perish in the forests, those tender infants
who gave no early indications of strength and beauty, while in more
civilized ages, the practice became punishable with death.

There was a mixed sensation in the mind of Angelo, which rendered him
averse to conversing with Eugene on the events of the night; he feared,
perhaps, that his unbiassed mind appreciated them more truly than he
would permit his own to do; and that he might advance such observations
and opinions, as, from their justness and propriety, might render it
next to impossible for him to continue his visits to Oriana. So weak was
he, and so extravagantly infatuated with this worthless woman, who, from
her pretended innocence and engaging vivacity, had obtained such an
ascendancy over him, that he could not endure, upon any terms, the
thought of resigning her society; he endeavoured to persuade himself,
that nothing hostile was in reality intended against him, that all was
accidental; yet, when memory involuntarily recurred to the embarrassment
manifested by Oriana when pressed to taste the wine, the pretended
accident of its spilling, in which there appeared so much of artifice,
he was staggered. To this, however, he opposed in his mind the warmth of
tenacious honour, and offended friendship in Fiorenza, who surely, he
erroneously conceived, if aught of evil had been designed against him,
would have acted in a way so widely different.

Yet spite of his wish to think and believe the best, such was his
opinion of the depth and penetration of Eugene, that he, at times,
almost felt a conviction there must be strong meaning in the conduct he
had pursued. At all events he could not resolve otherwise than to speak
of it lightly, to appear to estimate it as a trifle merely, and thus
treating it, continue without interruption his visits to Oriana, though
keeping continually on his guard, and narrowly observing her future
conduct.

Such, too often, the infatuation of the Libertine, and such his unworthy
folly; his all of feeling directed towards objects, base or
contemptible, as unwilling as he is unable to shake off the ignoble
trammels by which he is enslaved. Vice has for him more attractions
than virtue; the superficial endowments of the body, more value than
those of the mind. Thus the meretricious fair one, who, by empty
frivolity, or unmeaning mirth, can wing his vapid hours with irrational
delight, will ever be in his eyes a greater object of allurement than
the faithful friend, honourable wife, or intellectual companion.


                             END OF VOL. I.


           G. SIDNEY, Printer, Northumberland-street, Strand.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79424 ***