Volume 2

Chapter 1

THE STORY OF LA ROQUE

List a brief tale,

And when 'tis told, Oh! that my heart would break,

The bloody proclamation to escape.

SHAKESPEARE

'My real name, which from unavoidable circumstances I have for some time disguised under that of La Roque, is Conte della Croisse.' Madame Chamont started, and with much difficulty concealing her emotions, La Roque proceeded:

'Being early in life deprived of my parents, I was consigned by my father to the guardianship of the late Marchese de Montferrat; and, immediately on his decease, quitted Naples, the ancient seat of my ancestors, and repaired to the environs of Turin.

'Being too young to know the extent of my loss, the affectionate behaviour of the Marchese, and still gentler attentions of the Marchesa, soon relieved me from unpleasant recollections, and restored me to my former felicity. Masters were procured to instruct me in the classics and different sciences; as it was the particular request of my dying father, who had an unconquerable aversion to public seminaries, that my education should be a private one.

'My time, now chiefly devoted to literary pursuits, fled rapidly away; and my guardian beheld the progress I made with satisfaction and complacency.

'The family at the Castello St Aubin, consisted of the Marchese, the Marchesa, one daughter (who was somewhat younger than myself), and a large number of domestics.

'The hospitality and generosity inseparable from the inhabitants of this princely abode, was become proverbial. Every countenance expressed disinterested affection, content, and innocence; and every breast was animated with truth, sincerity, and virtue.

'The first serious uneasiness I experienced, after the loss of my parents, was occasioned by the death of the Marchesa, who died, much regretted, in consequence of a fever that proved fatal after a few days' illness. The Marchese was for some time inconsolable for her loss, and instead of mixing as usual with the world, abandoned himself to solitude; till an habitual melancholy was stealing gradually upon his mind, which threatened the most unhappy consequences.

'Whilst he was yet yielding to the influence of unavailing regret, he received a visit from a relation who had been some years abroad, and for whom he had conceived a peculiar regard. This unexpected event had so happy an effect upon him, that with much persuasion, he consented to accompany his friend on an expedition to Verona, for the recovery of his health and spirits.

'He had not been there long before he was struck with the singular beauty of a young Signora, much his inferior in point of rank and fortune, but whose person, he imagined, resembled that of the once lovely Marchesa. Opportunity threw her frequently in his way, and, finding her affections were disengaged, he offered her his hand, which she readily accepted; and the marriage being solemnized during the Marchese's continuance at Verona, they returned to the Castello.

'It was easy to discover, even on a transient acquaintance, that the mind of the young Marchesa was much inferior to that of her predecessor; with whose manners, the haughtiness of disposition she early displayed, formed a striking contrast. She did not long, however, enjoy newly acquired dignities; but having given birth to a son about a year after her marriage, soon afterwards expired.

'About this period, Helena, the daughter of my guardian, having completed her education at Naples, returned to the Castello. Her vivacity and sweetness of demeanour soon dissipated the clouds that shaded the brow of the Marchese, and diffused universal tranquillity around. During the infancy of the young Signor, her brother, she attended to him with the undeviating affection of a parent; and the family, under her gentle authority, were re-instated in their original felicity.

'To have been continually in the presence of the beautiful Helena without feeling the power of her attractions, would justly have exposed me to the imputation of stoicism; a short time convinced me that I had too little of that cold philosophy in my heart to be insensible to the most modest graces of her person, or the angelic sweetness of her disposition. I had soon the consolation of discovering that our feelings were mutual, and had the satisfaction of perceiving that the Marchese beheld this growing attachment with approbation.

'The period was now arrived in which some knowledge of the world was supposed to be requisite; and, accompanied by another young nobleman, whose name was Berlotto, I made the tour of Europe.

'Having visited several of the principal Courts, and seen the most valuable vestiges of antiquity, my companion became weary of the expedition, and expressed his impatience to return; but as much remained to be seen, which was sufficiently interesting to merit observation, and as yet my thirst for information was ungratified, I was deaf to the intreaties he employed for the accomplishment of his desire, till an alarming account of the declining health of the Marchese altered my resolution.

'On my arrival at the Castello St Aubin I found him much worse than I had reason to apprehend; and soon afterwards the progress of his disorder was so rapid as to preclude the probability of a recovery. Perfectly sensible of his danger, he summoned me to the side of his bed; and, warmly commending the young Signor to my friendship and protection, soon afterwards expired.

'It was now necessary to exert all the fortitude that Nature had bestowed upon me, as well to rouse myself from the state of despondency that succeeded the death of so valuable a friend, as to mitigate the sorrows of the affectionate Helena. During the illness of the Marchese, a female relation of his was sent for to the Castello, who was now resident in the family. She was past the bloom of youth; but possessed some accomplishments and much good-humour, and seemed anxious to afford consolation.

'When the time of mourning was expired, and grief had in some measure yielded to the certain effects of time, finding that Helena still continued to receive my attentions with courtesy, I ventured to declare my love. She was too frank, too innocent for disguise; and, confessing a mutual attachment, gave me her hand at once, to reward and to confirm my virtues.

'After this event, as the time of my minority was expired, we repaired to Naples; and, in that city, enjoyed more pure and uninterrupted felicity than usually falls to the lot of mortality.

'The young Signor, now Marchese de Montferrat, soon after the celebration of our nuptials, was removed to a public school in the vicinity; and from the proficiency he made in all the branches of literature, and the early genius he displayed, attained every mark of distinction to which he had ambitiously aspired. But, as he arrived towards manhood, it was easy to discover that his mind possessed more brilliancy than energy; and through the exterior accomplishments of the gentleman, an accurate observer might distinguish some qualities, which, though early veiled in dissimulation, were unpromising as well to the man as to the scholar. -- He wished to appear virtuous, without doing violence to his inclinations by becoming so; refusing to deny himself the smallest gratification to obtain, what is much more estimable than popular applause, the approbation of his own heart. Wearing publicly the semblance of goodness, he so far succeeded in his desires as to impose himself upon the greater part of the world, who are only superficial observers, as a miracle of worth and honour.

'About a year after our marriage, the happiness we had hitherto enjoyed was augmented by the birth of a son; which event was celebrated by a fete, given at a beautiful villa in the environs of Naples, to which, as a summer residence, we frequently resorted.

'On this occasion, several of the Neapolitan Nobles were present, and, amongst others, the Conte de Pietro, who was introduced to me by an acquaintance with whom I had been lately in habits of intimacy, having newly arrived in the province.

'This much-esteemed courtier was just returned from his travels; and, compared with many that were present, who had seen life with equal advantages, displayed many shining perfections -- in conversation he was polite, easy, and communicative; and there was an air of unreserve, and at the same time, of dignity in his manners, which could not fail to attract the admiration of congenial minds. The deference he paid to my opinion in every subject of discourse, and the warmth with which he applauded every sentiment I expressed, could not fail of exciting somewhat of vanity in my breast, when I perceived the countenances of others soliciting his regard without equal success. -- From this aera I date most of my succeeding misfortunes. We had early conceived a partiality for each other; and I naturally considered a man of his easy address, fashionable accomplishments, and literary attainments, as a most valuable acquisition to my domestic happiness.

'The affluence of his circumstances enabled him to indulge himself unrestrainedly in those pleasures to which he was the most addicted, and allowed him the gratification of performing many acts of benevolence, which considerably exalted him in my estimation.

'The dissipation of the metropolis was every way suited to the gaiety of his mind, where his rank, his person, and his lively parts quickly introduced him into the first assemblies; gaining him universal applause in all places of public resort which he honoured with his attention.

'With the other sex he was a general favourite; for he was by no means insensible to the attractions of beauty, though he might be said to be incapable of a sincere and honourable attachment. No dissimulation, however, veiled for a moment his natural character: he was ostentatious in his gallantries, and open in his amours. He smiled when I expatiated on the happiness arising from the endearments of a beloved wife and a beautiful offspring; for his attentions having been confined to the gay, the light, and the dissipated, he knew not the value of an inviolable attachment. Anxious to lead me from those home-bred pleasures that my Helena had endeared to me, he used many arguments for the accomplishment of his purpose; and though at first they were firmly opposed, yet, becoming by degrees too powerful for resistance, they at length finally succeeded.

'When the mind once deviates from the path of virtue, it soon becomes reconciled to vice; and the habits of life into which I was continually led, began imperceptibly to destroy my natural feelings of rectitude, and to take from depravity the restraints of conscience.

'From a long course of perpetual and, I may add, guilty indulgences, what had formerly afforded the most serene satisfaction, became tasteless and disgusting; since the most worthy occupations were exchanged for debauchery, and that time, which used formerly to be devoted to the welfare of my family, was divided between the Theatre, the Opera, and the Gaming-house.

'The Contessa's attachment to the country occasioned her to reside chiefly at the villa; and, as she partook but little of the amusements of Naples, she was for some time spared the uneasiness which a knowledge of my excesses would have inevitably produced. At first she expressed some degree of pleasure at my having found entertainment in society; but when my absences became more frequent, though she forbore reproaches, her countenance sufficiently testified her disapprobation of my conduct.

'A daughter was now added to our family; after which event my wife was for some weeks so ill that her life was supposed to be in danger, during which time my anxiety was so great that I never quitted her room; but, contrary to my expectation, the disease, when arrived at the crisis, took a favourable turn, and she recovered. My joy at this moment was beyond all bounds; for a sense of her condition had recalled me to reason, and I felt anxious, by convincing her of my affection, to atone for the errors of my past conduct.

'No sooner was she restored to my wishes, than I received a visit from the Conte de Pietro, who congratulated me on this happy event; and observing that I looked ill, and that too much confinement had injured my health, endeavoured to prevail upon me to accompany him on an excursion to Padua. At first I persisted in rejecting the proposal; but Helena, whose mind was reassured by the attention I had paid her in retirement, and with the tender anxiety I had discovered on her account, prevailed upon me to accept of it, and in a few days we commenced our journey.

Chapter 2

Hark!

Waked -- from according Lyres the sweet restrain flows

In symphony divine; from air to air,

The trembling numbers fly, swift bursts away

The flow of joy.

LANGHORNE

'Not many days after my arrival in Padua, as I was walking with De Pietro, by the side of the Brenta, our steps were arrested by the tones of a lute, accompanied by a female voice, which breathed such exquisite sweetness that we were unable to move from the spot. Whilst we still continued to listen, in wrapt and silent attention, the strain ceased, the plaintive notes of the instrument died into silence, and, in a few moments, we perceived a gondola, from which the melodious accents proceeded, approaching towards the margin of the river. Anxious to behold the musician and songstress who had possessed such powers of enchantment over us, we still lingered on the banks till the gondoliers rested upon their oars, and we beheld two females come on shore, who were escorted by a young Signor apparently of the middle rank of life. -- They were both veiled; but the graceful figure of the younger, for the other seemed to have passed the summer of her days, chiefly attracted our regard. Fancy had portrayed a face not less beautiful than the form to which it belonged; and I was anxious to be assured whether she had not been too profuse of her colouring, when a ruder breeze from the water wafted aside the light texture of her veil, and discovered the original.

'It was a face that could not be gazed upon with indifference; it did not possess the insipid uniformity of perfect beauty; but there was something in it infinitely more attractive than the most exact harmony of feature could have bestowed, divested of that inexpressible charm, which gave animation and loveliness to the whole. The blush that suffused her cheek, at being thus unexpectedly exposed to the rude gaze of admiration, gave new graces to her person. Having directed her eyes upwards, which were dazzlingly bright, she drew her veil over her face, with a look that expressed somewhat of distress; and taking the arm of her companion, hastened along the banks of the river.

'The Conte having intimated a desire to follow them to their home, I gladly consented to attend him; and, keeping a respectful distance, we followed slowly behind.

'Our way lay, for a considerable time, along the borders of the Brenta; and during this pursuit the beautiful Stranger frequently turned, as if to discern whether we were near them; and then, in apparent confusion, hastened her steps, as if anxious to elude our observation.

'Having ascended the cliff, contrary to our expectation, they took a road which did not lead into the city; and the young Signor that attended them, who appeared to be only a school-boy, having resigned the lute which he had carried for the beautiful songstress, took a contrary direction.

'Our curiosity was now too much excited to enable us to relinquish a project, whose novelty was attended with so much pleasure; and having proceeded through a vista, we reached the confines of a simple but elegant villa, whose situation was equally secluded and picturesque: -- It was seated upon a gentle acclivity; and being nearly surrounded with groves of citron, acacia, and mountain ash, which were tastefully interspersed with a number of variegated shrubs peculiar to the climate of Italy, formed one of the most delightful landscapes we had ever seen.

'Having arrived within a few paces of a gate, leading into a kind of shrubbery, which seemed to be a private entrance, the laws of politeness would have compelled us to recede, had not the necessity of this conduct been prevented by a trifling occurrence:

'A snake, which had concealed itself in the grass, had assailed the ankle of the youngest Signora, and the alarm this circumstance occasioned was so excessive, that I had no sooner flown to her assistance, and accomplished her release from this venomous attack, than she fell senseless in my arms. A rivulet that wandered among the recesses of the shade, inclosing this sylvan retreat, supplied us with water, and soon afterwards, to my unspeakable satisfaction, she recovered.

'When this was effected, the elder lady abounded in the most eloquent expressions of gratitude, whilst the young one thanked me rather with her looks than with her words.

'Having supported the fair invalid into the mansion, we were ushered into a room genteelly, but not expensively furnished, where we were courteously accommodated with seats; and when the alarm was dispelled that this little accident had produced, had the consolation of seeing the countenance of the interesting stranger animated with smiles, and sparkling with intelligence. She called me her deliverer; and when addressing herself to me, there was a bewitching softness in her eyes, a fascination in her voice and manners, that would have warmed a heart less susceptible than mine. In those moments even Helena was forgot; and, as the Conte steadfastly observed my emotions, there was an air of triumph in his countenance when I adverted to the incident that had obtained for us the gratification we desired, which did not escape my notice.

'Laurentina, which was the name of the syren, at the desire of Signora Bairdiella, who was her aunt, presented us with some fruit, the produce of her garden; and then, at our joint solicitation, took her lute, which she again touched with exquisite expression, and performed some of the finest Italian compositions with inimitable grace and sweetness.

'The hours flew so rapidly away that it was late before we departed; which we could not prevail upon ourselves to accelerate without requesting permission to repeat our visit at a more convenient season.

'In this we succeeded; and so well availed ourselves of this indulgence, that not a day passed in which we did not repair together, or severally, to the villa of Salazzar.

'Laurentina possessed wit, sentiment, and tenderness -- every thing I valued most, and least expected to find united with such youth and beauty; and was apparently so much interested in my appearance, and so much flattered by my attentions and conversation, that I felt unusually delighted in her presence. Every interview tended to increase her partiality in my favour, as well as to convince me that my attachment to her person and accomplishments was become too powerful for resistance, and that her society was necessary to my happiness, if not to my existence.

'After about a fortnight's residence in the city, the Conte de Pietro discontinued his visits to the villa; observing with a sarcastic smile, at which I was not so much offended as I ought to have been, that though Laurentina was as beautiful as an angel, he was too much my friend to endeavour to deprive me of so inestimable a jewel; then assuring me that if I continued the siege, she would not long continue inexorable. He proceeded to inform me of some traits in the character of her aunt, Signora Bairdiella, particularly that of avarice, which might eventually prove favourable to my wishes; and of some hints which he had received from a native of Padua respecting the conduct of Laurentina. They were of a nature to encourage hope, and I felt still more elevated at the discovery. 'The ascendancy over me that the Conte possessed, was increased by a more powerful attraction than what had hitherto cemented our affections -- from the infatuated regard which my own vanity and susceptibility, as much as her own art and loveliness had made me experience for Laurentina.

'When under the dominion of passion we are insensible to the influence of reason, Vice, on a nearer acquaintance, loses her deformity; and the mind abating in its vigour, and being no longer able to resist the force of temptation, finally espouses her cause.

'Having given a thousand imaginary perfections to the object of my admiration, of which I could not easily divest her, the enterprize in which I had engaged, on a transient survey appeared to me more difficult than it eventually proved, which the extreme innocence of Laurentina's looks and manners contributed to increase, at the same time that it established the affection I had conceived for her on a firmer basis.

'The unbounded hospitality with which I had been treated by Signora Bertola, ever since the commencement of our acquaintance, aided by the respectful politeness that accompanied her attentions, were circumstances favourable to my wishes; particularly as I had never imposed myself upon her niece as an unmarried man, and she was too much a woman of the world to mistake the warm addresses of the lover, for the temperate assiduity of the friend.

'Having some reason to believe, from what I had heard from De Pietro, that she would not oppose my designs upon her beautiful dependant, I requested an audience with her in private; and, after avowing my passion for Laurentina, proposed a handsome addition to her own fortune, with a considerable settlement upon her niece, on her consent to accompany me to Naples. I lamented that it was not in my power to offer her my hand; but did not neglect to assure her that unremitting attention should be paid to her desires, since the affection her merit had excited would find its chief gratification in ensuring her felicity.

'At first she objected to the proposition with a degree of earnestness, which, considering what was past, and the report I had heard previous to this declaration, filled me with surprise and consternation; but the largeness of my offers eventually silenced her scruples, and she promised to exert her influence in my cause.

'I did not long suffer the tortures of suspense; but the conditions were such that, if I had not proceeded too far to recede, would have recalled me to the path of rectitude: they were, that if, during the lifetime of Laurentina, I should be left in a state of widowhood, I was to repair her injured reputation by making her Contessa della Croisse, should I have no reason to suspect her fidelity.

'This promise was to be delivered to Signora Bairdiella in writing; -- I complied, but shuddered as I penned it. The image of my Helena was presented to my imagination at the moment when I was going to desert her; the meek, the unoffending innocence of her conduct, her purity, her tenderness, the unaffected graces of her person appeared as rising up in judgment against me, and staggered my resolution. But one empassioned look from the insidious Laurentina, one word from her, uttered in the tremulous accents of genuine affection, were sufficient to silence the eloquent pleadings of reason, and to stifle the impulses of virtue and compassion.

'The time now drew near in which we were to quit Padua, and already had I received several letters from my wife which gently chided my absence; and having previously taken lodgings for Laurentina, in one of the principal streets in the city, for her immediate reception, we proceeded towards Naples. With a heart not much at ease, I placed my fair favourite in her new situation, and repaired to the villa.

'Those who have lost that calm dignity of mind that accompanies conscious rectitude, will only form an adequate idea of my feelings. When I met those artless expressions of unalterable regard which marked the deportment of Helena, I felt a sensation of anguish at that moment more keen than I had ever experienced, and would have given worlds to have regained that integrity of soul which I was now capable of estimating -- that internal satisfaction which is the offspring of uncorrupted virtue. Reflection now became torture; and, unable to escape from it whilst thus exposed to its influence, I fought to bury it in dissipation.

'The conversation of Helena could only bestow a charm on minds serene and angel-like as her's; and what had formerly so largely contributed to my happiness, now became my aversion; I felt my inferiority, and wished to hide it from all, and even from myself.

'My time was now chiefly divided between Laurentina and the Conte de Pietro; for the former I took a house in one of the squares, which was furnished with much expence and magnificence suitable to her taste and inclination.

'To conceal Laurentina from the knowledge of the Contessa, was a matter which was attended with but little difficulty; since her mind was too pure for suspicion and jealousy, and it was easy for a less able dissembler than myself to deceive her. Independent of this, I had also an experienced assistant in the Conte, who frequently, in her presence, delivered a lecture upon the wise government of wives; in which there was something so smart, and yet so unoffending, that it was impossible not to be pleased with him.

'But when my absences became still more frequent, the mild dejection of her looks testified her uneasiness at my conduct, whilst I was compelled to hide the pang of distress and the stingings of remorse, under an affected appearance of gaiety.

'When nearly two years had elapsed, I found my expenses were so materially increased, having also lost many considerable sums at the gaming-table, that I began to be seriously alarmed. Laurentina, under a character which she had artfully assumed for the accomplishment of my destruction, disguised many of her sex's frailties: she was passionately fond of equipage and shew, and was not only elegant, but magnificent in her attire. The profusion of jewels she demanded were adequate to the expenses of my household; and finding that my situation was becoming desperate, I hinted the affair to De Pietro, who advised me to forsake Laurentina.

'Though from the uneasy sensations I had experienced ever since the commencement of my folly, a separation would assuredly have been desirable; but there appeared a degree of cruelty in this method of proceeding which I could not immediately reconcile to my feelings. The Conte anticipated my meaning, and took some pains to convince me, that amours of that kind did not require that delicacy of sentiment which I believed to be requisite; for having made a settlement upon the Signora, her person and accomplishments, he added, would easily procure her another lover; and she might possibly be a gainer by the change.

'The idea of her encouraging the addresses of another, my passion was not sufficiently cooled to reflect upon without emotion, and I replied, with some warmth, that I did not believe it possible that the affections of Laurentina could be transferred; and having been the means of wounding her reputation, I considered myself indisputably bound to protect her. The Conte regarded me with a look of surprise and dissatisfaction, and then asked, with an assumed gravity of appearance, whether I did not suppose Laurentina had other admirers, who were equally favoured with her attention? -- I was too much irritated by this question not to betray somewhat of anger; and assured him, with a degree of impetuosity too natural to my character, that nothing less than ocular demonstration should convince me that she ever admitted any other visitors.

'The violence of my emotions during this discourse, too plainly evinced that I was still the slave of an unfortunate attachment; and De Pietro, with his usual address, finding the subject was a painful one, endeavoured to change it; but that which he introduced was foreign to my heart, and I could not join in it.

'When again alone, I began to reflect upon my situation with redoubled energy; and, after much consideration, resolved immediately to visit Laurentina, and to inform her, that the immense sums she had squandered, threatened me with the most serious consequences; and that it was necessary for her sake, as well as for my own, that new measures should be adopted.

'Thus determined, I was hastening to execute my design when, having arrived within a few steps of the door, I was agreeably surprised on meeting with my old travelling companion, Signor Berlotte, who expressed much pleasure at this unexpected event.

'He had not been many hours in the city; and having been informed at Venice, where he was detained some time on business of an important nature, that I had quitted Naples, he had not yet, he added, extended his enquiries respecting my present place of residence; but as it was now his intention to remain some months in that city, his happiness, he assured me, would be materially augmented by my society.

'Though, in the early part of my life, I entertained no very high opinion of the character of Berlotte, knowing that his sentiments were mean, and his abilities contracted; yet allowing that years and reflection might have refined the one, and expanded the other, though I did not express myself on this occasion with equal warmth and ardour, I was not insensible to his professions of friendship, or undesirous of cultivating it.

'Having walked with him as far as the hotel, I requested that his visits might be frequent and without ceremony; and, after giving him my address, hasted back to Laurentina.

'Not expecting me at so early an hour, my visits being usually nocturnal ones, I was told she was absent. Believing that she was only gone on some trifling business, without regarding the answer, and meaning to wait her return, I walked on to the saloon.

'Having entered this room, the first object that engaged my attention was a small miniature portrait, suspended over the chimney-piece by a chain of gold: It was the figure of a young Signor in a military habit, of a noble and dignified appearance. The countenance was fine, open, and impressive, and had at once an air of grandeur and of sweetness. That this was some favoured lover of Laurentina's was an idea that instantly occurred, and brought with it all the tortures of jealousy and resentment. The words of De Pietro returned to my recollection, who I now believed was acquainted with her inconstancy, and was only prevented from disclosing it by an unreasonable warmth, which determined me, on a next interview with him, to interrogate him concerning her.

'When the first emotions of surprise and anger had subsided, I again took the picture from its place, and was gazing upon it attentively, when Laurentina entered.

'She started in visible confusion on observing me; but in a moment recollecting herself, assumed an appearance of composure that filled me with astonishment, since the miniature was still in my hand, which I considered as a testimony of her falsehood;

'This, however, she seemed not to regard; but was advancing towards me with one of those fascinating smiles, which had so often deceived me, when I demanded, in an authoritative tone, for whom that portrait was designed? She was too able a practitioner in the art of dissembling, to suffer the least hesitation to betray her, and replied emphatically, her brother. I regarded her earnestly as she spoke, but the undaunted serenity of her countenance was unchanged; and having expressed my surprise that I had never heard her speak of her brother, she informed me that he had entered into the service of his country very early in life, and having been some years abroad, he had sent her that picture as a memento, which had lately been conveyed to her by Signora Bairdiella.

'There was too much of the appearance of truth in this recital to justify suspicion, which made me anxious, by the gentleness of my manners, to atone for the want of confidence I had betrayed, as well as to reward the patience with which she had supported it.

'This was no time for expatiating on the necessity of adopting a plan of economy, being too much humbled by her artifice to propose any thing on that subject; and having an engagement at the villa, I left her with many expressions of tenderness, and hasted to fulfil it.

'The circumstance of the picture, and the conversation of the Conte, in spite of all my efforts to the contrary, would frequently return to my memory, and awaken unpleasant surmises. There was indeed nothing improbable in the story of its being the portrait of her brother, nor had I any reason, at present, to doubt her veracity; yet it by no means amounted to conviction.

'Berlotte was now frequently at the villa, and generously made one in our parties, on private as well as public occasions, though he was far from being a general favourite. There was indeed nothing prepossessing in his appearance; and he was justly suspected of shallowness and affectation.

'My wife, who was candour itself, could not sometimes forbear uttering something to his disadvantage; his confidence distressed her, and his conversation at once wounded her feelings, and excited disgust.

'I now anxiously sought an opportunity of questioning the Conte concerning Laurentina; and was not long before I succeeded. I found that nothing material could be alledged against her; but I was still chagrined and unhappy. De Pietro observed my uneasiness, and being convinced that a state of suspense is, of all others, the least supportable, asked me if I would submit to a stratagem, that would at once either remove or realize my suspicions. Having assured him that I would gladly embrace any means that could be adopted with honour, he proposed, that when I next visited Laurentina, I should inform her that business of importance made me under the necessity of quitting Naples for a few weeks. That on the supposition that I had put my intentions in execution, she would consider herself at liberty to follow her own inclinations; and in the mean time, avoiding detection, I might observe her actions in those places of public resort to which she was the most attached.

'This proposal was no sooner made than agreed to; and having acquainted Laurentina with my design of leaving the city for a few weeks, on an affair of importance, I became a spy upon her conduct.

'The masquerade was, I knew, a favourite diversion; and as this was one of which the Contessa never partook, and a place of more security than any other, I frequently spent my evenings there with Laurentina, and determined to make my first trial there.

'I had not been long in this place before a number of dominos entered the room. To ascertain her by her dress was I knew impossible, as she seldom appeared twice in the same. But a figure of more than ordinary elegance, who entered leaning upon the arm of a young Signor in a blue domino, soon attracted my regard; and this, on a near view, I conceived to be the object of my search. The jewels that braided her hair, which I had lately presented to her, convinced me of the truth of the conjecture; and the suspicion that the person who attended her was a lover, was soon lost in conviction.

'It was with much difficulty that I was enabled to forbear discovering myself to her, and of upbraiding her with the infamy of her proceedings.

'My endeavours to overhear any part of the conversation were unsuccessful, as it was invariably delivered in a whisper; yet I still followed, in hopes of hearing something of which I might openly accuse her, till the rest of the company unmasking, they suddenly retreated.

Chapter 3

Know'st thou not,

That when the searching eye of heav'n is hid

Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,

Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,

In murders and in outrage, bloody here?

But when from under this terrestrial ball

He fires the proud tops of the Eastern pines,

And darts his light through ev'ry guilty hole,

Then treasons, murders, and detested sins,

The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves.

SHAKESPEARE

'The various emotions of rage, jealousy, and remorse that the conviction of her falsehood had awakened, for some time deprived me of the power of action; and in a frame of mind little short of distraction, I returned again to the villa.

'The ruin to which her artifice was leading me, now flashed upon my mind; the altered looks of the Contessa added keenness to my affliction, and I felt all the miseries of guilt and anguish.

'Several days passed before I had fixed upon any mode of proceeding respecting Laurentina; in which time the agitation of my mind was so great, that my situation was thought to be alarming.

'Affairs were in this train when a Monk of the Crucifix Order arrived at the villa, who having intimated that his business was of moment, requested an audience.

'Being admitted into a private apartment, after strictly enjoining me to secrecy as to what he was about to relate, in a manner not less singular than impressive, he proceeded to inform me of a piece of treachery, which had been unfolded to him at the confessional of the Order of the Holy Cross.

'Who the penitent was by whom the confession was made, was, he added, unknown to him; and even could it have been ascertained, the rules of the church absolutely forbade a discovery. But that a female had attended on the preceding day, who appeared to suffer much from the horrors of an awakened conscience; and, after an endeavour on his part to console her with promises of forgiveness on a candid avowal of her sins, she began to disclose the cause of her remorse.

'She had, she said, yielded to the solicitations of a young man, that was employed by a courtezan, whose name was Laurentina Bertola, to administer poison to the Contessa della Croisse. That he had addressed her as a lover, and had so far insinuated himself into her affections and wrought upon her by his promises, that she had finally consented. Since which time she had suffered such dreadful, such uneasy sensations, that she was resolved to abandon the project. And the idea of having agreed to participate in a crime of such magnitude, returned so forcibly upon her mind, that she had hasted to the Confessional, at once to disburthen her conscience, and to obtain absolution.

'As it appeared probable to the Father that, without timely interference, some other person would be employed to commit this atrocious murder, he had, he continued, taken the earliest opportunity of apprizing me of it.

'He then repeated his former injunctions respecting my secrecy in what he had unfolded; since, if known, not even the necessity of the case would excuse his disobedience to the ecclesiastical laws: the nature of a confession never being permitted to be made public, unless the priest to whom it is made, is called upon by the Courts of the Inquisition to prove something which cannot otherwise be known in cases where, for capital offences, the culprit is either punishable according to the severe rules of that institution, or is given lip to the civil powers, as in cases of murder, or of any other crime not bearing the imputation of sacrilege.

'Surprise, horror, and resentment almost deprived me of utterance; but when the first tumults had subsided, and the Monk had quitted the villa, I loaded the authoress of my misfortunes with the most bitter invectives; and having already formed a resolution never more to enter her doors; but to make an assignation with her that I might convince her I was not ignorant of her perfidy and ingratitude, I repaired to an hotel.

'From this place I wrote a billet, in which I desired that she would meet me in a retired spot in the evening, having something of importance to communicate to her in private. In this I avoided mentioning her name, and having given it to my valet, with orders for him to convey it immediately as directed. hastened to the Conte de Pietro's.

'He was from home, and finding that he was not expected till the evening, I was for some time irresolute how to dispose of myself, not being sufficiently tranquil to be able to see Helena, who expressed much anxiety about my health, without adding to her distress; which determined me, after some consideration, to return again to the hotel, and to wait there the hour in which I had appointed to meet Laurentina.

'Never shall I forget with what sensations I quitted this place, when I went to fulfill the engagement -- when I went to accuse the fair cause of all my griefs and inquietude of premeditated guilt, and, by one desperate exertion, to tear myself from her presence for ever.

The destined spot was near the borders of the sea; it yet wanted some minutes of the time, and seating myself upon a fragment of rock, in a state of mind not easy to describe, I listened to the moaning waves of the ocean with divided attention, till the murmur of voices at a distance roused me from my place. I started, without considering that it was unlikely that she would bring an attendant; and, before I had time for conjecture, perceived that the voices approached nearer to the spot, and soon afterwards distinguished these words, which were pronounced in low and tremulous accents:

'"His frequent visits have distressed me more than I can express; and I must, if possible, be released from them. You know how much I have suffered, and that he is now more than ever my aversion.

'The answer was nearly lost in the flutter of the breeze; but I could easily discover it was the voice of a man.

'In a few moments the female advanced towards me; I did not suppose it could be any other than Laurentina, though her features were not perceptible, for her veil and the deepening shades of the twilight completely concealed them from my view.

'Having now a fresh proof of her ingratitude, as I felt assured that I was the subject of their discourse, my rage increased to such a height at the idea of having been so long the dupe of an infamous designing woman, that nothing less than the death she meditated against the most amiable of her sex, seemed adequate to her crime. Thus being worked into a fit of desperation by the violence of contending passions, without reverting to the cause, I obeyed the impulse of my feelings, and instantly drawing my stilette from my cloak, plunged it into her heart.

'She fell! -- but just Heaven! what was the horror of my situation when I heard my own name pronounced, in a voice which was not Laurentina's, but which I immediately recognized as that of my wife, my much-injured Helena!

'This dreadful conviction was succeeded by a state of insensibility, from which it was long before I awoke to a sense of my irremediable crimes and misfortunes; when I did, I found myself in the hotel which I usually frequented, attended by Dc Pietro and the Marchese de Montferrat.

'As soon as the powers of recollection were returned, I asked eagerly for my wife; their looks told me she was no more; and I relapsed into a state little short of distraction.

'My death was hourly expected, but the measure of my woes was not yet full, and I recovered. I then declared the fatal mistake which had occasioned this mournful catastrophe, and found, from the confession of a servant, who sometimes carried letters to Laurentina, that he had received a bribe from Berlotte to deliver the next into his hands; who having artfully altered it, to suit it better to his purpose, inclosed it in a cover, and directing it to the Contessa della Croisse, ordered it to be conveyed to the villa.

'She had expressed her surprise at this strange appointment in the presence of her brother, the Marchese de Montferrat, who offered to accompany her, in a carriage, within a few yards of the place, as to walk so far in her weak state was impossible, and to wait her return at a convenient distance.

'This accounted for the voices I had heard, and the subject of the discourse; doubtless Berlotte, who had long secretly endeavoured to insinuate himself into the affections of Helena, as the most effectual way, attempted to convince her of my falsehood.

'When the violent effects of overwhelming distress had in some degree subsided, I found, upon enquiry, that this melancholy affair had been managed with so much secrecy by the Conte and Marchese de Montferrat, that it was not generally understood. The rumour that prevailed was, that the Contessa della Croisse was assassinated when walking unattended by the Bay of Naples, and it was supposed, though the cause could not be investigated, that it was perpetrated by one of those inhuman wretches who are too frequently hired for that dreadful purpose.

'It was long before I had courage to enquire for my children; when I did, I learned that Vescolini, my son, was placed under the care of one of his mother's relations in Germany; and that my daughter was entered as a boarder in a neighbouring convent.

'The grief of the Conte de Pietro, who considered himself as the primary cause of my misfortunes, though it was more calm, was but little inferior to my own. What he before termed innocent amusement, and attempted to palliate by the appellation of youthful levities, he now discovered might lead to the most serious consequences, and be productive of the most fatal effects. A short time after this event, which had so materially affected his peace, he formed the design of entering into a monastery of Carthusians, and soon afterwards put it into execution.

'I would gladly have retired with him from the world, and have submitted with him to the severe discipline of the Holy Fathers, and had once adopted the resolution, but it was shaken by the entreaties of the Conte.

'He bade me to consider my children, to watch over their educations, particularly that of my son; and to guard him from those fatal errors which had caused such severe calamity, and which inevitably lead to lasting misery.

'During my illness he attended me with the greatest care and humanity, never allowing Laurentina or any thing relative to the subject to be mentioned in my hearing, till I was sufficiently recovered to bear it with calmness; and then informed me that she was, by his orders, conveyed to her former place of residence, and that the settlement which she demanded, he had ordered to be paid.

'Persisting in his resolution of abandoning the world, he began to make every necessary preparation; and having wrested a promise from me not to avenge myself on Berlotte or Laurentina, but to leave them to the tortures of a guilty conscience, he hastily quitted Naples, which was become no longer supportable, and endeavoured to take refuge from inquietude in the gloom of a monastery.

'When my health was so far re-established as to enable me to leave my room, and dismiss my physician, I began to form some plan for my future conduct. Society was now become irksome to me; every object reminded me of her I had lost, and I finally resolved to quit the scene of my guilt and my sorrows, and to bury myself in a castello situated amid the solitudes of the Apennines. This to me appeared more eligible than even a monastic life, since here I should find interesting companions in my children, who were all that could make life desirable.

'This resolution being fixed, I acquainted the young Marchese with my intention, whose recent rectitude of conduct had considerably exalted him in my esteem. At first he objected to the plan with some warmth, but finding, from a second review of the subject, the propriety of the measure, he offered his assistance in the regulation of my affairs.

'The immense debts I had contracted during my connection with Laurentina, I found, upon enquiry, had been discharged by the Conte de Pietro previous to his seclusion; and, also, that he had settled the greater part of his princely fortune upon my son, which was made over to a person, selected as a guardian in trust, till he should arrive at years of maturity.

'Fearing that, by coming to the knowledge of this affair, I should endeavour to frustrate his generous design, he had left Naples precipitately, without even informing me, or any of his associates, of his place of destination.

'Vescolini being still in Germany, I wrote to acquaint his relation with the plan I had projected, and to request his return; but the arguments he made use of to prevail upon me to permit him to remain under his protection, at least for the present, were so persuasive that I consented to his wishes.

'My daughter, my little Helena, whom I had not seen since the commencement of my misfortunes, I ordered to be conveyed from her convent; and soon afterwards, attended by a small number of domestics, we proceeded on our journey by slow and easy stages, till we arrived at this long forsaken mansion, which had been for many centuries the abode of the Contes della Croisse.

'Here many years passed in uninterrupted retirement. My son's visits, though not frequent, were long; the education of my daughter employed much of my leisure; and though moments of dejection would occasionally intrude, my griefs in some measure had yielded to the influence of time, and I began to taste something like tranquillity.

'The Marchese de Montferrat having finished his minority, took possession of the Castello St Aubin; and some time after this event, Vescolini being on a visit to this relation, accidentally saw a young beauty that was under the care of Madame Laronne, a widow of quality, who occupied a chateau in the neighbourhood of Turin, with whom he became instantly enamoured. Her charms were also too powerful for the Marchese to withstand, who soon became a passionate admirer.'

Here Madame Chamont heaved a deep sigh, and covered her face with her handkerchief, to hide the blushes and tears this narration excited, whilst La Roque proceeded:

'I knew that during my son's residence in Germany he had embraced what is sometimes termed the Reformed Religion; and found, upon enquiry, that the lady he addressed was a Catholic, which had instigated her to discourage his attention, and finally to reject the alliance. Being at too great a distance from Turin to obtain a thorough knowledge of the affair, and having previously determined not to influence my son in a matter of such importance to his future happiness, I awaited the result without further enquiry.

'But, merciful Heaven! what was my grief and my astonishment when I was informed that Vescolini was assassinated in the streets of Naples by one of the Lazarone; whither he had repaired to arrange his affairs before his intended marriage.

'Who was the author of this bloody deed was for some time unknown; but being at last discovered by an inhabitant of that city, through the confession of the wretch employed, I was informed that the villain who had stooped to this base, cruel, and dishonourable method of gratifying an unconquerable passion, was the Marchese de Montferrat.'

Madame Chamont, being now no longer able to restrain her emotions, sobbed aloud; whilst La Roque, who was unacquainted with the cause, regarded her with redoubled tenderness, and hastily drying the tears that fell in torrents from his eyes, continued his recital.

'Scarcely could I credit the assertion, till undeniable proofs rendering unbelief obstinacy, I could no longer be deceived.

'In the desperation of the moment I resolved to see him immediately, and publicly accuse him of these infamous proceedings; but a fever, the consequence of extreme agitation of mind, prevented my design. Yet though disabled from verbally declaring my resentment, as soon as I had regained strength enough for the purpose, I wrote to assure him that the crime he had committed was of too great magnitude to sink into oblivion, and that it called aloud for justice.

'This menace had the effect I might have expected; he had satisfied the Ecclesiastical Powers, and having of course nothing to fear from the Civil, now vowed vengeance against his accuser. Soon after this I received a letter from a person whose name was concealed, but who I supposed was the Marchese's former steward, because I knew him to be a benevolent character, informing me that my life was in danger so long as I continued in my present abode; and that if I was anxious to preserve my existence, I must take another name, and remove my family from the Apennines, without further delay.

'Having availed myself of this intelligence, I assumed the name and character of a Frenchman, the better to disguise me from notice; I hastened with my daughter into Germany, meaning to have taken refuge in a convent.

'With the circumstance of our being assaulted by banditti you are already acquainted; and it was from your bounty we were enabled to proceed, which I hope soon to have an opportunity of doubly repaying'

Madame Chamont having assured him that she would never allow him to repay the trifle it gave her so much pleasure to bestow, requested that he would relate what happened to them after having quitted the inn; and inform her, since he had so long escaped the vigilance of those who were in pursuit of him, by what strange chance he had at last fallen into the hands of his persecutors.

Chapter 4

To thee, yon Abbey, dark and lone,

Where ivy chains each mould'ring stone,

That nods o'er many a martyr's tomb,

May cast a formidable gloom;

Yet some there are, that free from fear,

Could wander through these cloisters drear,

And dauntless view, or seem to view,

As faintly flash the lightnings blue,

Thin shiv'ring ghosts from yawning charnels throng,

And glance, with silent sweep, the shaggy vaults along.

MASON

'Having, madame,' continued La Roque, 'by the assistance of the physician, whom you benevolently ordered to attend me, sufficiently recovered from my indisposition, with the addition of a servant we set off from the inn, and for several days performed our journey with ease and safety; till my daughter, whose constitution was ever delicate, began to experience some symptoms of the disorder with which I had lingered. In the evening she became so much worse that I began to be alarmed, and we were compelled to stop once more at a small cottage on the road.

'A few days, however, so far recovered her, that we were enabled to pursue our journey; and being anxious to retrieve the time we had lost, we travelled with all imaginable speed till we arrived at the edge of a forest, whose woods seemed as if destined for the abode of banditti; when night closing in upon us, we had not courage to proceed.

'We were now at too considerable a distance from the last inn to be able to return, and no other human habitation appearing to offer us shelter, we were for some time undetermined what course to pursue. At length the sky became suddenly overcast with unusual darkness; the wind rising in sudden gusts, swept along the mountains, and seemed to portend an approaching storm.

'In a few minutes the thunder rolled awfully over our heads, the forked lightnings ran dreadfully along the sky, and convinced us of the danger of continuing exposed to the fury of the elements, or of taking refuge in the woods.

'We were in this alarming situation when a sudden light from the heavens discovered to us what seemed to be the remains of an Abbey, which was not sufficiently in ruins to deny us an hospitable shelter.

'Elated by the hopes of finding safety in this desolate abode, which appeared to have been long forgotten by humanity, we hastened to the spot. Having entered the gate-way, our path was obstructed by large fragments of the broken edifice, which lay either hurled from the summit by the fury of the winds, or scattered by the decaying hand of Time; but our case was too desperate to remain long irresolute, and we ventured to proceed.

'Having burst open the door, which was too old to make a formidable resistance, we entered a spacious hall, the roof of which was so exposed to the severity of the tempest as not to wear an appearance of safety.

'We then, with fearful steps, hastened through a long aisle; and, at the end of this, perceived, by a sudden flash of light that darted through the half decayed casements, a flight of steps. This was a discovery that afforded us much consolation, and we advanced with alacrity, till having descended them, we found ourselves involved in total darkness, there being no grate to admit even a partial glimmering of light. The mournful obscurity that veiled us, the loud blasts that howled dismally around the pile, and the thunder that echoed amongst the rocks, filled us with terrifying apprehensions, making us unable either to return to that part we had quitted, or to continue our pursuit.

'The fortitude of Helena, which had hitherto so wonderfully supported her, now almost forsook her; and Nicola, our affrighted servant, joined with her in entreaties for us not to proceed.

'Having felt about the walls, which were dropping with the damps, I at last perceived a door, which opened without difficulty into a place that offered an asylum from the violence of the storm.

'Here we remained till it gradually abated, and at last entirely subsided, and then ascended the steps.

'It was long past midnight when we left our subterranean abode, and we waited with some degree of impatience the approach of morning. At length the grey mists stole meekly over the summits of the mountains; all nature seemed restored to its accustomed serenity; and the rising sun, bursting from the glowing horizon in unusual splendour, animated our drooping frames, and restored us to new life and vigour.

'On examining our new situation, I found that a considerable part of it was still habitable, and that there was also a sufficient quantity of furniture for our immediate use, though much impaired by time, and covered with dust and cobwebs.

'This was an asylum that promised peace and security to unfortunate fugitives like us; and, upon mature consideration, I determined if there was any town or village that could supply us with food, within a few miles of the place, to remain there for the present. This scheme I imparted to Helena, whose looks told me that she had not so effectually quieted her fears as to relish the proposal; but, as she always submitted her will to my judgment, she did not seriously oppose it, and I persisted in my intention.

'Having cautiously provided ourselves with a quantity of provisions before we proceeded from the post-house, we had yet suffered nothing from the attacks of hunger; but the principal thing remained yet to be proved, which was, whether more could be procured at a convenient distance. It was also a matter of doubt, whether it would be better to send Nicola on this expedition, or to go myself, as it was possible that the blunders of a servant might betray us; yet should it be a town of any eminence, it might be imprudent to venture there myself.

'I was yet irresolute what course to pursue, when walking thoughtfully along the gallery, I observed a door in the corner, which I did not recollect having entered before. Curiosity induced me to explore this part of the building, which I found upon examination opened into an entire suite of rooms, containing nothing like furniture except a large iron chest.

'This object immediately engaged my attention, and brought with it the idea that it probably contained the booty of robbers, till having lifted up the lid, I beheld to my astonishment the complete habit of a monk; which consisted of a white cassock, a scapulary and hood of the same colour, a plited cloak, a cowl, and a pair of sandals.

'Having examined these different articles of dress, which were all perfect, though they seemed to have remained for some years in their present situation, I determined, in the evening, to cloak myself in these newly acquired vestments, and to sally forth in quest of provisions.

'My first step was to take a view of the face of the country from one of the neighbouring mountains, that I might be assured there was some town or village within a few miles of the Abbey; as, should there be none, it would be proper to defer the execution of my design till the succeeding day.

'Having reached the summit of a rocky acclivity, which promised an extent of prospect, I found that a great part consisted of forest ground, intermingled with woods and lakes, but in general wild and uncultivated; inhabited chiefly by fishermen and goatherds, whose simple cottages just peeping beneath the deep foliage of the trees, added much to the beauty of the landscape.

'The other side of the country was more fertile: several towns, villages, and monasteries appeared within the reach of vision, which, from contrast, received additional grandeur and beauty; but a little hamlet that skirted a lonely precipice, which seemed to be but a few miles from our abode, chiefly engaged my attention. It appeared to have no connection with any other town from the distance at which it was placed from all others, and to be distinguished for the loneliness of its situation.

'Pleased with the observations I had made, which flattered me with peace and security, I hastened to put my intentions into practice. Having invested myself in my new habiliments, I ordered my mule to be prepared; and, taking an osier-basket upon my arm, I threw the cowl over my face, and proceeded towards the village.

'I had no difficulty either in finding the place which I sought, or in procuring food; but I could not help observing that the inhabitants seemed to be somewhat alarmed at my appearance, and felt the awkwardness of my situation.

'There was certainly nothing very extraordinary in the figure of a white friar; but the circumstance of being mounted on a mule, and coming in quest of food to a village so little frequented, and so totally uncivilized, was sufficient to awaken curiosity, and to lead to conjecture.

'As soon as my business was dispatched I returned again towards the abbey, so well satisfied with my expedition, that I resolved not to leave it; and having again mentioned the affair to Helena, who began to be more reconciled to the plan, she soon acceded with pleasure to the proposal.

'It was not long before I discovered that the forest contained a large quantity of wild fowl and venison, which we esteemed delicacies; and that it also abounded in chamoix and wild goats, whose flesh and milk were very acceptable in our retirement; and having provided myself with a gun, we were soon amply supplied with provision.

'Some years had passed in uninterrupted quiet, till an unexpected adventure occasioned a change of situation.

'As we were partaking of the morning's refreshment, in an apartment adjoining the hall, we were alarmed with the cry of hounds, and in a few minutes, before we had time for resistance, a stag darted into the room.

'This circumstance so much alarmed Helena, that she screamed and fell lifeless into my arms; before I could recover her, two of the hunters, who were in pursuit of the animal, entered the place in which it had taken refuge, attended by a number of dogs, whose cries resounding through the building, recalled Helena to life.

'If I was surprised at the appearance of strangers, they were no less astonished to find the abbey was become once more the abode of humanity; and, with many apologies for their intrusion, flew to the assistance of Helena.

'The amiable solicitude they discovered for my daughter could not be returned with indifference, and I requested them to accept of some refreshment. They gladly acquiesced in the proposal; and, in the pleasure that their conversation diffused, I lost for the moment the fears of detection.

'I soon discovered that they were people of rank, as their conversation was elegant, and their deportments dignified. Having acquitted themselves with infinite grace and propriety, they asked permission to repeat their visit; which being unreluctantly acceded to, they departed.

'Though in cultivating an acquaintance of this kind, there appeared some probability of its leading to a discovery, I felt an irresistible inclination to gratify myself in this particular, and was resolved to run some hazard to obtain that pleasure.

'In a few days they availed themselves of the permission I had so willingly granted, and again arrived at the abbey.

'Helena being engaged in her household concerns, was not present; but as the youngest of my guests enquired after the health of my daughter, I observed a blush steal across his cheek, and a degree of hesitation in his manner, which convinced me that the beauty of Helena, though seen only in the languor of illness, was not beheld with indifference.

'I did not know whether to be pleased or otherwise at this discovery, till I found that he was one of the first private Noblemen in Germany; that the gentleman who accompanied him was his guardian; and that they were not only men of rank, but of unsullied reputation.

'At present I had hinted nothing of my rank, neither had I related any thing of my story, but only that I was unfortunate, and from some wayward circumstances, was compelled to remain in obscurity.

'It was not long before I perceived that the insinuating manners of Count Saalfield, which was the name of the stranger, had won the affections of my daughter; and I beheld it with concern, till he requested the honour of her hand, and engaged me to plead in his behalf.

'As this was an opportunity of settling my child eligibly in life, by uniting her to a person equal to her in rank, superior in fortune, and every way worthy of her regard, I could not reasonably object to it; and a time was soon fixed for their nuptials.

'It was not till the eve of the day appointed for the celebration of this event, that I informed the Count to whom he was going to be united; which intelligence seemed to excite more surprise than pleasure; for it was the virtues of my daughter that had won his esteem, and this could not be augmented by a knowledge of her rank and connections.

'Before this marriage could be solemnized, we were necessitated to quit the hospitable retreat which had so long afforded security. Custom had long reconciled me to its solitudes, and I left it with regret.

'The length of time which had elapsed since I retired from the Apennines, seemed to justify the supposition that time had quieted the fears and softened the resentment of the Marchese de Montferrat; and I was less afraid of mixing with the world than before; though I cautiously avoided dropping any hints which might lead to the knowledge of my family and connections, and was still known only by the name of La Roque.

'Having drawn a considerable sum out of the hands of my banker immediately on my arrival at Augsburg, which was the residence of Count Saalfield, I took a small seat at a convenient distance from his castle, where I remained near two years, experiencing more tranquillity than I ever expected to enjoy; till walking one evening in the city, unarmed and unattended, I was attacked by two ruffians, one of which I soon discovered to be Paoli, who having fixed a gag upon my mouth to prevent my crying for assistance, placed me in a vehicle ready stationed for the purpose, which conveyed me with inconceivable rapidity to this place.

'As soon as I was consigned to the dungeon, I was informed that I must die; and the only indulgence that would be allowed me, was to chuse the means.

'Dreadful as was the prospect of perishing by famine, I chose this in preference to any other death that was offered me; and was vainly endeavouring to reconcile myself to my destiny, when the arm of Providence graciously interposed in my defence, and sent you, Madame, for my deliverer.'

Chapter 5

Now o'er the braid from fancy's loom,

The rich tints breath a deeper gloom,

While consecrated domes beneath,

Midst hoary shrines and caves of death,

Secluded from the eye of day,

She bids her pensive vot'ry stray;

Brooding o'er monumental cells,

Where awe diffusing silence dwells,

Save when along the lofly fane,

Devotion wakes her hallow'd strain.

SALMAGUNDI

La Roque, having concluded his narration, was conducted by Madame Chamont, agreeable to the appointment of the Monk, to the end of the eastern rampart.

Though she had ill succeeded in the endeavour of concealing her emotions during this pathetic recital; yet that Madame Chamont, by which name only she was known to him, was Julie de Rubine, that unfortunate beauty who was the innocent cause of the death of Signor Vescolini, was a suspicion that never occurred to the agitated mind of La Roque. And as she prudently avoided mentioning any thing relative to her knowledge of the Marchese, he had no reason to suppose, even had his mind been sufficiently tranquillized to have reflected, that her story was in the least connected with his own.

Father Benedicta, who was faithful to the hour he had proposed, was in readiness to receive them; and, the better to disguise the object of his compassion from the gaze of curiosity, had conveyed a habit of his order.

As La Roque advanced towards the Monk, with a mournful yet dignified air, the benevolent Father sprung forward to receive him, who, after regarding him for a moment with a look of silent interrogation, threw back his hood upon his shoulders; whilst La Roque, who instantly recognized a long lost friend disguised under the habit of a Carthusian, rushed into his arms.

Surprise and joy for some time deprived them of utterance, till the name of De Pietro escaping the lips of La Roque, convinced Madame Chamont that the penitent Father, who was now become eminent for that meekness, piety, and virtuous resignation which dignify the Christian character, was no other than the once brilliant Italian, whose dangerous example and seductive accomplishments had ensnared the affectionate, the once noble Della Croisse, and had finally annihilated his happiness.

When the first transports of joy, grief, and astonishment, which were alternately expressed in the countenances of La Roque and the Monk, were in some degree subsided, the former was arrayed in the holy vestment of a Carthusian; and after taking an affectionate adieu of Madame Chamont, which was accompanied with an expression of gratitude which words could not have conveyed, he put himself under the protection of his newly discovered friend, and repaired to the monastery.

Pensive, thoughtful, and dejected, Madame Chamont continued on her way towards the castle; musing as she went upon this singular adventure, which now engrossed all her attention.

Having entered the gate leading into the outer court, she missed a bracelet from her arm. It was one which contained the portrait of her father, and she felt distressed and chagrined at the loss.

Thinking it probable that she might have dropped it in her way from the tower, with hurried steps and a perturbed air she returned again towards the forest.

After walking along the whole extent of the battlements, and through the deep recesses of the wood which secreted the turret, without success, she began to lose all hopes of recovering it, till recollecting that she might have lost it when liberating La Roque from his fetters, she descended once more into the dungeon.

The dim and nearly extinguished lamp that glimmered from a remote corner of the abyss, throwing a melancholy gleam upon the dark and mouldering walls, just served as a guide for her steps; having raised it from the ground, she looked carefully around, but not discovering the object of her search, she replaced the light, meaning to examine those parts of the castle where she remembered to have been in the morning.

When passing by the door of the chapel, it occurred to her that she might have dropped it on assembling with the rest of the family at matins; and that the surprising incidents of the day, which had so strangely affected her mind, had prevented her from discovering her loss before. But afraid lest Laurette should be alarmed at her long absence, she determined first to partake of some refreshment with her, and to endeavour at least to revive her deeply depressed spirits, and then to explore the chapel.

The ill-assumed appearance of serenity with which Madame Chamont attempted to conceal the grief La Roque's adventures had revived, and which the recent loss of the picture had increased, appeared too unnatural to escape the notice of Laurette, who watched every movement of her countenance with an earnest anxiety.

The inexorable cruelty of the Marchese, the heart-rending sorrows of La Roque, the murder of Vescolini, herself the primary cause, flashed upon her mind in spite of every effort to the contrary, and heaved her bosom with convulsive throbbings.

As soon as dinner was removed, she repaired to her apartment; and, as was her custom when any new griefs or misfortunes assailed her, bowed her knee before a small altar that was erected for the purpose, and addressed herself to Heaven, in the hope that, with the divine assistance, she might be enabled to triumph over the severest attacks of human misery.

With spirits somewhat more composed she descended the stairs, and proceeded, with a slow and measured step, towards the chapel.

It was a fine and cloudless evening, and no sound but the sighing of the wind amongst the trees, broke the stillness that prevailed. The sun was just quitting the hemisphere; its appearance was at once sublime and beautiful, which induced her to pause for a moment to survey it: now richly illuminating the western canopy with a crimson glow, and then trembling awhile at the extremity of the horizon, and at last sinking from the sight beyond the summits of the mountains.

Having opened the door of the chapel, she fixed her eyes upon the ground, and walked slowly through the aisles, in hopes of discovering the bracelet; but being still unsuccessful in the pursuit, and believing it to be irrecoverably gone, she began to reconcile herself to the loss.

At the corner of the chapel was a door which she had before frequently observed, but without any hopes of being able to ascertain whither it led, as it was always fastened whenever she had attempted to open it; from which circumstance it appeared probable that it belonged to the burial vault, in which the ancient inhabitants of the castle were entombed.

As she passed this door, which terminated one of the eastern aisles, she perceived that it was not entirely closed, and curiosity induced her to examine it.

Having opened it without difficulty, she descended a winding flight of steps, and proceeding through a stone arch, whose strength seemed to defy the arm of Time, entered a spacious building, which, instead of being merely a receptacle for coffins, as her imagination had suggested, appeared to have been originally used as a chapel; as the monuments which it contained were more costly and ornamented than those in the place which had latterly been appropriated to purposes of devotion, and were evidently much more ancient. This surmise seemed still more probable, when she considered that the part of the edifice which was used as a chapel, was more modern than the rest of the structure; and that neither the doors nor the windows were strictly gothic, like those belonging to the other parts of the castle. A small grated window at the farther end of the place, which dimly admitted the light, discovered to her the last abode of man, and spoke of the vanity of human greatness.

It was dreary and of vast extent; the walls, which were once white, were now discoloured with the damps, and were mouldering fast into decay.

At the upper end of the abyss were erected two statues, now headless, which though not sufficiently entire to betray the original design, gave additional melancholy to the scene.

Having lingered for some time amid the graves, whose proud arches contained all that remained of former greatness, and whose inscriptions were too much effaced to convey the intended lesson to mortality; she felt herself impressed with a solemn awe, and an emotion of fear, which she could neither account for, nor subdue, directed towards the grated aperture.

The sky was clear and serene, and nothing but the light trembling of the leaves, heard at intervals in the breeze, disturbed the silence of the place. It was a moment sacred to meditation, and wrapped in sublime contemplations, she beheld the deepening veil of the twilight, which had just shaded the meek blue of the heavens, stealing upon the surrounding scenery. As she gazed, the first pale star trembled in the eastern sky, and the moon rising slowly above the tops of the trees, sailed majestically through the concave; all lower objects the height of the window had excluded, except the foliage of the trees that waved mournfully over the place, and replied to the moaning of the rising blast.

Unwilling to quit a scene so congenial to her feelings, and anxious to examine the stately monuments that arose above the remains of former greatness, she determined to convey a light to the place, since it was now too dark to distinguish them, and another opportunity of satisfying her curiosity she considered might not speedily occur.

This design was no sooner formed than executed; having procured a lamp, unobserved by any of the family she again returned to the chapel, and descending the stairs, as before, entered the vaulted building.

Having observed with the most earnest attention the stately busts that adorned the niches, the heavy gloom of the impending monuments, and the cross-bones, saints, crucifixes, and various other devices suitable to the nature of the place, which were once painted on the walls, but which time had now nearly obliterated, she felt an uneasy sensation stealing upon her mind; and, as the partial gleam of the lamp fell upon the ghastly countenances of the marble figures before her, she started involuntarily from the view. Ashamed of having given way to this moment of weakness, she seated herself upon a fallen stone near the entrance, and, setting down the lamp by her side, cast her eyes calmly around, as if determined to conquer the fears that assailed her, and then taking her pencil from her pocket, wrote the following lines:

TO MELANCHOLY

Oh! thou, the maid, in sable weeds array'd,

Who haunt'st the darksome caverns, dreary shade,

Or wrapp'd in musing deep, mid charnels pale,

Meet'st in thy sunless realms the humid gale,

That sullen murmurs, and then loudly blows,

Disturbing Silence from her deep repose;

Whilst in the mournful, dreaded midnight hour,

The hermit owl screams from yon mould'ring tower,

Or flaps his boding wing, the death room nigh,

Waking grim Horror with his funeral cry.

Hence, horrid dame, with all thy spectre train,

And let Hope's star illume this breast again;

Not with that dazzling, that delusive ray,

Which oft misleads the youthful Pilgrim's way;

But that pure beam that burns serenely bright,

And leads to visions of eternal light.

Having raised the lamp from the steps, she arose, and perceiving that it was nearly extinguished, was retiring in haste; when casting her eyes over this extensive and gloomy abode, to take a last survey of the whole, she thought she distinguished, by the expiring gleam of the lamp, a tall white figure, who having emerged slowly from behind one of the gigantic statues at the remotest part of the building, glided into an obscure corner.

The alarm that this strange appearance, whether real or imaginary, occasioned, was so great that Madame Chamont was for some moments unable to move; but in a short time again collecting her spirits, yet at the same time not daring to turn her eyes to that part of the chapel where the phantom had appeared, she gained the steps she had descended; willing to persuade herself it was only an illusion, yet not daring to be convinced, when she thought she heard a faint rustling, as of garments, which was succeeded by the sound of distant footsteps. Fear added swiftness to her flight, but before she could reach the top of the stairs, the lamp, which had been some time glimmering in the socket, expired and left her in total darkness.

Having with much difficulty reached the door leading into the chapel, exhausted and almost sinking with terror, she paused for breath, and was for some moments unable to proceed, however dreadful her present situation.

The aspect being an eastern one, the moon shining full into the window partly dissipated her fears, and she again stopped to listen if all was still. In the same minute the rustling sound which she had heard upon the stairs returned; and, without closing the door which she had entered, with the swiftness of an arrow she darted through the aisles, not slackening her pace till she had reached that part of the building communicating with the chapel; then turning once more to be assured that no one was following her, she saw, by the partial beam of the moon, a tall stately figure moving slowly by the window without the chapel.

Having reached a door which was open to admit her, she stopped at the entrance, and following the phantom with her eyes, saw it sweep mournfully along the corner of the edifice, and then glide into the deep recesses of the wood.

This strange occurrence so much alarmed Madame Chamont, that it was some time before she could recompose her spirits; and being too much fatigued to endure conversation, she excused herself to Laurette, whose looks anxiously enquired the cause of these emotions, and retired to her bed. But her mind was not sufficiently tranquillized to admit of rest; the strange appearance she had seen, continually occurred to her memory, and when she sunk into forgetfulness, her dreams were confused, wild, and horrible. Sometimes the image of Vescolini would present itself to her fancy, covered with blood, and gasping in the agonies of death; at others, the ill-fated La Roque loaded with chains, weak, pale, and emaciated, torn from his tenderest connections, and consigned to a dungeon as to his grave.

These terrible imaginations and dreadful realities worked too powerfully upon her mind not to occasion indisposition, and she awoke in the morning weak and unrefreshed. Her griefs were not of a nature to be softened by friendly participation; for prudence forbidding her to reveal them, condemned her to suffer in silence.

Laurette discovering that some hidden sorrow was preying upon the spirits of her revered protectress, exerted every effort she was mistress of to remove it; these gentle attentions were usually rewarded with a smile, but it was a smile that expressed more of melancholy than of pleasure, and which was frequently followed with a tear.

Near a week had passed since La Roque's departure from the tower, before Father Benedicta again visited the castle. By him Madame Chamont was informed, that he had quitted the monastery on the preceding day, and was continuing his journey towards Augsburg, being anxious to relieve his daughter from that state of suspense and apprehension to which his absence had reduced her.

When the holy Benedicta mentioned the name of his friend, there was a swell in his language which spoke the tenderest affection, and the deep and heartfelt sighs that accompanied the subject whenever he was mentioned, convinced her of the sincerity of his repentance; and in the penitent Benedicta she forgot the once dissipated De Pietro.

Chapter 6

Oh! How this spring of love resembleth

Th' uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shews all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away.

SHAKESPEARE

Some months had elapsed since La Roque's departure from the tower, before Madame Chamont was sufficiently recovered from the shock her feelings had sustained, to be enabled to partake of those simple and elegant amusements, which were formerly so conducive to her happiness; till the unexpected arrival of Enrico, who declined mentioning any thing of his intended visit, that joy might be augmented by surprise, restored her once more to felicity.

The rapturous sensations which this meeting occasioned, must be left to the imagination of those who are blessed with sensibility exquisite as their's, and are capable of experiencing those fine, those delicate emotions which are the offspring of a genuine affection.

After an absence of near two years from the Castle, the person of Enrico was considerably improved. He had nearly entered his eighteenth year, was tall and finely proportioned; his eyes were full of fire, yet occasionally tender; and his countenance, which was frank, open, and manly, being animated with the most lively expression, betrayed every movement of his soul.

But the form of Laurette was more visibly improved than even that of Enrico. Being some years younger, she had just attained the age when the playful simplicity of childhood is exchanged for the more fascinating charms of the lovely girl. The peculiar elegance of her mind, which her amiable monitress had refined and cultivated with unceasing attention, was finely portrayed in her features, which were soft, pensive, and interesting; and though not exactly answering to the description of a perfect beauty, possessed a something which beauty alone could not have bestowed.

The presence of the young Chevalier diffused universal gladness throughout the mansion. The domestics, who had conceived for him an early regard, were anxious to convince him of their esteem, by the most marked and assiduous attentions, which he never failed to repay with that insinuating gentleness of demeanor which is frequently more eloquent than words.

Dorothée, who loved him with a degree of tenderness but little inferior to that of a parent, could not restrain the tears which surprise and transport had excited on his arrival; and would frequently pause longer than her duty required, to hear him enumerate the difficulties he had encountered, the hardships he had undergone, and the dangers to which he had been exposed.

But the pleasures which his profession afforded was a topic still more productive of delight; and Madame Chamont, who listened to him with undivided attention, beheld with satisfaction, that the mind of her son was too strong to suffer either from the intoxication of success, or the depression of disappointment.

When the subject was of a kind to awaken pity, Enrico marked with affectionate concern the intelligent looks of Laurette. He saw the blush overspread her cheek, then fade, and as suddenly disappear, as conversation unfolded the powers and energies of her soul. The lifted eye directed upwards in the language of sympathy, and the tear that trembled beneath its lid, which gave new softness, expression, and character to her appearance, he beheld with a degree of admiration which he found it impossible to conceal.

As the only amusements which this sequestered situation afforded were of the most simple kind, they were usually enjoyed in the open air; under the thick shade of an oak or a plane tree, they would frequently pass many hours listening to the harmony of the birds, and, in the calm serenity of the evening, would extend their rambles along the most wild and unfrequented paths, till the bat flitted silently by them, and the cottage lights seen at intervals between the dark foliage of the trees, reminded them of the approach of night; whilst the music of the nightingale, immersed in the deep gloom of the woods, broke softly upon the stillness of the hour.

In these little excursions Laurette would sometimes seat herself upon a stile or a fragment of rock, and taking her lute, which she knew how to touch with exquisite pathos, would play some charming air which she accompanied with her voice, till the soul of Enrico was lost in an extasy of delight, from which he was reluctantly awakened.

But their favourite walk was through a thick grove of beeches and laburnums, that led to a little sequestered dell; there the distant murmur of a waterfall gave a soothing tranquillity to the scene, whose monotony was only occasionally interrupted by the lively tones of the oboe, or the pipe of the shepherd, who having led his flock from their pastures, had retired from the immediate scene of his labours and his cares, and placing himself at the root of an elm or an acacia, beguiled the moments with a song.

Such were the innocent delights of the rural inhabitants of this lonely retreat; to Enrico they had the additional advantage of novelty; but when he recollected that he must soon relinquish them, must leave Laurette, his revered parent, all that was dear to him, perhaps for ever, a sigh would agitate his breast, and an involuntary tear would oftentimes start into his eye.

Madame Chamont was not insensible to these emotions, nor unsuspicious of the cause; she observed, with tender anxiety, the looks of her son when the subject of his departure was touched upon, and saw the colour fade from the cheek of Laurette as the necessity of it was mentioned, with evident concern. The suspicion that she was the daughter of the Marchese de Montferrat, and consequently nearly allied to Enrico, was a sufficient cause for distress; and as every circumstance she had collected seemed to confirm the justice of the supposition, the evidence, upon the whole, nearly amounted to conviction.

This growing tenderness, if not opposed, might ripen, she considered, into a deep and lasting attachment; yet to give a hint of disapprobation, without adding a reason sufficient to justify such a proceeding, would seem arbitrary and capricious, and from its not being conducted with an appearance of openness, might probably fail in the design.

To a young and susceptible mind like that of Enrico, the beauty and accomplishments of Laurette could not be indifferent; and when he compared her with many of her sex whom he had accidentally seen on his travels, whose manners contrasted with hers were coarse or unnatural; her superiority was too evident not to attract his admiration, and that admiration was of too exalted and refined a nature not to terminate in a softer passion.

Yet this increasing affection, though it might have been easily discovered by a common observer, was for some time concealed from the objects by whom it was mutually inspired. They felt they were uneasy in each other's absence without suspecting the cause, and looked forwards to the moment of departure with painful inquietude.

The subject was too unpleasant to be unnecessarily introduced, yet time flew rapidly away, and after a month spent in this enviable retreat, he was in hourly expectation of an order from his Colonel to summon him to join his regiment. This, notwithstanding his military ardour, his thirst for honour and immortal glory, he now dreaded as the approach of death; since it would tear him from society which was become necessary to his happiness, from quiet, innocence, and rural life.

Yet constrained by situation to submit, without murmuring, to his destiny, he combated as much as possible the sensibility that assailed him, endeavouring to mitigate what he could not subdue, the poignancy of uneasy reflections, by the cold, and frequently ineffectual, dictates of reason.

Fearing lest his passion for retirement, which was endeared to him by objects too tenderly beloved, should extinguish every vigorous, active, and noble principle of his mind, he frequently retired voluntarily from the presence of Laurette; and, in the vain attempt of reconciling himself to this approaching separation, would walk alone upon the borders of the wood; hoping, by this method of communication with himself, that he might be enabled to recall the natural fortitude of his mind, which had yielded without reflection to the impulse of a premature attachment.

Yet though he wished so far to conquer his feelings as not to sink into effeminacy, and to disgrace the soldier, he did not wish to be insensible to the virtues and graces of Laurette, which, on a nearer examination of his heart, he discovered to be the indissoluble spell that had bound his affections to the place.

Was it possible that he could have beheld her perfections with indifference, he would have sunk in his own estimation; he did not wish not to love her; but he wished to love her with that moderation which would not interfere with the performance of his duty; and should he be so fortunate as to conciliate her regard, to look forward to her as the invaluable reward of his perseverance and virtue.

Unconscious of what was passing in the mind of Enrico, Laurette, in these temporary absences, sometimes appeared pensive and dispirited; she observed after his return from the wood, which was always his walk when alone, an air of thoughtfulness in his deportment, and oftentimes of dejection, that awakened solicitude, and led to anxious enquiry.

Madame Chamont, who was a silent, but not an unconcerned spectator of what was passing, was often absorbed in musing and abstraction, whilst yet in their presence; but this being natural to her disposition was disregarded, as the suspicion that their attachment was the cause, never occurred to the minds of the lovers.

But these little absences arising from melancholy reflection, though frequent, were not lasting; a lively air, a ramble in the forest, or the artless tale of a cottage girl, delivered with that genuine simplicity of expression which will continue to interest whilst nature has a charm, was sufficient to restore them to animation, and even to gaiety.

How rapturous were the sensations of Enrico when sometimes alone with Laurette, he would linger amid the lonely recesses of the mountains, and would point out to her the peculiar beauties of the landscape; beauties which she had before observed, but never with such charming sensations. How soon did the sun appear to sink upon the bosom of the waters, and the night shades to fall upon the surrounding objects. And how lovely did she seem to him amid scenes so picturesque; how delicate, how undescribable were the emotions her beauty and innocence inspired.

Hurried away by a sanguine and warm imagination, he would sometimes indulge hopes which a more experienced mind would have rejected as fallacious; and at other times a causeless anxiety would prey upon his spirits, and suspend every faculty of his soul.

After a six weeks' residence in the castle, the dreaded order, which had been daily expected, arrived, and he now perceived, more than ever, the necessity of conquering those feelings which, though in themselves amiable, and the object that excited them every way worthy, might, considering his situation, have a dangerous tendency.

Induced by the most honourable motive to preserve a perpetual silence upon the subject, he had never yet verbally hinted to Laurette his prepossession in her favour, and he resolutely determined not to make an open declaration of his passion, either to her or to his mother, but to strive to render himself agreeable to both, by those ardent and vigorous exertions in his military capacity, which might eventually lead to independence and to happiness.

Though to subdue the sentiment of affection, which occasioned this intellectual weakness, was impracticable, he succeeded in the endeavour of concealing it; and was congratulating himself on the success attending it till the evening preceding his departure, when some of those mournful presages, which too frequently assail minds of extreme sensibility, threw him somewhat off his guard.

He was then sitting with Laurette in an oriel window, commanding an extensive view, in the serene hour of moonlight; when the idea presented itself that he might probably never more be placed in so enviable a situation, since a few hours must inevitably separate him from his dearest connections, and that death, or some wayward circumstances, might prevent the fruition of those fondly indulged hopes which had hitherto supported him.

Agitated by this surmise, he seized the hand of Laurette, and pressing it to his lips with an impassioned exclamation, an immediate disclosure of his sentiments would have succeeded, had not the retiring dissidence of her manners checked the momentary impulse, and given him up to the guidance of discretion.

When the time of departure arrived, which was early on the following morning, a severe trial awaited him. The uneasiness expressed in his looks was understood by his mother, who mingled tears with embraces; whilst Laurette, whose feelings were not less awakened or acute, was condemned by the laws of delicacy, which are sometimes severe and arbitrary, to conceal them under an appearance of tranquillity.

Having torn himself from a scene too tender for his present frame of mind, with a breast throbbing with emotion, he waved his hand to Madame Chamont and Laurette, whose eyes anxiously followed him through the portal, and departed from the castle.

That tender and interesting kind of dejection that steals upon the spirits after the departure of a beloved friend, we often fondly indulge; it is one of those amiable propensities that the heart cherishes and approves. When under the dominion of this pleasing melancholy, we love to retire from observation, to recollect every parting expression, and to feed upon the remembrance of the past; every affecting incident connected with those we have lost, every interesting situation in which we have seen them, recurs to the memory, and excites moving and pensive reflections.

It was this affectionate impulse that led Madame Chamont beneath the spreading branches of an oak, where, in the society of Enrico, she had often sat secluded from the influence of a mid-day sun; and where they had sometimes partaken of a simple repast.

It was this stealing tenderness that soothes whilst it wounds, that directed Laurette to the side of a foaming rivulet, which fell in a natural cascade from a rocky acclivity, to whose murmurs they had often listened with the most pleasurable emotions when they visited the lonely dell.

But here she found it impossible to remain without enduring the most poignant regret. Tears, which she was unable to restrain, fell fast upon her cheek, and she was compelled to retire from the spot she had chosen, that she might exchange it for one less mournful and sequestered.

Enrico had not been gone many days from the castle before the arrival of Paoli was announced. So unpleasant a visitor was not considered as an acquisition to the happiness of its inhabitants, which occasioned him to be received by all, though not with incivility, yet with coldness. His presence was always a restraint upon the conduct of Madame Chamont, but at this time fear also was mingled with aversion.

The circumstance of La Roque's delivery, though she reflected upon it with satisfaction and self-complacency, was not unattended with certain presages, which neither reason nor fortitude could subdue; that he would repair to the turret, and also to the dungeon, in the expectation of finding the body of his prisoner, she considered as highly probable; that he would be both surprised and irritated at the disappointment, and would take some pains to discover the author of it, was equally certain; but that the suspicion should fail upon her, or any of the family, she was willing to hope was unlikely

Chapter 7

The midnight clock has told and hark! the bell

Of Death beats slow; heard ye the note profound?

It pauses now, and now with rising knell,

Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.

MASON

The strange variety of events that had recently occupied the thoughts of Madame Chamont, prevented her from paying her respects to the Lady Abbess so frequently as had been her custom; who beginning to feel uneasy at her absence, sent a message by Father Benedicta to invite her to the convent. Not more anxious to obtain that consolation which the conversation of the Superior afforded, than to be released from the society of the steward, whose haughtiness of deportment rather increased than diminished, she readily acquiesced; and Laurette, who was usually the companion of her walks, was allowed to accompany her on her visit.

The features of the venerable Abbess were animated with a smile as she came forward to receive them, but an expression of deep dejection soon afterwards succeeded.

Believing that she had met with some new cause of distress, Madame Chamont would have requested permission to have shared it with her; but fearful of intruding upon the sacredness of her sorrow, she remained silent with her eyes fixed upon the ground, till the Superior, in a voice which she could scarcely command, informed her that the sister Cecilia was so ill, that all hopes, founded on human assistance, were likely to prove inefficacious. 'But as her life,' resumed the Abbess, 'has displayed an example of the most uniform piety, penitence, and submission; so her serenity at the approach of death indicates that the hope of acceptance she has cherished is not founded on error. If you will attend me to her cell,' continued the Superior, 'you will witness the most perfect tranquillity in the midst of exquisite suffering.'

Madame Chamont, who had every reason to believe that the beautiful vestal had of late carefully avoided meeting with her, though she could not easily account for it, would have excused herself from visiting her cell; observing, that the presence of a stranger, in the last moments of existence, might be considered as an intrusion. But every objection that she offered was instantly removed by the Abbess, who seemed so anxiously to desire her attendance, that she was compelled to yield to the proposition. As they were proceeding along the cloisters on their way to the chamber, they were met by a nun, who advancing hastily towards the Superior, informed her that for the last two hours the sister Cecilia had been rapidly declining; and, as the moment of her departure was supposed to be near, her Confessor was in waiting to perform the usual ceremony for the repose of her soul.

The Abbess replied only with a sigh, and a look directed eloquently towards heaven, and then taking the hand of Madame Chamont, with the fond affection of a mother, led her to a small door between two columns which opened into the apartment.

Here on a mattress, at the end of the room, lay sister Cecilia. She was attended by two nuns, who were seated on stools by her side, and who, by the silent movement of their lips, appeared to be engaged in devotion.

Beneath a dim gothic casement on the eastern side of the apartment, stood Father Benedicta. He held a missal in his hand, and seemed to be so entirely abstracted from worldly affairs as not to observe their entrance.

The fair sufferer, who was apparently too near death to feel any acute pain, cast a glance of filial tenderness upon the Abbess, and another, not less affectionate, towards Madame Chamont. Her fine blue eyes were not so radiant as before her illness, but in other respects she was but little altered; her features still retained the same interesting expression, and though overspread with that livid hue, which indicates approaching dissolution, were still lovely.

'Daughter,' said the Superior, seating herself on the bed by her side, 'I have brought Madame Chamont to see you; I thought a visit from her would not be unpleasant.'

The nun smiled serenely, and then, with a motion of her hand, invited her to come forwards; whilst the Abbess walked towards the window where the Confessor was stationed.

'Perhaps I have been unkind to you,' cried sister Cecilia, addressing herself to Madame Chamont, in low and mournful accents; 'you have discovered a tender interest in my misfortunes, and I have hitherto denied you my confidence. You wrote to ask me if I ever had a daughter, or had cause to lament the loss of one? The answer I returned was as true as it was concise -- I never had one. But had I not previously taken a vow never to disclose any incident of my past life to any other than my Confessor, the amiable sympathy you discovered for my irremediable calamities, would have induced me to reveal them; but this sacred vow, which has long bound me to secrecy, reaches but to the confines of the grave. Father Benedicta is acquainted with my story, and has my permission to give you any information you may desire upon this subject immediately on my decease.'

Madame Chamont thanked the nun gratefully for her attention, who being much exhausted by this slight exertion, uttered a benediction, and then closing her eyes, fell into a gentle doze.

As soon as she awaked from this short slumber, the sisterhood were summoned, by the ringing of a bell, to attend the mass.

The Monk was now arrayed in his priestly robes, and the ceremony was performed with a degree of solemnity that was at once awful and impressive.

Madame Chamont attended to these pious rites with a devout enthusiasm peculiar to her character; they reminded her of the last moments of her revered mother, and sighs, which she was unable to subdue, frequently convulsed her bosom.

As soon as these holy acts of devotion were concluded, the Lady Abbess and the rest of the assembly, except the nuns whose business it was to attend upon the dying, arose to depart. But the former being recalled by the Monk, at the request of the sister Cecilia, remained in the apartment, whilst Madame Chamont retired in procession with the rest of the nuns.

Had she not been withheld by earthly connections, how willingly would Madame Chamont have committed herself to this holy retirement. The placid countenances of the sisters, the gentleness, the humility of their deportments, the air of solemnity that dignified their movements, were so grateful to her feelings, that she was tempted to believe, from a transient review of the subject, that peace was only to be enjoyed in the solitude of a cloister.

The deepening shades of the evening now convinced her of the necessity of quitting the convent, and calling for Laurette, who had remained below in the Abbess's parlour, they returned to the castle.

The next day the Father Benedicta was commissioned by the Superior, to inform Madame Chamont of the death of sister Cecilia, which event had taken place a few hours after her departure; and also to request, if her spirits were equal to the task, that she would attend the funeral of the nun, which was fixed for the evening of the ensuing day

Seduced by that pleasing melancholy which scenes of solemnity inspire, she assented to the proposal; and calling the Monk into a saloon which was unoccupied, she besought him to acquaint her with some circumstances relative to the departed sister, particularly that of her name and former residence.

'Her name,' replied the Father, 'which I am now permitted to disclose, is Di Capigna.'

Madame Chamont started; a blush passed suddenly across her cheek, but instantly disappeared, leaving it more wan than before.

'Her place of residence,' resumed the Father, 'before the commencement of her misfortunes, was Naples.' Madame Chamont's countenance became still paler; whilst, without appearing to observe her emotions, the Monk continued.

'She formed an attachment in early youth, an attachment not more unfortunate than dangerous. Her lover was an Italian Noble of high rank and immense possessions, but of libertine unstable principles; he had been long initiated in all the arts of intrigue; and being entirely divested of that energy of soul which resists evil inclinations, became a slave to every passion that tyrannizes in the heart of man. He seduced her affections under the appearance of sincerity, and finally prevailed upon her to relinquish the protection of her only surviving parent, and to become an inmate of his mansion.

'The father of the misguided Signora was no sooner informed of his daughter's dishonour, than it began to have an alarming effect upon his constitution: he raved incessantly of his child, though he persisted in refusing to see her; and soon afterwards fell a victim to his own and his daughter's calamities.

'The Signora was no sooner acquainted with his death, which she was conscious of having hastened, than she fled from her lover, and suddenly became the most austere of penitents. She undertook a pilgrimage to the Chapel of Loretto, and afterwards consigned her youth, beauty, and almost matchless accomplishments to the shades of a cloister.

'It is now upwards of fourteen years,' resumed the Father, 'since she entered into the convent; and whatever irregularities may have marked her former conduct, her penitence, her tears, and her sufferings have been sufficient to expiate them. -- Yes, her late exemplary life,' continued the Monk, after a momentary pause, 'whatever errors she may have committed previous to her retirement, we may venture to hope, with humility, will ensure her eternal felicity.'

The conversation was here interrupted by the presence of Laurette, who advancing towards the Father with an easy and sprightly air, drew her chair near his, and seated herself by his side.

The holy Benedicta, who loved her with parental affection, gazed placidly upon her beautiful face, and then taking her hand, continued -- 'The death of the sister Cecilia presents to all, particularly to the young and the sanguine, an awfully important lesson; let us consider it, my daughters, and endeavour to profit by it -- She was once rich, lovely, and celebrated; but, by one act of unrestrained error, became miserable, despised, and abject. A whole life of austerity was scarcely sufficient to purify her contaminated soul, and to prepare it for that unknown change that awaits us all. The sting of conscience is, perhaps, the most acute pang which the regenerated mind can endure. It is a wound we carry unhealed to the grave; and at the hour of separation, when the parting spirit requires every aid that conscious integrity can bestow, is, unless softened by the interposition of divine grace, more dreadfully afflictive than at any other period of existence.'

Madame Chamont perceiving that the latter part of this discourse was delivered in a faltering voice, raised her tearful eyes from the ground, on which they had long been riveted, and fixing them upon the countenance of the Father, saw it was distorted by emotion: he seemed to feel acutely the terrible sensation he had been describing, and finding himself observed, embarrassment deprived him of the power of proceeding.

But the pang of remorse was not of long continuance; hope reanimated his breast, and the same placid expression which his features usually wore, returned with more affecting interest.

He was unconscious of Madame Chamont's being informed of his story, though he knew that she had released his friend from captivity, and consequently that she had made herself acquainted with some of the most remarkable events of La Roque's past life. Perhaps there was nothing that the Father so ardently desired as to conceal from the knowledge of the world the dissipated follies of his youth, though the cause of this reluctance to reveal them could not be easily ascertained; as of all men he was the most meek, humble, and unassuming, the least apprehensive of censure, and by no means solicitous to secure the applause of the multitude. To his God only, he was accountable for his actions, and not to frail humanity. In his service he preserved an uniform austerity of life, suffering all the mortifications and bodily inflictions which the severity of his order required. By this method he endeavoured to erase from his mind the melancholy remembrance of the past; or, if it could not be forgotten, at least to blunt the poignancy of his feelings with the comforts of religion, attended by the elevated, and not presumptive hope, that the atonement was accepted.

When the Monk had regained his composure, he continued the subject till the chime of the vesper-bell, which was heard faintly on the wind, warned him of the hour of prayer, and precipitated his departure from the castle.

On the succeeding day Madame Chamont prepared, at the request of her friend, to attend the funeral of the sister Cecilia; and putting on a long black robe, with a veil of the same colour, but little different either in form or texture to those worn by the order of Penitents, she took her missal, her crucifix, and her rosary, and repaired to the convent.

She was met at the gate by a friar, who usually attended for the purpose of opening it, and on enquiry for the Abbess, was directed to the Refectoire, where the nuns, who had taken the eternal veil, were already assembled.

They all arose on her entrance, and courteously offered her a seat by the fire, which, as the evening was cold and damp, she consented to accept. When the first salutations were over, a mournful silence ensued, which was interrupted at intervals by deep and heartfelt sighs, proceeding from the farther end of the room.

Curiosity induced Madame Chamont to turn; it was Father Benedicta, who had taken a place in a remote corner, to conceal what he mistook for weakness, but what was really the effect of his humanity.

The hollow tolling of the bell, and the entrance of four lay brothers, who passed hastily through the room, and departed at a contrary door, announced the moment was at hand in which the remains of the beautiful penitent was to be consigned to its last cold and cheerless abode.

As soon as these religious men had passed through the Refectoire, the Superior gave orders for the assembly to remove to the edge of the chapel-yard, to wait there till the body was disposed in the order in which it was to be conveyed, and to be in readiness to attend it from thence to the place of destination.

Having arrived within the gate of the burial-ground, they stopped, and in a few minutes beheld the melancholy procession stealing solemnly towards the spot. The coffin was supported by the four lay brothers from the Carthusian Monastery, who were commissioned to attend for the purpose; a friar walked before, holding in one hand a crucifix of ebony, and in the other a small image of the Virgin; six of the same order moved slowly behind bearing torches, followed by the novices and boarders of the convent; these advanced at a short disttance, bearing baskets of myrtle, laurel, and other evergreens, to decorate the new-made grave of their departed sister.

The procession was now joined by the Lady Abbess, Madame Chamont, and the train of nuns, who proceeded between the corpse and the following monks, till they reached the door of the chapel; here they were met by Father Benedicta, who being the sister Cecilia's Confessor, was requested to officiate at the last mournful office, that of interment.

Having arrived at the interior of the edifice, the coffin was deposited in a recess scooped out in the wall for similar occasions, beneath the image of a Magdalen in the act of penitence. The chapel was dimly lighted, except near the altar, which was splendidly adorned with a profusion of valuable paintings and consecrated tapers. At some distance from this stood the venerable Father: a gleam of light, which fell upon his face, marked the shadowy lines of sorrow softened by resignation; the hood which he usually wore being thrown back upon his shoulders, as soon as the service was begun, the whole of his countenance was visible and impressive.

At first his voice was low and faltering but as he resumed the discourse, his words regained their accustomed solemnity of expression, his features no longer retained the cloud of dejection but assumed the vivid glow of hope and confidence

An exhortation to survivors succeeded, delivered with all the moving graces of eloquence: every auditor listened with reverence as the holy Father proceeded, and felt impressed with the spirit and fire of devotion as he continued to expatiate upon the beauty of holiness, and the misery inseparable from vice and immorality.

As soon as this was concluded, the nuns, who had seated themselves in the aisles during the ceremony, attended by the monks and the rest of the congregation, advanced towards the burial-ground, whither the deceased was borne, in the same order as before, till they reached the edge of the grave. As they passed along the chapel on their way towards the place, strains, almost divine, echoed through the cloisters, which being aided by the voices of the choir, had a charmingly sublime effect, tending to preclude as unholy every earthly idea, and to wrap the mind in deep religious musings.

When the procession arrived at the consecrated spot, the tones of the organ were still heard, and the voices that accompanied it, being softened by distance, sounded to the ear of enthusiasm like the chaunt of angels.

Madame Chamont listened with undescribable sensations till the notes died into silence, and the Father made a sign for the coffin to be committed to the earth. A short prayer was then delivered with much fervency and emphasis, which was often interrupted by the sobs of the audience, who loved the sister Cecilia with the most refined affection and tenderness. Madame Chamont's tears flowed fast; and as she returned towards the convent, her feelings became so acute that she was compelled to take the arm of a nun for support.

As it was nearly dark when the funeral rites were concluded, the Abbess used many arguments to prevail upon her friend to continue with her during the night; but unwilling to leave her young charge, who she considered might be uneasy at her absence, declined the proposal; and, attended by one of the superior domestics of the convent, walked thoughtfully towards the castle.

Deeply impressed by the awful scene she had witnessed, Madame Chamont retired early to her room, and feeling little inclination to sleep, placed herself in a large antique chair which was fixed at the side of her bed, and taking her pen, her customary resource in the moments of dejection, she endeavoured to beguile the solitary hours by inscribing the following lines to the memory of the unfortunate Signora Di Capigna:

DIRGE

Meek Flower, untimely doom'd to fade,

Ere half thy op'ning sweets were known,

To pine in drear Misfortune's shade,

Alike forgotten and unknown.

Tho' rob'd in more than mortal charms,

To quit thy peerless earthly frame,

o waste thy sweets in Death's cold arms,

That slowly, but relentless came.

Ah! what avails the vermeil dye,

The charm that Beauty's step attends,

The ruby lips, the halcyon eye,

And ev'ry grace that Nature lends;

Since all must meet the direful blow:

Nor could thy powers, Oh! Genius, save;

For thee the tear shall ever flow,

To grace thy silent, early grave.

And there no thistle rude shall grow,

No weedy flower of baleful hues;

But there the mournful poppy blow,

And bathe thy turf with opiate dews.

No spectre wan shall haunt the way,

Nor screaming owl with boding cry;

But Cynthia's bird, of sweetest lay,

Shall sooth the zephyr's evening sigh.

When Madame Chamont had finished this little plaintive memorial, she began to ruminate upon the subject of Father Benedicta's discourse on the evening preceding the funeral. As the beautiful nun was indisputably proved to be the Signora Di Capigna, agreeable to her former supposition; from her own declaration she was assuredly not the mother of Laurette, as she had verbally confessed, within a few hours of her death, that she never had a daughter; which was perfectly consistent with the assertion which her letter contained previous to this event. This certainly communicated a slight gleam of satisfaction to her mind; for if Laurette was not the daughter of this unfortunate nun, it appeared highly probable that she was the orphan child of some deceased friend of the Marchese's, whom pity had induced him to patronize; and possibly, should time and reflection fix the attachment between her and Enrico upon a still firmer basis, no adverse circumstances might prevent their union.

Chapter 8

Oh! Conspiracy!

Sham'st thou to shew thy dang'rous brow by night,

When evils are most free? Oh! then by day

Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough

To mask thy monstrous visage?

SHAKESPEARE

Paoli had not been long resident in the castle before Madame Chamont was convinced, that the uneasy apprehensions she had experienced previous to his arrival, were not groundless; and that the noble part she had taken in liberating the unfortunate from the grasp of oppression, an unforeseen accident had early discovered.

The sullen reserve which had hitherto marked the behaviour of the steward, and was peculiar to his character, was soon after his arrival augmented; and he frequently fixed his eyes upon Madame Chamont, when he accidentally and unavoidably met her, with a look conveying a shrewd and malicious expression. This she perceived with some appearance of emotion; whilst her tormentor, who seemed to derive pleasure from her embarrassment, endeavoured, as much as possible, to increase that distress he was conscious of having excited, with a repetition of his former conduct.

That he had already visited the dungeon, and that his suspicions were directed to her, nearly amounted to conviction; but why he should suspect her, as the immediate cause of La Roque's escape from captivity, without some recent information which might lead to the conjecture, was at once strange and unaccountable. But from this state of surmise and perplexity she was soon afterwards relieved, by the certainty that a full discovery was the consequence of a trifling inadvertency; which convinced her that she had every thing to fear from the rage of her enemies, and that on her part the most strenuous exertions of heroic fortitude were necessary.

The bracelet which she had dropped from her arm, whose loss she lamented because adorned by the portrait of her father, was found by Paoli amid the files and other instruments which she had employed in the accomplishment of her design, in the dungeon of the turret.

This he secured and presented to her when she was amusing herself in the selection of some of the finest flowers which the gardens produced, to ornament the windows of the oriel; informing her from whence he had taken it, and demanding, in an imperious and authoritative tone, for what purpose she had visited the tower.

Being unprepared for an answer, Madame Chamont did not immediately reply; nor could the conscious rectitude of her conduct, which had hitherto dignified her misfortunes, prevent her from feeling some portion of that acute pain, which is inseparable from the performance of decided wrong.

The hesitation of her manner, and the paleness of her looks were a sufficient confirmation of the truth of the conjecture; and the haughty steward, having thus openly avowed the circumstance which had led to the supposition, after eyeing her with a malignant sneer, that insulted and wounded her feelings more than the severest invective, retired from her presence, with the self-important air of a man who congratulates himself upon some new and valuable discovery.

Soon after this event, Ambrose was dispatched with a letter to the nearest town, addressed to the Marchese; which Paoli informed Madame Chamont was respecting some business which was to be transacted before his return into Italy, which could not be conducted without the directions of his Lord; and at the same time avoiding any hint that could justify the opinion that it had any relation to herself.

Some weeks passed without any material occurrence; in which time the steward, in the presence of Madame Chamont, still preserved that stately kind of reserve, which necessarily forbids the communication of sentiment; seeming to regard the family at the castle as people of an inferior order, whose welfare and happiness were entirely dependant upon himself, and over whom he was permitted to exercise an unlimited power.

This behaviour could not pass without the deserved imputation of arrogance; and Madame Chamont, who possessed a delicate sense of propriety, and had been early taught to make reflections upon character, though she did not allow herself to yield to the impulse of a quick resentment, was not insensible to the indignity that was offered her, and anticipated, with somewhat of impatience, the moment of his departure.

A letter from the Marchese, that was directed to Paoli, in answer to that which had been recently conveyed to him, was now brought to the castle. The joy evidently expressed in the countenance of the steward, on the perusal of it, could not pass unobserved; but the contents, or even the subject of the epistle, was carefully concealed.

Madame Chamont, who was too well acquainted with the disposition of the Marchese, not to be assured that she had much to fear from his resentment, should he arrive at the knowledge of La Roque's release, which she had every reason to believe would be the case, that she felt depressed and uneasy whenever this was the subject of her thoughts; and so terrifying were her apprehensions at times, that nothing but the applause of her own heart, that internal reward of virtue, could have supported her under them.

It was not without some astonishment that she perceived a considerable alteration in the manners of Paoli soon after the receipt of the letter: He appeared at some times unusually animated, joined frequently in conversation, and lost much of that haughtiness of demeanour which had hitherto precluded the advances of freedom.

To account for this sudden alteration was no very easy task, though Madame Chamont could not forbear surmising, that it was assumed for the concealment of some deep design; but from whatever motive it proceeded, it contributed much to the comfort of that part of the family who were entirely unsuspicious of the cause.

Laurette, whose heart was still occupied by the image of Enrico, took every opportunity of being alone, when her necessary assistance in the household concerns did not render her presence indispensable, that she might ramble alone and unobserved in those walks which his society had endeared; where she frequently remained till the close of the day, recollecting every sentiment he had expressed, every object he had admired, and soothing herself with the hope that she still lived in his remembrance.

One evening, after having wandered for some time through the groves and shrubberies surrounding the mansion, which were wild, lonely, and beautiful, she was tempted to prolong her walk, and striking into a new path, which apparently led into a wood not immediately connected with the castle, she felt an irresistible inclination to follow the track, and proceeded in it rapidly.

Having reached the precincts of the wood, she heard the trampling of mules as advancing towards the spot, and stopped for a few moments to distinguish whither they were going. She had not remained long in this situation before voices were heard, which seemed to approach nearer, and were soon afterwards succeeded by loud bursts of laughter, evidently proceeding from intoxication. Alarmed at the consequence of venturing so far unattended, she receded from the borders of the forest, and being afraid lest she should be overtaken before she could arrive at a place of security, ran swiftly towards home.

As soon as she had entered the gate leading into the second court, the tolling of the vesper bell, which informed her she had been absent too long, directed her towards the chapel.

The family were already assembled to render thanks for the blessings of the day; and, as she placed herself in the aisle where the congregation were kneeling, Madame Chamont's looks seemed gently to reproach her inattention to the hour. Laurette felt severely the reproof, and secretly determining not to merit it again, joined in devotion with more than her accustomed earnestness.

As soon as vespers were concluded, Paoli requested that Madame Chamont would indulge him with a few moments' conversation in private, as he wished to consult with her respecting some repairs that were wanting on the other side of the edifice. Our heroine fixed her eyes upon her governess as the proposal was made, and perceived that she appeared much concerned, though the cause was unknown to her, and that she seemed unwilling to comply. After having made some objections, chiefly arising from the lateness of the evening, which the steward removed by observing that the moon was unusually bright, and that the distance was so trifling as to preclude the possibility of danger, she assented; Laurette, who innocently besought permission to attend them, was repulsed by a frown from Paoli, and not daring to dispute his authority, returned to the interior of the castle.

As the evening was cold and rather damp, she ordered a fire to be made in the saloon; and taking one of her favourite authors from her store of books that were arranged in an antique piece of furniture, designed for the purpose, she sat down by the cheerful blaze, and endeavoured to amuse herself with reading.

When nearly an hour had elapsed, she began to be alarmed at Madame Chamont's absence, which appeared protracted beyond the time which business required; and desiring Dorothée to accompany her, walked by the side of the rampart wall till she had reached the northern buildings, the way she recollected they had taken.

The melancholy stillness that universally prevailed, increased the uneasy sensation that was stealing upon her spirits; and as she looked anxiously around without distinguishing those she was in search of, her fears began to augment, and she felt irresolute in what manner to act.

The apparent dissatisfaction and reluctance with which Madame Chamont had yielded to the steward's proposal, recurred frequently to her thoughts, though she was unable to form any conjecture as to the reason of it, since there was nothing very surprising or singular in the request.

Yet, notwithstanding the probability of his having something to communicate in private, which could not well be dispensed with, she was not unacquainted with the malignant disposition of the steward; and had oftentimes beheld with astonishment the causeless aversion he seemed to have conceived for her amiable protectress, ever since she had been capable of forming a judgment upon the subject.

Having pursued their way for a considerable time without better success, they mutually agreed to return, and to send Ambrose immediately in search of them.

This was no sooner determined than they saw Paoli walking by the side of the wood. He was alone, and unconscious of observation, was moving slowly and thoughtfully along.

Dorothée being anxious to know what was become of her lady, called to him, and roused him from his reverie. As he turned and advanced towards them, he betrayed some symptoms of confusion; but recollecting himself, proceeded to inform them that as he was conducting Madame Chamont along the northern side of the battlements, a party of banditti rushed suddenly from the wood, and, regardless of her cries, or the threats and remonstrances that he had uttered, seized upon her with violence, and placing her upon a mule, in spite of every effort he had exerted to effectuate her release, fled instantly away. The alarm this strange adventure occasioned had, he added, so entirely deprived him of the power of action, that he was undetermined what mode to pursue; and was meditating on the most probable method of overtaking them, when he was roused from these reflections by the voice of Dorothée.

Laurette, being overcome with grief and apprehension, was insensible to the latter part of the discourse, for she had fainted in the arms of her attendant, who, after many attempts to recall her to life, was obliged, with the assistance of the steward, to convey her into the castle.

Dorothée, though she had more command over her feelings, was not less affected, and besought Paoli to send Ambrose immediately, accompanied by some of the peasantry, in pursuit of the ruffians. To this proposal he readily assented, though there appeared but little probability of success; and Ambrose, with a party of men armed and mounted, were instantly dispatched.

However unlikely it was that a few simple cottagers, headed by an old servant, who was equally unskilled in the use of arms, should succeed in an attack against a band of robbers, it was a hope that conveyed a solace to the bosom of Laurette, and after many intreaties she was at last prevailed upon to retire to her bed.

Chapter 9

Patience and Sorrow strove

Which should express her goodliest; you have seen

Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears

Are like a better May; those happy smiles

That played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know

What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence

As pearls from diamonds dropped; in brief

Sorrow would be a vanity most lov'd,

If all could so become it.

SHAKESPEARE

Laurette arose early in the morning unrefreshed by sleep, and being informed that the party in pursuit of the robbers were not yet returned, remained in a state of anxious expectation. Dorothée, and the rest of the domestics, whose hopes were less sanguine, wept incessantly at their loss; though they carefully concealed from Laurette this appearance of sorrow, lest it should lead to the suspicion that the case was hopeless.

It was not till the evening of the ensuing day that Ambrose and the peasantry returned, without having gained any satisfactory intelligence of the fate of Madame Chamont. All the information they were enabled to obtain, was at a small village inn, about a league and a half from the castle, where they were told that a lady, who seemed to be a person of rank, had stopped for a few moments in the society of three men of a strange suspicious appearance. They were unable to give an accurate description of her person, as she was covered with a veil of unusual thickness, which descended nearly to her feet; but, from the little observation they had been able to make, she seemed to be above the middle size; that during their stay at the door of the inn, she had betrayed no symptom of fear or indisposition; and one of the men, of a less ferocious deportment than the others, having assured her in a low voice that she had nothing to apprehend, each of the men took a glass of spirits, without alighting from their mules, and galloped from the place.

As no hint respecting their future destination had escaped them whilst they were refreshing themselves, the party in pursuit were, for a short time, undetermined which way to proceed; but, as danger might be augmented by delay, they finally resolved to follow the beaten track, and to make a second enquiry at the next town. Here they arrived at the break of day but were unable to gain any hint that could lead to the knowledge they desired. They then pursued their journey for a considerable way, without better success; and as there appeared but little chance of overtaking them, or of gaining farther intelligence upon the subject, they mutually agreed to return.

Laurette, now finding that the feeble hope which had sustained her was delusive, felt the keenest affliction, and it was long before a cessation of sorrow allowed time for reflection, or the animated exertions of fortitude. To indulge in unavailing regret was, she had frequently been told, vain and impious; but this was a trial which youth and inexperience could with difficulty support. Every object reminded her of her valuable friend, and she found it impossible to resist the pressure of her grief, which now affected her spirits, and undermined her health.

A letter from Enrico, which at an earlier period would have been received with the most innocent effusions of rapture, now tended to increase her uneasiness; it was directed to Madame Chamont, but having been always allowed the privilege of perusing his epistles, she ventured to open it.

As the tender, the dutiful expressions with which it abounded met her eye, her tears flowed silently and fast; but when she got to that part of the letter which treated of the danger of his situation, and informed her that he expected soon to be called into action, her feelings could no longer be restrained, and she wept and sobbed aloud.

Paoli, who at first affected to interest himself in her distress, now either totally disregarded her, as a being unworthy of his attention, or reproached her with severity for the indulgence of it.

The only consolation afforded her was derived from the conversation of Dorothée, whose solicitude to remove her concern mitigated the severity of her own.

The suspicion that Paoli was indirectly an auxiliary in the affair, would sometimes occur to the imagination of Laurette, though she could not effectually reconcile it to her reason or the native candour of her mind. The voices that excited alarm, which she supposed to be those of the ruffians, and the circumstance of the steward's requesting the society of Madame Chamont alone, and at that silent hour, and his walking apparently from the wood from whence those voices proceeded, was food for conjecture; and a mind less pure and inexperienced than her own, would have resolutely decided against him. But she knew the value of that virtue which places the actions of others in the most favourable light, and willingly rejects every thing that tends to criminate, if it falls short of conviction.

Had she been acquainted with La Roque's confinement and escape from the dungeon, which was carefully concealed from her, or had heard of the bracelet which was found there by the steward, sufficient evidence would have been collected to justify the opinion.

The only consolation that now offered itself, was the probability of Madame Chamont's being still alive, and in a place of safety; for as one of the men had assured her she had nothing to fear, there appeared not to be any design upon her life.

Her silence and apparent tranquillity at the inn could not easily be accounted for; but from whatever cause it proceeded, it wore an aspect by no means unfavourable.

These circumstances she continued to reflect upon with hope; and as the possibility of meeting again with her beloved friend was presented to her young and sanguine imagination, her spirits gradually revived.

When the mind has once escaped from the influence of overwhelming calamity, it endeavours to extract comfort from surrounding objects at once to apply a balm to the wounds it has endured, and to compensate for the losses it has sustained. So Laurette attempted to divert the melancholy that assailed her by constant and unremitting employment; at first her former amusements were irksome and uninteresting, in a short time they became more supportable, and finally, as the reward of effort, assumed the power of pleasing.

Though the lovely orphan was too much intimidated to venture far from the castle alone, she continued to stroll as usual in the gardens, whose wild and desolate appearance was in unison with her feelings, and sometimes, under the shade of her favourite tree, where she had so often sat with Enrico, would resign herself to the influence of melancholy reflections.

One evening as she was returning from this spot, and had arrived at the smaller gate which led directly to the mansion, she observed Lisette, seemingly much affrighted, darting along the side of the edifice. Anxious to be made acquainted with her cause of alarm, she called to her, and desired her to stop. The girl, not immediately hearing her, did not slacken her pace, till Laurette's repeating the call occasioned her to turn.

Having made some enquiries, which the affrighted servant was too much terrified to answer, she led her into the hall, and observing that she looked unusually pale, called instantly for assistance. As soon as Lisette revived, she informed them, that as she was returning from one of the cottages on the margin of the river, whither she had been to convey some food to a poor woman that was ill, according to her usual custom in cases of a similar nature, she perceived a tall dreadful looking figure gliding by the side of the rampart. She was too much agitated, she added, to observe it minutely; but it appeared much taller than any human being she had ever seen, and very ghastly.

As soon as she had arrived within a few steps of the court, she saw the same figure, which she was assured could be no other than an apparition, stealing along the avenue. Having turned hastily back, she had, she said, the courage to look behind, and saw the spectre pursuing her, who having waved its hand mournfully, as if beckoning her to follow it, vanished suddenly from her sight. In a few moments a terrible scream, which was more loud and dreadful than any thing she had ever heard, and which was succeeded by a strange noise or fluttering in the air, so considerably augmented her alarm as almost to deprive her of her senses.

When a little recovered from the astonishment which this horrible phantom had excited, she was, she said, hastening towards home, when the voice of her young lady, which she believed to be that of the spirit, increased her terror.

Laurette could not forbear smiling at the latter part of the recital, and though she could not account for the strange unnatural appearance she described, she was persuaded that the screams and flutterings in the air which had so powerfully affected the girl's fancy, were occasioned by the sudden flight of a number of owls that inhabited the tops of the turrets. But it was difficult to convince Lisette that it could otherwise be accounted for than by the interposition of supernatural agency.

Father Benedicta, who had frequently been at the castle since the departure of Madame Chamont, having been informed of the strange incident that had been the cause of it, expressed much surprise and uneasiness. As he was not ignorant of Della Croisse's escape from captivity being effected by her means, he naturally suspected the Marchese to be the primary cause. He knew that under an inscrutable disguise he was capable of executing the most daring villainy; though accustomed to think with candour, and act with gentleness, the mild precepts of his religion did not render Father Benedicta insensible to the vices of others, neither had they obliterated all traces of former resentment.

He reflected with concern upon the unprotected situation of Laurette, and endeavoured to dissuade her from the indulgence of unavailing sorrow. As she appeared to derive comfort from his society, his visits were more frequently repeated than before the commencement of her misfortunes, and he had the satisfaction of finding, that when he expatiated upon the indispensable necessity of guarding against that intellectual weakness, which is sometimes dignified with the name of sensibility, and of the incontestible advantages arising from an undiminished fortitude, that she listened to him not only with attention, but with gratitude.

Though the Father had resolved to discover, if possible, whither Madame Chamont was conveyed, and by what authority she was forced from the castle, he executed his intentions with secrecy, lest it should occasion the indulgence of unwarranted hope. Yet though he extended his enquiries with perseverance and solicitude, they were ineffectual, and he was finally compelled to relinquish an enterprize that was attended with so little success.

Laurette was for some time irresolute whether to write to Enrico immediately, to inform him of this unhappy event, or to defer it till some future period. The former plan seemed to be the most eligible, as his endeavours would be exerted in the cause; but the mournful intelligence she had to communicate, so entirely deprived her of the power of action, that though she several times began to frame an epistle, she was long before she accomplished her design.

The idea that probably before the arrival of that letter Enrico might be no more, would sometimes present itself to her disordered fancy, with a thousand dreadful accompaniments: She saw him, in her terrified imagination, borne bleeding and lifeless from the field; her heart sickened at the thought, till a shower of tears that fell in large drops upon the paper, which she had prepared for the purpose of writing to him, relieved her almost bursting bosom.

She recollected every amiable qualification he possessed, his graceful, his dignified deportment, the uniform delicacy of his manners, his tenderness, and filial affection. When she remembered these, and the expression of his countenance at the parting interview, and saw the groves through which they had walked, and the flowers they had together admired, her feelings were too painful to be endured, and she quitted abruptly the place, as if desirous of escaping from the memorials of her former happiness.

A letter from the Marchese to his steward now arrived at the castle, which contained an account of the death of the Marchesa. She had suffered much from a lingering and severe illness, with which she had been afflicted some time. Having been separated from her husband soon after her marriage, she had resided, during this state of premature widowhood, in a mansion on a German estate, in a distant part of the country.

The Marchese, who had been long weary of his present residence, the Castello St Aubin, determined immediately on the decease of his lady, to have the mansion where she had resided repaired and modernized for his reception.

This occasioned the removal of Paoli, who had orders to visit the estate, to observe what repairs might be requisite, and to employ a sufficient number of hands to accomplish the work with all possible expedition. Having informed Laurette of these particulars, and of his intention of returning as soon as the business was transacted, the steward made some little necessary arrangements, and commenced his journey.

Laurette, in the meantime, dedicated her hours to the most worthy and useful employments, and with the assistance of the good Friar, the Father Benedicta, was soon enabled to reflect upon the past, and to anticipate the future, with some degree of tranquillity.

Her virtues were of the most active kind: she employed means of being acquainted with the necessities of the indigent, and experienced the delightful gratification of contributing to their comforts.

This diffusive humanity, which acquired additional excellence from its being united with youth and beauty, so exalted her in the estimation of those who were its objects, that they mingled admiration with gratitude; and though they lamented the loss of their former benefactress, who had so suddenly and so strangely disappeared, they soon discovered that her young charge possessed all those valuable and endearing qualifications which had rendered her so deservedly beloved.

Though Laurette, in the course of her reading, had met with some fictitious tales of distress, those abounding in tender description, and that irresistibly affect the fancy, were in some measure prohibited. Madame Chamont, though she had retired early from society, and of course had mixed but little with the world, was sufficiently acquainted with the human heart to be convinced that works of this kind might have a dangerous tendency. She therefore discountenanced in her young pupil that unlimited indulgence, in the passive feelings of sensibility, which inevitably unfits the mind for any undertaking that requires firm and vigorous exertion; she knew that, when deeply affected by tales of imaginary woe, the mind too often sinks into imbecility; and when abstracted from the influence of romantic delusion, it beholds real objects of compassion divested of those false and glowing colours in which they have been exhibited by the song of the Poet, or the pen of the Novelist -- it beholds them without that sympathetic interest which would extend the arm of active benevolence for their relief.

Chapter 10

I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,

As full of peril and adventurous spirit

As to o'erwalk a current, roaring loud,

On the unstedfast foot of a spear.

The gentle mind of Laurette, though strengthened by effort, was yet tenderly alive to mournful impressions, which solitude and the native softness of her disposition rendered sometimes irresistible. The silence of Enrico increased her apprehensions, and though she endeavoured to dissipate her fears, and to sweeten with hope the cup of affliction, her anguish was sometimes too keen to be subdued, and her life became a series of sufferance and exertion.

Paoli's absence being protracted beyond what he had intimated as necessary, it began to be a matter of doubt whether it was his intention to return, or to remain stationary in the family of the Marchese; till the trampling of hoofs, heard in the silence of evening, put an end to conjecture.

Laurette was sitting in her apartment when he arrived, endeavouring to find comfort in employment, when a message from the steward, which was delivered by Lisette, summoned her into the saloon, where he was in waiting to receive her. As soon as she entered, he presented her with a letter. She was unacquainted with the hand-writing, but, on opening it, found it bore the signature of the Marchese de Montferrat. So unexpected a circumstance covered her with confusion, and she perused it with apparent emotion.

He expressed much astonishment at the intelligence that had been recently conveyed to him concerning the departure of Madame Chamont, and also informed her that it was his intention to remove her, in a few weeks, from her present residence to a less ancient castle, that was preparing for himself, in the principality of Salzburg. He was, he added, by unforeseen events, prevented from repairing thither immediately himself; but, as it would soon be in readiness for her reception, he had given orders for his steward to convey her to the mansion, where it was his intention for her to remain during the winter season. He concluded with desiring her not to regret the loss of her protectress, as all possible means of discovering the authors of so unjustifiable a proceeding should be instantly employed.

Laurette examined the contents of this letter with mingled distress and astonishment. To leave that beloved retreat, which had been her home from earliest infancy; to be allowed to ramble no more over those beautiful mountains, which had been the scenes of youthful festivity, and which were endeared to her by the remembrance of former happiness, was a subject of painful reflection; but when she recollected that the felicity which she had once experienced in those delightful shades was annihilated, and that those who had shared it with her were separated from her, perhaps for ever, she endeavoured to reconcile herself to a destiny which, from the unlimited power which the Marchese possessed over her, she considered as unavoidable.

Paoli, in the meantime, began to make every necessary preparation for a speedy removal. And as it appeared probable to Laurette that he was to remain in the castle mentioned by the Marchese in the absence of his lord, she endeavoured, though with little hopes of success, to soften the native moroseness of his disposition with the undeviating sweetness of her own. But though she frequently attempted to engage him in conversation, she usually failed in her design; for his mind was so entirely absorbed in its own reflections and concerns, that he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. Yet as the suspicion which she once faintly entertained, respecting his having entered into a conspiracy with the ruffians who had forced Madame Chamont into the woods, was now entirely removed, she beheld him with less aversion.

As the time drew near which was to separate her from the scenes of her earliest happiness, she found it difficult to support that serene tranquillity of soul which she so ardently desired to retain, though she did not fail to exert every effort in her power to preserve that uniformity of conduct she had been taught to estimate and admire.

When Father Benedicta again repeated his visit, Laurette informed him of the letter she had received from the Marchese, and also of his intention of removing her to another castle in a distant part of the country, whither she was soon to be conveyed.

The surprise and uneasiness expressed in the countenance of the Father when the intelligence was communicated, could not pass unobserved by his lovely young pupil, who beheld him with a silent and fixed attention.

He asked eagerly under whose protection she was to be placed, and whether the Marchese was to reside on this estate during her continuance there.

Assured of the sincerity of his friendship, and grateful for the interest he had ever discovered in her concerns, Laurette presented him with the letter. Having perused it, he sighed, shook his head mournfully, and, as if anxious to escape from enquiry, arose to depart: 'I shall see you again, my child,' cried the Monk tenderly, as she followed him towards the door.

Laurette regarded him steadfastly as he spoke, and thought she perceived a tear steal down his placid cheek. She would have enquired the cause, but her heart was too full for utterance, and having attended him to the portal, she watched him as he proceeded along the avenue till he was lost in distance, and then returning to the saloon, placed herself in one of the recesses of the windows, and indulged the acuteness of her feelings in secret.

It was evident from the words of the Friar, as well as from the tone in which they were delivered, that there was something either in the stile of the epistle, or in the proposal it contained, that did not accord with his ideas of propriety. She wished she had been collected enough to have requested the avowal of his sentiments, and looked forwards to another interview with somewhat of impatience.

The Marchese she had never seen, consequently, though he had offered her his castle, he was uninfluenced by affection. She had been taught to believe that he was her only surviving friend and protector; yet, as he had never conciliated her esteem by winning offices of kindness, her gratitude was unmingled with tenderness.

The mysterious silence that had been preserved concerning her birth, she had often considered with surprise; she was called Laurette, but no other name was added; and when she ventured to extend her enquiries, her questions were either evaded, or remained entirely unanswered. When blessed with the protection of Madame Chamont, the subject was attended with curiosity, and not with regret; but now that protection was withdrawn, it returned forcibly upon her mind. She had been told she was an orphan, but every hint that could tend to a farther knowledge of this mystery was carefully avoided.

These reflections, which the forlornness of her situation suggested, added to the uncertainty of the fate of Madame Chamont and Enrico; so entirely occupied her thoughts, that the taciturnity of the steward, and the presaging gloom of his aspect were unobserved, or beheld with indifference. But on being assured that Dorothée and Lisette were to attend her to her place of destination, her spirits became suddenly reanimated and she began to prepare for her journey with redoubled alacrity.

As to ramble alone in the wood, or along the solitary glens of the mountains, was a charm the most suited to her mind, she yielded to the impulse of her feelings, and often, in the meek hour of twilight, would gaze with a tranquil kind of melancholy upon those dear, those much-loved scenes she was soon to resign for ever.

One evening, on her return from one of these lonely excursions, she seated herself against a window in the room which she always called her own, because it contained the implements of her studies and her amusements.

When wrapped in pensive reflections, as she was gazing upon the moon gliding silently along through a clear and cloudless sky, she observed a white figure, somewhat answering to the description that Lisette had given of the phantom which had occasioned her alarm, move slowly beneath the arch of the window.

Though Laurette had before treated this appearance as an illusion, she now felt a superstitious dread stealing upon her mind. Fear, for a moment, arrested her faculties, but an effort of fortitude releasing them, she arose and opened the casement. In a few minutes the same figure emerged from the deep shade of the trees, and approached towards the window.

She started and was retreating, till the sound of her own name, uttered in a deep and hollow tone, rivetted her to the spot. She stopped -- it was again repeated, and venturing to raise her eyes towards the object of her terror, she beheld a person standing before her, of a pale and melancholy aspect, clad in the habit of a monk; he was tall and of a singular physiognomy, he wore no cowl nor even a cloak, and his dress being entirely white, except a narrow black scapulary, added much to the ghastliness of his appearance.

As he moved towards the casement, he waved his hand, in token for her to stop, and again repeating the name of Laurette, with deeper emphasis, 'Beware,' cried he, 'of the Marchese de Montferrat.'

Laurette trembled, but was unable to articulate; she scarcely knew whether the being addressing her was human or supernatural; a sensation of mingled terror and awe almost overcame her, and it was with difficulty that she could prevent herself from falling.

The Monk, not seeming to regard her emotion, drew a miniature from beneath his garment, and then surveying her for a moment in silence, added -- 'Will you, in consideration of my holy office, utter a solemn promise, which nothing shall prevail upon you to violate, never to disclose to any individual living what I am about to relate?'

Laurette's tremor increased; but not being allowed time for reflection, and having no idea that a person in the garb of a religious could act so inconsistently with that devout character as to exact a promise which she could not make with impunity, she gave her answer in the affirmative.

'Will you swear then,' resumed the Father, raising his voice still higher, which acquired deeper energy of expression as he proceeded, 'by the ever spotless and holy Maria, by the accepted souls of the departed, and by the blessed assembly of the Saints and Martyrs, to keep this vow inviolable, till I shall call upon you to attest the truth of what I shall hereafter declare, at some future and, perchance, far distant period.'

Laurette tremblingly assented to the proposition, and the Father repeating the form in which he wished it to be delivered, she pronounced it after him.

When this impressive vow was recited agreeable to the desire of the Father, he presented Laurette with the miniature which he held suspended by a chain of brilliants, and then softening his voice, added, 'Take this, it is the portrait of thy mother; wear it as an invaluable gift, and to-morrow, as soon as vespers are concluded, meet me at the equestrian statue in the inner court. Recollect the solemnity of your promise, and I will unfold to you an important secret.'

She was going to reply, but before she was sufficiently collected, he had glided amongst the trees, and had disappeared.

'The portrait of my mother!' cried Laurette, fixing her eyes upon the picture with a look of undescribable astonishment, 'is it possible; and have I then a parent living?' But in an instant remembering that the delivery of the miniature by no means implied that she was still in existence, a slight degree of disappointment was communicated to her heart.

Dorothée, who entered the room to kindle a fire, broke unwelcomely upon her solitude; but mindfull of the injunctions of her mysterious visitor, Laurette arose, and, after secreting the portrait, assumed an appearance of composure.

As soon as she was again alone, and her thoughts were somewhat recomposed, she began to muse upon this singular occurrence. If this was the person who had excited so much alarm in the bosom of Lisette, it was strange that his nocturnal rambles had not been regularly continued, as since that time no one had been seen about the grounds in the least answering to that description; and as the subject of his visits was undoubtedly herself, and the secret he had to declare was of so important a nature, it was natural to suppose, instead of avoiding her, he would have loitered within the boundaries of the mansion, in the hope of meeting with her.

The solemn manner in which these words were pronounced, 'Beware of the Marchese de Montferrat!' struck her with dismay. To beware of him whom she had been taught to revere as a parent, and to look forwards to as the patron of her future days, was not more astonishing than afflictive. The admonition seemed to presage some impending evil from which it was impossible to fly; and the dread of what she might have to encounter, alone and unfriended, now entirely occupied her thoughts, tending to make her fear more than ever the approach of that hour which was to separate her from the much-loved scenes of her earliest youth.

As she examined the features of the portrait, rendered infinitely more touching by the sweet pensive cast of the countenance, she thought she had somewhat seen a painting that strongly characterized it; and as the castle contained all that had ever fallen under her observation, she was resolved to regard them more attentively, and, if possible, to trace the resemblance.

The chain, by which the miniature was suspended, did not fail to attract her admiration; she had never seen any thing of the sort, and the jewels, though small, being of the most valuable kind, possessed unusual brilliancy and lustre.

As Laurette wished to ruminate in secret upon this singular adventure, she retired to her room earlier than was her custom, at once to abridge the moments of suspense, and to lose the society of Paoli. But though weary and indisposed, she was unable to sleep, and arose in the morning but little refreshed.

Her first resolve was to examine the portraits, which were very numerous, and much defaced by time and neglect. She had wandered over the greatest part of the castle, except the northern side of the building which remained always unopened, before she recollected the paintings in the oriel, which were more modern, and consequently less injured than the rest.

Here she examined the picture which had attracted the attention of Madame Chamont soon after her arrival at the mansion. It represented the figure of a female leaning upon a tomb, the countenance of which bore some resemblance to the miniature; the latter, indeed, appeared somewhat younger, and, if possible, still more beautiful. It possessed the same softness of expression, but there was less of melancholy; a smile beamed from the eyes, which were dark, and full of the most animated sweetness, while the light brown tresses that shaded the forehead, and waved carelessly upon the neck, completed the character of beauty.

But for whom the portrait was designed, which she imagined was so lively a representation of that presented by the Monk, she had never been informed; though she remembered having once questioned Margaritte concerning it. But as her only hope of gaining intelligence upon the subject depended upon the expected interview in the evening, she awaited the hour with increasing solicitude.

Chapter 11

With what a leaden and retarding weight

Does expectation load the wing of Time!

MASON

Willing to divert her thoughts from a subject in which she was too nearly interested, Laurette attempted, though without success, to find amusement in employment: She took up her lute, but her fingers were unable to perform their office; the notes she awakened were low, spiritless, and inharmonious, and it was replaced with languor and dissatisfaction. Her embroidery and books were equally ineffectual to bestow the charm of content, and the more frequently this strange incident recurred to her mind, the more insupportable were the moments of suspense. That attractive composure of demeanour, which formerly added the most winning softness to her motions, had in some degree forsaken her; she reflected, with concern, upon her promise to the Father, and seemed equally to dread and to desire the expected interview.

As soon as dinner was removed, she arose and quitted the room, meaning to ramble though the shrubberies; but as the afternoon was a remarkably fine one, she determined to endeavour, at least, to calm the more painful emotions by visiting the cottages that bordered the river, whose simple and industrious inhabitants had been always the objects of her bounty.

Having relieved the necessities of those who apparently suffered the most from the hardships of poverty, and listened with peculiar kindness to the infantine prattle of the children, who were each anxious to gain a smile or a kiss from their lovely benefactress, she continued her walk.

The loneliness of the road she had chosen was ill adapted to her present frame of mind, as it failed, for want of variety in its scenery, to fix her attention, and to recall her from that harassing anxiety which enervates, and unfits for action.

The singular aspect of the Monk, his abrupt stile of addressing her, the secret he had to disclose so dreadfully important as his manner had indicated, were circumstances ever present to her thoughts. Sometimes it occurred to her that the expected discovery related to Madame Chamont, and that the person who had so strangely introduced himself, having by some means become acquainted with the violent measures that had been adopted in forcing her from her abode, and of the primary cause of them, intended, by making it known to those who were the most nearly concerned in her welfare, to prevent the unhappy consequences that might otherwise ensue. But this, on a second review, appeared unlikely; if the Monk had obtained any knowledge upon this subject, he would doubtless have embraced some other means of conveying this necessary intelligence at an earlier period, and of rendering her such advice and assistance, as to the manner of proceeding, as would have been consistent with his holy character and office.

What he had to unfold must then relate merely to herself, something probably concerning her birth. This opinion the delivery of the picture seemed to corroborate; but who it could be that had acquired information upon a subject which had hitherto been so mysteriously concealed, and by what means he had gained possession of the picture, which he declared to be the portrait of her mother, were points equally surprising and unaccountable.

The shades of night that fell fast upon the surrounding objects, now warning her of the approaching hour, quickened her steps towards the castle.

The soft stillness of the evening that seemed to breathe peace and tranquillity, tended to revive her depressed spirits, enabling her to reflect upon the appointment she had made with more composure and serenity.

As soon as she entered the hall, the shrill tone of the vesper-bell reminded her of her mysterious visitor, and summoned her to nocturnal prayer.

When the service was concluded, and the family were retired from the chapel, with trembling steps and a palpitating heart she prepared to meet the Monk, according to her engagement.

Having waited for a few minutes in the outward court, in hopes of seeing Paoli enter the castle, she observed, with some emotion, that he turned into the wood that secreted the eastern side of the edifice. But as he sometimes rambled alone in the evening for a considerable time, she began to flatter herself into the opinion that he would not return from his excursion during her conference with the Father.

She had no sooner entered the smaller court, and placed herself by the column, than she perceived the mysterious Monk, with a thoughtful and dejected air, moving slowly through the avenue.

When he had arrived at the vista he stopped, crossed himself, and then numbering his Paternosters and Ave Marias on his rosary, a ceremony which Laurette's impatience would at that moment gladly have spared, he hastened to the appointed place.

A hood was added to his dress, which he threw back the instant he recognized Laurette, and a small crucifix of silver was suspended on his breast.

Having advanced within a few paces of the column -- 'I am come,' said he, fixing his eyes upon her with a mild and steadfast gaze, 'to warn you of the dangers that threaten you -- to save you from misery, and perchance from death. I am come also,' added he, sighing deeply, and clasping his hands together, with a look directed meekly towards heaven, 'to acquaint you with the wrongs you have endured, and to unveil the hidden mysteries of your birth. Listen to me, my child; on this moment, this important moment, depends your future destiny.'

Laurette trembled, and looking fearfully around, whilst the Father was repeating his injunctions of secrecy in the same manner as on the preceding day, she beheld Paoli embowered in some trees that projected from the side of the wood, apparently listening to their discourse. Fear almost deprived her of utterance: 'We are observed,' cried she, in tremulous and broken accents, 'leave me, holy Father, I beseech you -- to-morrow at this hour.'

She could proceed no farther; the Monk glided amongst the trees, to elude the observation of Paoli, who finding himself discovered, rushed instantly from the wood.

Having demanded, in an imperious tone, with whom she was conversing, and what was the subject of their conference, and Laurette, amazed at his presumption and arrogance, resolutely refusing to answer, he seized her rudely by the arm, and led her into the saloon.

Here he again repeated his command, but finding that neither this nor menaces were likely to prove effectual, as she replied to his interrogatories with a degree of firmness which he termed the most daring obstinacy, he desired her to prepare for her departure from the castle on the following morning.

This was a blow the gentle spirits of Laurette could with difficulty support; yet no alternative remained. She was too well acquainted with the disposition of the steward to believe he would yield to intreaty, and she was also convinced, from the judgment she had formed of his character, that if she ventured to expostulate with him, or to enquire by what authority he was capacitated to remove her from her present residence, without the knowledge and acquiescence of the Marchese, before the expiration of the time proposed, that by thus appearing to doubt his consequence in the eye of his Lord, he would only, by more arbitrary proceedings, endeavour to convince her of the unlimited extent of his power.

Being assured that all hopes of receiving the information she so ardently desired, respecting her birth and connection, were now entirely frustrated, she felt all the bitterness of disappointment and perplexity; as she was perfectly convinced that was she even permitted to remain a few weeks longer at the castle, she would doubtless be so strictly watched by the suspicious eye of Paoli during the interval, as to render a second interview with the Monk impracticable.

The night was passed by Laurette in a state of restless anxiety; what she had heard from the Father increased her uneasiness, and nothing but the rectitude of her intentions, and the conscious innocence of her conduct, could have sustained her under this new cause of distress.

Chapter 12

At night returning, every labour sped,

He sits him down the monarch of a shed,

Smiles by his chearful fire, and round surveys

His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;

While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,

Displays her cleanly platter on the board;

And haply too, some pilgrim thither led,

With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

GOLDSMITH

The sun had scarce risen upon the mountains before Laurette, by the desire of the steward, was awakened from a soft slumber into which she had recently fallen, with orders for her to prepare for an immediate departure.

Dorothée, who was the unwilling messenger of these unpleasant tidings, unable to bear the idea of this temporary separation, as it was determined on the preceding night that she and Lisette were not to accompany them, but to remain at the castle till the return of Ambrose; Laurette, feeling more collected than she had been since her interview with the Monk, assumed an appearance of serenity, and having conversed with her faithful servant for some time, as she sat by the side of the bed, with the most affecting tenderness, she gave some necessary orders concerning her wardrobe, her books, and what other things she wished to have conveyed to her future residence, and then ordering breakfast to be served in her apartment, prepared to obey the summons.

She had scarcely partaken of the morning's repast before she was informed that the mules were in readiness, and that Paoli and Ambrose were already impatiently awaiting her arrival.

Having taken a tender adieu of the kind Margaritte, who was too old to be a follower of her fortunes, and had therefore determined to return to the cottage she formerly possessed in an adjacent village; she presented her with her five last remaining rix-dollars, as the reward of her services; and waving her hand to her poor pensioners, who crowded about her to give and to receive a last farewel, she held her handkerchief to her eyes, as if afraid to trust herself with a last look at the only home she had ever known, and advanced towards the gate.

Being placed upon the mule that was guided by the steward, Ambrose mounted the lesser one, and after some resistance on the part of the latter, who had been for some time unaccustomed to discipline, they pursued their journey.

It was a fine autumnal morning, and as the travellers advanced, the face of Nature, which at the early hour they had chosen, wore a lowering and unpromising aspect, now gradually brightened. The mists, which had veiled the tops of the eminences, were suddenly dispersed, and the sun, no longer watery and dim, spread over the landscape a soft and silvery light.

The birds, whose responses were at first low, now swelled into choral harmony; every object seemed to partake of the general joy; all was melody, delight, and ecstasy.

Laurette meditated on them in silence, lamenting at the same time that she could not join in these universal expressions of rapture, which would have afforded her inconceivable pleasure, had melancholy anticipation been banished from her heart.

The same gloomy reserve marked the behaviour of Paoli that was peculiar to his character; sometimes he turned to Laurette, and asked her some questions concerning the road, and whether the motion was too slow or too rapid, and then, without attending to the answer, relapsed into his former state of silence and thoughtfulness.

There were several small inns on the road that afforded them rest and provisions, whose inhabitants frequently extended their civility beyond the common bounds of hospitality, seeming anxious to accommodate them with every necessary which their situation as travellers required.

It was not till the evening of the third day that they arrived near the boundaries of Salzburg, when Laurette was informed by the steward, who appeared somewhat to relax from his reserve, that they were within two days' journey of the castle of Lunenburg, which was the name of her future abode.

The beauty of the landscape now visibly improved; the boundless and variegated plains, innumerable lakes, rivers, brooks, and valleys of tremendous depth, encompassed with huge rocks of granite, which, being contrasted with the dark woods that waved from the cultivated mountains, had an unspeakable fine effect, and could not be gazed upon without the most sublime and exquisite sensations.

Every thing was presented to the eye in these beautiful regions which the most fertile and picturesque imagination could conceive; and Laurette, recalled from the contemplation of her own peculiar distresses, beheld some of the finest scenery in nature with indescribable astonishment.

Every beauty was augmented by contrast; sometimes the hut of a shepherd, or the cottage of a goatherd, situated upon the hanging brow of a precipice, caught her eye, shaded only by the foliated branches of the oak from the inclemency of the weather. The roads in this mountainous country being in general good, they proceeded on their journey with less fatigue than would otherwise have been the case. The most dreadful abysses were rendered passable by the assistance of wooden bridges, which were hung in chains, some apparently so loosely as to impress on the mind an alarming idea of danger. But of their safety our travellers were assured by the peasantry, who asserted that an accident very rarely happened from this mode of conveyance, as the heaviest carriages had been known to pass over without receiving any injury but what might be occasioned by a violent gust of wind, or a sudden fall of snow in the spring.

Having left the town of Salzburg on the right, they proceeded on their way with redoubled speed, in hopes of being able to reach the next tolerable inn, which Paoli recollected was at some distance from the place.

But as the evening was approaching, and Laurette was somewhat fatigued and indisposed, it was mutually agreed that the party should endeavour to get accommodations at one of the cottages that lay scattered upon the road.

One peculiar for its neatness riveted their attention, and Ambrose being dispatched with a message, Laurette and Paoli stopped at the bottom of the hill on which it was situated, to await the success of his embassy.

In a short time the owner of this little retreat, attended by his daughter, with all that diffusive hospitality which is characteristic of the peasantry of Salzburg, mingled with a certain degree of courtesy that seemed not to be wholly the gift of nature, appeared to conduct them to the cottage.

All that Laurette had ever read of rural simplicity, content, and innocence, and all that her imagination, though somewhat warm and romantic, had formed, fell short of that which was presented to her in the family of the cottager.

Zierman, which was the name of her host, having led them into a small neat room, whose casement was embowered with the honeysuckle and the eglantine, and which commanded a prospect of pastoral beauty almost unequalled, left our heroine and the steward alone, whilst he went to assist Ambrose in finding a place of security for his mules, and to order refreshment for his guests.

In a few minutes he returned with some fruit, cream, and a thin kind of wine, which was all that the cottage afforded.

Having partaken of this hospitable meal, which was animated with a smile of unfeigned welcome, the spirits of the travellers were recruited; and as Paoli conversed with the peasant, who seemed, though placed in obscurity, to possess some knowledge of men and manners, Laurette amused herself with observing the beautiful variety of every thing around.

The little garden cultivated with care, that was surrounded with a hedge blooming with briar-roses and wild honeysuckles, discovered not only the simplicity but the taste of its owner; beyond which arose hills formed into the most picturesque lines, and covered with delightful verdure, which acquired an appearance of the most flourishing vegetation from being contrasted with those tremendous mountains, whose summits, penetrating the clouds, were veiled in awful obscurity.

Much as she had been accustomed to admire the wild and extensive scenery which her former residence commanded, the infinite diversity of objects which were visible from this secluded retreat, could not be contemplated without the sublimest emotions.

When Paoli and his host had conversed for some time upon common subjects, the latter began to recite some particulars relative to himself and his family, which were interesting, because in relating them he discovered a sensibility of mind not usually found in that sphere of life, the hard and laborious employments of which preclude the cultivation of the nicer feelings.

Paoli, who neither understood nor internally applauded these amiable traits of character which Laurette observed with increasing admiration, apparently listened to the discourse, though his intellectual powers were probably more profitably employed in the contemplation of some favourite project.

'It is now ten years,' added the old man, with a sigh, and a tear which he endeavoured to repress, 'since I lost my wife; she died suddenly, and for some time this cottage, which was once so dear to mc, and in which I had enjoyed so many hours of repose and happiness, was by this unexpected event rendered insupportable, which determined me to remove from it to another occupied by my daughter, that is situated about a league and a half from this place; hoping to take refuge from uneasiness in the society of my only child, who was united to a young farmer, to whom she had been long attached, a few months before the death of her mother.

'There I remained some time, till my natural affection to my little paternal inheritance returning, I felt an irresistible inclination to revisit it. Having obviated some objections on the part of my daughter and her husband, I at length prevailed upon them to accompany me here; and in their society, and in the amusement their little family affords, I have regained that habitual cheerfulness of temper which I am persuaded is one of the first blessings of life.'

Here Zierman was interrupted by the entrance of Ulrica, his daughter, with two of her children, whom Laurette remembered having seen and admired as she ascended the hill, when they were engaged in play with their companions in the glens of the mountains.

As soon as Ulrica entered, she repeated the same friendly welcome with which the party were at first received, and then seating herself by the side of her young guest, to whom she more particularly addressed herself, occasionally joined in conversation.

Laurette being now materially recovered from her fatigue by the salutary rest and refreshment that had been administered, requested permission to walk to the end of the garden, which terminated in a kind of natural terrace, that she might be gratified with the beauty of the prospect. The hostess agreed to the proposition, and attended her to the place.

It commanded an infinitude of objects of the most interesting and attractive kind: on the right was a beautiful lake retiring amongst the hills into remote distance, whose silvery appearance, contrasted with the dark woods that frequently interrupted its course, had a very charming effect. On the left, appeared a range of rocks of an enormous size, some of which, projecting forwards, frowned over the Saltza, that rushed impetuously through the cliffs with the foam of a cataract; except the noise of this boisterous stream, which, from its being softened by distance, occasioned only a gentle murmur, no other sound was to be heard, save the tones of a flute, resounding from the valleys or from the brow of a precipice, to assemble the sheep around the huts of the peasants.

As Laurette took a survey of this beautiful country, she was tempted to believe that happiness was exclusively the portion of the shepherd and the goatherd, and would at that moment gladly have resigned all future advantages for a similar situation, could those she had lost have been restored to her.

Having thanked Ulrica for her attention with the most insinuating courtesy of manners, Laurette made some general enquiries concerning the families of the mountaineers whose picturesque habitations had so romantic an appearance, and then returned towards the cottage.

Here she found Paoli and his host regaling themselves with some wine and grapes which the son-in-law of the latter had presented to them in her absence, and of which, on being politely offered to her on her entrance, she consented to partake.

The moon now shone full into the casement, and every sound being hushed, except the light trembling of the leaves that overshadowed the cottage, Laurette intimated a wish to retire, and was conducted by her hostess to her room.

As she paused for a moment at the window of the apartment to enjoy the serenity of the scene, the notes of a guitar, accompanied by a female voice that breathed the most affecting sweetness, fixed her to the spot. The air, which was a melancholy one, seemed to have been awakened by no common sorrow, and throwing open the casement, she stood for some time to be assured from whence it proceeded, and to indulge herself in the soft sensation of sympathy which the song inspired.

As she still listened, the strain died away upon the air, and all was again silent; but after a momentary pause it swelled louder, and seemed to approach nearer towards the cottage.

In hopes of being able to get a sight of the harmonist, she still lingered at the window, but, contrary to her expectation, the music seemed to retreat again towards the woods, and was soon heard no more.

Ulrica, who re-entered the room to enquire if she could render her any farther assistance, gave her some intelligence relative to the musician, who she learned was a young woman who had met with a disappointment in the tender passion, which had occasioned the loss of her senses.

'I know but little of the story, Madame,' resumed Ulrica, 'but I believe my father can inform you of the whole. All that I have heard is, that she is the daughter of a goatherd, and that she lives in a small hut on one of the neighbouring mountains; -- her name is Ida; her lover, I think, died on the day fixed for their marriage; but there are many mournful circumstances attending the story which I am partly unacquainted with, for it is now several years since they happened, and at that time I was not resident in the neighbourhood. But ever since the commencement of her misfortunes she has wandered about in the woods, singing so sweetly that I have heard my father say, before it was known to be Ida, it was reported that the woods were haunted.'

'And does no one attend her,' asked Laurette, 'in her nocturnal rambles?'

'Yes, her father or her brother follows her at some distance,' returned the hostess; 'but she will not allow them to break in upon her solitude; if it was known to her that she was watched, she would become desperate; so that they are compelled to indulge her in this unfortunate propensity, which frequently deprives them of rest, because her father, who adores her, will not allow her to be confined. In the day-time she usually remains in her hut, though I have sometimes seen her in the glens of the rocks culling flowers from the interstices, and forming them into garlands, and then sing so sadly, that I have been unable to refrain from weeping.

'But it is a mournful story, Madame,' continued Ulrica, observing that her fair auditor appeared much affected; 'let us change the subject.'

Laurette forced a smile upon her features, and desiring that she might no longer detain her, since it was a late hour, and the rest of the family were in bed, wished her a good night, and endeavoured to forget her own sorrows, and those of the unfortunate Ida, in repose.

As soon as the morning appeared, the travellers arose from their slumbers, and after a simple repast, returned thanks to the cottagers for their hospitable reception, who would accept no pecuniary reward for their services, and then continued their journey.

It was not till the evening that they arrived within sight of the place of their destination, and Laurette's heart sunk within her when the first turret was partially seen through the dark foliage of the woods with which it was surrounded.

As they advanced nearer, the body of the edifice gradually emerged from the gloom, and the moon, throwing her soft light upon its summit, discovered a magnificent abode, which, from comparison with the desolate looking mansion they had left, appeared to the young and astonished eyes of Laurette like the residence of an eastern prince.

Chapter 13

Bear me, embowering shades, between,

Through many a glade and vista green;

Whate'er can captivate the sight,

Elysian lawns and prospects bright;

Give me, fair Fancy, to pervade

Chambers in pictur'd pomp array'd,

Peopling whose stately walls, I view

The godlike forms that Raphael drew;

I seem to see his magic hand

Wield the wond'rous pencil wand,

Whose touches animation give,

And bid the insensate canvas live.

SALMAGUNDI

As soon as the travellers had alighted, Paoli conducted Laurette to a private-door, and having ordered a female-servant to convey her into the interior of the castle, left her whilst he gave some necessary orders to Ambrose respecting the mules.

Our heroine in the meantime proceeded through a long extent of passage, dimly lighted by a lamp, which terminated in a spiral stair-case. As soon as she had ascended the steps, the woman who attended her opened a door leading into an anti-chamber, which was furnished with much taste and magnificence, where, to her inexpressible astonishment, she beheld a lady, apparently about forty, genteelly and rather elegantly dressed, seated upon a sofa.

Laurette being somewhat embarrassed at the appearance of the stranger, who herself betrayed some symptoms of surprise, endeavoured to apologize for her intrusion, and to explain the occasion of it.

Signora d'Orfo, which was the name of the lady, having acquitted herself with much grace and propriety, led her to a seat, and observing that she looked faint, rang the bell for refreshment.

The courteous manners of the stranger, whose aspect bespoke her a woman of rank, soon dissipated the uneasy sensations of her guest, who was early relieved from the suspicion that her arrival was unexpected, though it was evident that it was precipitated without orders from the Marchese.

The air of tender dejection that marked the features of Laurette, and the peculiar elegance of her deportment, rendered still more interesting by that gentle diffidence of manner, occasioned by the exquisite sensibility of a mind yet new to the world, so insinuated her into the affections of the Signora, that admiration was mingled with pity, and she felt an irresistible desire to be more particularly acquainted with her story, of which she had heard something, but not distinctively, and to conciliate her regard. Yet being influenced by the native gentleness of her heart, she forbore to make an immediate enquiry, lest it should lead to melancholy remembrances; and having prevailed upon her to partake of a repast that was prepared for her, finding that rest was more than ordinarily requisite, she conducted her to her apartment.

Laurette, when alone, began to ruminate upon an incident which, though unlooked for, was attended with some degree of pleasure. Her first conjecture was, that the lady who presided at the castle in the absence of its owner, was related to the Marchese; and this opinion the air of fashion that distinguished her, and the circumstances of her being at the mansion previous to his arrival, to prepare it for his reception, seemed to justify. But that Paoli, who consequently must have been apprized of the affair, should have preserved so strict a silence upon the subject, notwithstanding his disposition was naturally uncommunicative, was a matter of astonishment.

In the morning Signora d'Orfo entered her room, and having made some general enquiries concerning her health, which were answered with the most captivating sweetness, they descended into the breakfast room.

Though Laurette exerted herself as much as possible to wear an appearance of cheerfulness, she frequently sunk into fits of abstraction. The uncertain fate of her lamented friend, whose loss had so long wounded her repose, the mysterious silence of Enrico, whose dangerous enterprize her fears had so materially augmented, preyed upon her heart; and now that she was removed from the castle, it seemed as if she was separated for ever from every vestige of her former happiness. Yet to appear uneasy in the presence of her new acquaintance, whose solicitude to please could not be misconstrued, would, she considered, wear an appearance of ingratitude, or at least of indifference, which might injure her in the estimation of a person apparently so little deserving of neglect or inattention.

This reflection instigated her to endeavour, at least, to conceal that regret which she found it was impossible to erase, under an assumed tranquillity of deportment; but in this attempt she succeeded so ill that the Signora, who possessed much penetration, united to a sound judgment and a thorough knowledge of the world, easily discovered that she was unhappy; and though partly acquainted with the cause, arising from her own forlorn and dependant situation, which, joined to the uncertainty of her birth, a mind of sensibility could not reflect upon without pain, she believed there was some more recent occasion of inquietude, and curiosity, as well as pity, was excited in her bosom.

As soon as breakfast was over, the Signora proposed a walk in the gardens, observing, that since they were at present condemned to solitude, they must accommodate themselves to what was unavoidable, and extract comfort, if not happiness, from the means that were offered them.

'There are some paintings also in the castle,' resumed the Signora, 'which are worthy of notice; and if you will permit me, I will conduct you through the principal apartments, and we will then take a stroll through the grounds.'

Charmed with the gentle attentions of her new friend, Laurette unreluctantly assented to the proposal; and throwing an embroidered scarf over her shoulders, followed the Signora through the corridor.

Several of the rooms were in an unfinished state, but those that were completed were extremely magnificent, and much taste was displayed in the decoration; some of them were hung with damask, others with costly tapestry, and the inferior ones with gilt leather. The furniture corresponded with these, and appeared so much superior to any thing Laurette had ever seen, that she could not forbear expressing her surprise. The Signora smiled at the simplicity of her remarks, and anticipated her astonishment when she should behold the grand saloons and principal rooms in the castle.

Having taken a general survey of the upper apartments, they proceeded towards the northern gallery, which was ornamented with several paintings from sacred history by the first masters of the Lombard school, as Titian, Paul Veronese, and Tintoret, under which were placed a number of ancient and valuable busts, particularly those of the Emperors Trajan, Otho, Tibullus, and Augustus Caesar.

They then descended the marble staircase, and proceeded through a long vaulted passage, which led immediately to the great hall. Here a scene of wonders was presented to the astonished eyes of Laurette; it was spacious and of vast extent; the floor was of marble; the walls, in which were several recesses, were painted in fresco; the ceiling, exhibiting a scene from the Odyssey of Homer, was supported by twenty composite pillars, whose bandelets were of silver; the recesses were adorned with statues from the antique of granite, porphyry, and parian marble.

At the upper end of the hall was erected a stately organ, composed of ebony, beautifully inlaid with ivory, and decorated with a variety of ornaments. The curtain was of purple satin, fringed and drawn up with tassels of gold; the pipes and pedals were of silver, and the upper keys of the finest ivory.

The Signora having opened it, touched a few simple notes; the tones were full and harmonious, and the effect was heightened by echo. Laurette, to whom this instrument was new, requested that she would favour her with a song; to this she immediately assented, and taking a place at the organ, played and sung the following air:

THE SYLPH

A RONDEAU

From your wild aerial pleasures,

Sister spirits, haste away,

Join the dance, in frolic measures,

'Mid dark woods, in shadows grey.

On the zephyrs' pinion sailing

Swift we'll cleave the ambient air,

Catch the od'rous sweets, exhaling

From each herb and flow'ret fair.

Now our wild course earthward bending,

Where the sportive sun-beams play;

On the viewless winds descending

Through the silvery floods of day.

'Mid deep shades and glens advancing,

Where sequester'd mortals dwell,

Round the purple orchis dancing,

Or the lily's pendant bell.

From your wild aerial pleasures,

Sister Spirits, haste away,

Join the dance in frolic measures,

'Mid dark woods, in shadows grey.

Laurette having complimented the Signora upon a performance that discovered much taste and judgment, was conducted by her into the saloons, and other magnificent rooms in the castle, which were adorned with a profusion of rare and valuable pictures by the most celebrated of the Italian painters, and some that exhibited the bold and masterly strokes of the Roman pencil.

All here appeared like the work of enchantment; the windows, descending to the floors, opened into balconies, in which were placed vases containing roses, myrtle, and Amaranthus that distilled delicious fragrance; beyond these the most gay and beautiful parterres, lawns, groves, and winding streams, being aided by the natural grandeur of the scenery, presented to the eye of the enthusiast a combination of beauties which Fancy herself could not so successfully have delineated.

From the principal saloon they proceeded through a glass door, which opened into the pleasure-ground. Here our lovely heroine, whose astonishment could be only equalled by her admiration, was conducted to several grottos, cascades, and beautiful declivities, where so little method was observed by the artist, that they appeared like the work of Nature when in one of her most wild and fanciful moods.

The timidity natural to minds of quick and delicate perception, which had hitherto repressed the communication of sentiment, now imperceptibly yielded to reciprocal affection; and the Signora, ardently desirous of exciting an interest in the heart of her young and amiable guest, began to relate several incidents of her past life, endeavouring by her example to betray her into a similar and mutual confidence.

Laurette listened with attention; and some symptoms of curiosity appearing in her looks, the Signora continued.

'My life, which has been hitherto almost invariably marked with ill-fortune, can boast no great variety of incident; yet, though my story is uniformly sad, it may not be altogether uninteresting; and a mind that has been taught by reflection to think and to feel, will not contemplate the misfortunes I have endured without an emotion of pity.'

Laurette, to whom the latter part of this discourse was particularly addressed, bowed gracefully; and still more desirous of being acquainted with a story, which though its prelude promised little to entertain, yet much to interest, besought her to proceed.

The Signora hesitated some moments, as if to recollect or to arrange some circumstances of her narrative, and then began as follows.