THE ORPHAN OF THE RHINE
PART 2
Chapter 2
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort.
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit.
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
--SHAKESPEARE
Nothing
material happened at the cottage till near a fortnight after the departure of
Agatha, when Paoli, her husband, and the distinguished favourite of the
Marchese, came to conduct Julie and the children to their destined abode. He
also brought a letter from his lord, in which he expressed his entire
approbation of her conduct; assuring her, at the same time, that if the secret,
with which she was partially entrusted, remained inviolable, she might depend
upon his friendship and protection, and expect on his part the most scrupulous
attention to her desire, concerning his not visiting the retreat he had chosen
for her, which was a castle on a German estate, beautifully situated near the
Rhine. He also informed her, that he had given orders for every necessary
preparation to be made against her arrival; and that he intended to remit her a
considerable sum quarterly, which would be more than sufficient to defray every
expence; and requested, that she would acquaint him, at the return of Paoli, if
any part of the arrangement, which he had formed for her establishment, should
not be agreeable to her wishes. He also desired that, immediately on her
arrival in Germany, she would name the infant, which name he left entirely to
her decision, and as to her son, she might depend upon his honour to fulfil the
promises already made.
When
Madame de Rubine had perused this epistle, she questioned the steward
respecting her new situation, and inquired whether any servants were sent
thither by the Marchese, or whether he expected her to provide them.
Paoli
assured her that every thing was in readiness for their reception; that two
servants were already there, an elderly woman and a man, who had been some
years in the service of his lord, at the castello St Aubin, and who were either
to remain or to return, as she thought proper. The appearance of Paoli did not
prejudice his fair auditress much in his favour. His deportment was stern,
harsh, and forbidding, and she thought in the character of his brow she read
determined villainy. He seemed to behold, with the most scrutinizing eye, her
every look and action, forming in the whole of his behaviour a striking
contrast with the tenderness and artless simplicity of his wife. She felt
uneasy in his presence, and earnestly longed for the time of his dismission to
arrive. The consequence he assumed, from the known partiality of the Marchese,
bordered on rudeness, and he frequently obtruded himself into her presence
contrary to the rules of good breeding, which, however, he affected to
understand. He seemed to possess an infinite deal of cunning, and to be every
way formed for intrigue and dark design. Being unwilling to resent this want of
address, she endeavoured, as much as possible, to divert her mind from the
uneasiness his unpleasant society occasioned, by nursing her little charge, and
listening to the childish simplicity of Enrîco.
The
ensuing week was now fixed for their departure, and Madame de Rubine and
Dorothée were busily employed in making every necessary arrangement for their
journey. The few household goods she possessed, which were of the simplest
kind, were divided among the neighbouring poor, by whom she was tenderly
beloved.
After a
residence of near four years in this beautiful retreat, the amiable Julie found
she could not bid it adieu without extreme reluctance. In these calm and
peaceful shades she had taken refuge from the censure of a rash unfeeling
world; and had in some degree gained a tranquillity and composure of mind,
which she once believed it impossible ever to recover. She had endeavoured to
reconcile herself to her misfortunes, and to check, as much as in her power,
the natural sensibility of her disposition, which she was convinced was too
acute to admit of lasting comfort.
She knew
that true happiness was only to be found in the bosom of religion and virtue,
and the warmth of her affection led her to indulge in that glow of religious
enthusiasm, which elevates the soul beyond every earthly pursuit, and renders
it susceptible of the most worthy impressions. On the evening preceding their
departure, she wandered once more along that beautiful valley she was now soon
to quit for ever; and casting her eyes over the clear expanse of waters, heaved
a sigh at the recollection that she might probably, in that situation, never
behold it more. To part from these scenes, to which she had been long inured,
was like parting from a beloved friend, which, though only known in the moments
of sorrow, were still dear to her. The sun had long sunk beneath the horizon, yet
she still continued her walk. It was now the gay season of the vintage, but the
rural sports were over, the shepherd's pipe was silent, and nothing was heard
from the mountains but the distant sound of the mournful sheep-bell, and at
intervals the rustling of the leaves, that faintly sighed in the evening gale.
Every object on which she gazed, wore that soft and tender melancholy so
congenial to her feelings, and impelled her with an irresistible charm to
linger in her favourite walks. The large plane-tree, which had so often
afforded her shelter, the bank on which she used to sit selecting flowers for
the playful Enrîco, were objects of regret; and it was not till the shades of
night were perceptibly stealing upon the meek grey of the twilight, that she recollected
the impropriety of wandering so far from her cottage alone, and at so late an
hour. The danger to which this imprudent conduct had exposed her, precipitated
her steps, and she was surprised on finding she had strayed so much farther
from her little retreat, than she had at first imagined.
As she
advanced, it became so much darker that she was irresolute whether to proceed,
or to call at one of the huts of the peasants to procure a guide; but
recollecting that there were several others on the road leading to her home,
she ventured to continue on her way. On arriving at the side of the wood, near
to which the cottage was situated, the moon, bursting from a cloud in its
meridian splendour, partly dissipated her fears; and the melodious song of the nightingale,
who was concealed in the inmost recesses of the wood, again arrested her steps.
As she listened, the strain swelled still louder, and more plaintive; and she
thought there was a pathos in the note she never remembered to have heard
before. It seemed the language of complaint, and the frame of mind she was then
in heightened the tender sensation of pity that the lay inspired. Sitting down
on a bench, which she had formed under the shade of a chestnut, she took out
her pencil, and wrote the following lines, which have certainly but little
poetical merit, yet sufficiently evince that her griefs, though softened by
time and the comforts of religion, had made an impression too great ever to be
perfectly erased.
SONNET TO
THE NIGHTINGALE
Hail, chantress sweet, who lov'st in woodlands drear.
And shades unseen beneath the pale moon's ray.
To pour thy sorrows in eve's listening ear.
And charm the nightly wanderer's lonely way;
Say, is it love that wakes the melting song?
Or pity's tender throe, or wan despair?
If such thy woes, ah! yet the strain prolong.
Still let thy wild notes float upon the air;
Yet spring's next visit shall, sweet bird, restore
Those ravag'd joys that wake the thrilling lay.
Sad mem'ry's open'd wounds shall bleed no more.
And happier love adorn the future day:
But not on me can spring one charm bestow.
Or make this pensive breast with her wild raptures glow.
Madame de
Rubine had been absent on her evening walk so much longer than usual, that
Dorothée, beginning to be alarmed, was going in search of her; but was
agreeably surprised on seeing her safely seated under her favourite tree.
Having again reminded her of the lateness of the hour, which she had recently
ceased to recollect, she thanked the affectionate girl for her attention, and
returned to the cottage.
After a
night spent in broken slumbers she arose, and every thing being in readiness
for their journey, and Paoli impatiently waiting with the mules, they prepared
to depart.
At first
she was much alarmed at the necessity of the children travelling without a
carriage; but the steep and craggy mountains they had to ascend rendered that
mode of conveyance impossible. The mule on which Dorothée and the infant were
seated, was led by a peasant; Julie guided her own, and poor Enrîco was
reluctantly left to the care of Paoli.
Having
slowly descended the hill, on which the cottage was situated, they travelled
along the beautiful and picturesque borders of the lake, and without any material
occurrence, arrived at Lausanne, where the party was compelled to stop for a
few days, being fatigued with the ruggedness of the road, and the unpleasant
motion of the animals destined to convey them to their new abode. After this
salutary revival, they recommenced their journey along the finely cultivated
mountains between Lausanne and Vevay. The scenery of this country, which
perhaps is scarcely to be equalled, the mildness of the season, and the wild
harmony of the birds that inhabited the branches of the pines, withdrew the
attention of Madame de Rubine from the unpleasant conversation of Paoli, which
was gloomy, morose, and artful. Chagrined at his behaviour, she avoided
mentioning any thing relative to the Marchese, and interrogated him as little
as possible as to their future residence. Dorothée and Enrîco were less
disposed to silence; they saw much in the novelty of the objects presented to
them to attract their admiration, and expressed it with all the simplicity of
youth and nature. In the evening they arrived at a small post-house on the
road, which was merely a cottage, though from its casual situation it had
acquired some importance. As soon as the host appeared, Paoli inquired of him
whether he could accommodate a party of travellers and mules with lodgings for
the night. The good man seemed doubtful, and, after some minutes' conversation
with his wife, informed them, that they had but two beds fit for the reception
of strangers, and that one was already in use. 'This is unfortunate, indeed,'
cried Julie, perplexed at this unexpected disaster, 'as it is impossible to
proceed any further tonight with two children, and one an infant.' 'I am
heartily sorry,' replied the host, with much apparent concern; 'but what can be
done in the affair? There is a gentleman in the best bed, who is so ill that my
heart has ached for him ever since he has been here; and as to his daughter,
poor young creature! She has taken no rest night or day since their arrival;
and if he dies, which will probably be the case, she will certainly die with
him!' 'It is no matter who is ill,' interrupted Paoli, haughtily, 'we have no
leisure to hear affecting stories; if we cannot procure beds here we must go
on.' 'For heaven's sake,' cried Julie, 'do, if possible, contrive somewhere for
the children to sleep; as to Dorothée and myself, we will submit to any thing
if you will endeavour to accommodate them.' The host, pleased with the gentle
manners of Madame de Rubine, which derived no inconsiderable advantage from
being contrasted with the callous moroseness of the steward, assured her, that
he and his wife would sit up themselves rather than they should suffer such an
inconvenience; and if she would accept of their bed, which was indeed a very
common one, in addition to that reserved for the use of their guests, it would
give him pleasure to have it in his power to oblige them. This proposal Paoli
would willingly have accepted; but Julie's delicacy objected to making this
temporary disarrangement, observing that a night's rest was too valuable to
those who were condemned to arduous employment, to be sacrificed to the service
of strangers. Her arguments were, however, powerfully overruled by the host,
who did not fail to convince her, that his wife and himself were better able to
sustain the loss of a nights repose than they who had undergone the fatigue of
a long and tedious journey. After a little gentle reluctance, which the
countenance of Paoli sternly reproved, she ventured to dismount, and was
conducted into a small but decent room, enlightened with a blazened fire, which
the hostess had just kindled for their reception, made of the dried stalks of
the vine.
The
appearance of neatness and cheerfulness, which reigned throughout this humble
dwelling, animated the drooping spirits of Madame de Rubine, who was now
relieved from apprehension respecting the children, for whom she experienced
the most tender concern and solicitude Paoli himself seemed to lose something
of his natural gloom; he even condescended to converse with the landlord on the
manners of the country, its verdure, and of the mode of cultivating the
mountains. The hostess now appeared; who, spreading a clean coarse cloth upon
the table, assured her quests, that had she known of their arrival, she would
have prepared them a more comfortable meal. Their daughter, a pretty looking
girl, apparently about eighteen, then entered with a small number of boiled
eggs, some bread, chiefly composed of rye, and the vin du coté, which was all
the house afforded The bloom of Madelina, which was the name of the host's
daughter, could not fail to attract the attention of our travellers. She was
not tall, but elegantly shaped; her eyes possessed all the vivacity and fire
which is chiefly ascribed to the Gallic brunette, mingled with a certain
expression of softness and sensibility, which added much to her native
loveliness. Her fine fair hair, which was remarkably luxuriant, fell in curls
about her neck, and shaded a forehead of the finest proportion, which was
simply ornamented with a neat straw hat and black ribbons; the mode of dress
which prevails, without individual exception, among the mountain nymphs of
Switzerland.
As soon as
Dorothée had conveyed her young charges to bed, Julia questioned the landlady
about the gentleman her husband mentioned, in terms so replete with compassion,
being desirous of knowing whether he was indeed so ill as he had been
represented, and if he had received any assistance from medicine. Alas!
Madame,' replied the hostess, 'he seems to care for no advice but that of his
ghostly confessor; and as to Mademoiselle his daughter, she has scarcely
partaken of any refreshment since she has been here, and weeps continually.
There is none but herself to attend upon her father; and though I have
frequently offered my assistance, she has seldom accepted the proposal.' 'What
a comfortless situation!' cried Madame de Rubine, much affected by the
landlady's simple eloquence. 'Ill from home, and without assistance, a young
woman too, his only attendant! Can you not inform me from whence they came, and
whither they are going and is it not possible we may be of service to them? The
unfortunate have an irresistible claim on our protection, and may we not obey
the impulses of inclination when they, are consistent with duty?' The hostess
replied, 'that she knew nothing more of them than that their names were La
Roque; that they arrived at the inn about four days ago, since which time the
poor gentleman had been so ill, that, though his disorder was somewhat abated,
his recovery was still very doubtful. That his daughter seldom quitted his
apartment except it was to prepare something of refreshment for her father, and
seemed herself to be sinking under the calamity!' 'This is very singular,'
cried Madame de Rubine, 'that a gentleman, and an invalid, should travel into a
distant country attended only by his daughter! There must be something in this
circumstance of a very peculiar nature; I wish it was possible to know more of
it. Do commend me to the lady, and tell her, though a stranger, I feel
interested in her distresses, and should be happy to have it in my power to
alleviate them. Surely ceremony in an affair of this nature may be dispensed
with.' 'I will go to her instantly,' returned the hostess, 'poor young lady! I
am sure so kind a message will comfort her. But would it not be better, Madame,
if you was to take a night's rest before you visit them? You seem weary, and
such a scene will, I fear, be too much for you.' 'We must not selfishly
consider our own ease,' replied Julie, 'when with a little exertion we may
render ourselves useful to others; besides, I have heard too much already to be
able to sleep, and, as we are travelling in haste, we must pursue our journey
to-morrow at an early hour.'
Whilst
this conversation passed concerning the unfortunate La Roque, Paoli was silent;
but his looks sufficiently expressed his disapprobation of her conduct. The
luxury of doing good was a luxury unknown to him. Totally devoid of benevolence
himself, he did not believe it really existed in the heart of another; and
whilst Madame de Rubine was indulging the fond and not delusive hope, that she
might soften with her tenderness the pang of misfortune, he was revolving in
his mind what secret purpose of her's this was to answer, and reflecting
whether it was not possible that treachery might not be concealed under the
veil of humanity. From the infamy of his own conduct he formed his opinion of
others; and when he could not make the intentions and actions of the greater
part of the world wear a colour dark as his own, he believed himself outdone in
cunning, and gave them credit for a superior degree of duplicity. In a few
minutes the hostess returned with the warmest acknowledgments of gratitude from
the gentleman and his daughter, with an earnest desire of thanking her
personally for her attention. 'Monsieur,' added she, 'has just awaked from a
fine refreshing sleep, and seems better; if you will permit me, I will shew you
the room.'
She then
conducted Julie up stairs, and having led her into the interior of the
apartment, introduced her as the kind stranger, and withdrew. The young lady,
who, notwithstanding the paleness of her looks, and the disorder of her dress,
appeared extremely lovely, stepped forward to receive her, closing at the same
time her missal, having been recently engaged in devotion, which she replaced
by a small image of the Virgin, that adorned one of the angles. As her fair
visitor began to unfold the reasons that had actuated her to this singular mode
of procedure, she endeavoured to express the high sense she had of the
obligation; but an impulse of gratitude stifled her utterance, and the words
she would have articulated died upon her lips. She then gently undrew the
curtain and having removed a stool, on which was placed a lamp and a crucifix,
led her to the side of the bed. As she advanced, the invalid, attempting to
raise himself, held out his hand to receive her; then gazing upon one of the
most affecting Countenances he had ever seen with mingled surprise and admiration
'May I ask, Madame,' cried he, 'to whom I am indebted for this unexampled
benevolence, and what angel has directed you to sooth with your kindness the
most forlorn and unhappy of men?' Julie having returned this compliment to her
sensibility with her usual grace, apologized for the liberty she had taken; to
which she assured him she was not instigated by a principle of idle curiosity,
but from having cherished the idea that she might possibly have it in her power
to alleviate his sufferings. She had been informed, she added, that he had at
present no medical assistance; and as business of a peculiar nature rendered it
necessary for her to quit the post-house early on the following day, she
intended, with his permission to send a physician to attend him, from the
nearest town. 'You are too, too good, Madame,' cried the amiable young stranger
speaking through her tears; 'but my father, I fear, will never consent to it. I
have urged the necessity of it without ceasing; yet he is deaf to my entreaties.'
'Why, my child,' interrupted La Roque, 'should I endeavour to prolong a life
only productive of evil? Have I not been an unnatural parent, a cruel husband?
Yes,' resumed he, fixing his hollow eyes upon a small picture, which was
fastened round his neck with a black ribbon, 'my Helena! My much injured
Helena! I was thy murderer!' Then heaving a profound, convulsive sigh, he sunk
again upon the pillow. 'Oh! my father,' replied Mademoiselle, in a voice
rendered tremulous by emotion, 'how unjust, how cruel are these
self-accusations! And why will you thus aggravate affliction by remorse?
Reflect how conducive to health is serenity of mind, and for my sake, if not
for our own, embrace the means of recovery: for though retched at present from
circumstances not in our power to prevent, let us look forwards with comfort
and hope to better days.' Madame de Rubine, who, during these pathetic
exclamations had regarded Mademoiselle La Roque with a gaze of earnest inquiry,
endeavoured, by the most forcible arguments she could summon to her aid, to
reconcile him to the application of means to accelerate his recovery, not only
for the sake of his child, who would feel so severely his loss, but from a
principle of duty; assuring him, at the same time, that, if he absolutely rejected
her proposal, she should depart with extreme reluctance.
Finding,
from the expressive looks of the invalid, that what she had advanced was not
totally disregarded, she ventured to ask, why they travelled without a servant?
and requested permission to inquire in the village for a suitable person to
attend them. 'Your generosity, Madame,' returned La Roque, 'is unbounded; and
language can but feebly express the warmth of my feelings on this occasion. The
servant who attended us from home was murdered by a party of banditti about
nine leagues from this place, whilst we narrowly escaped with our lives! I was
then ill, and the grief and apprehension this melancholy accident excited,
increased my fever, which, I have some reason to hope, is now abating. Was your
residence at the inn to be prolonged, I might possibly be induced to venture
upon a story long and mournful; but thus much I will unfold: My real name is
not La Roque; we are taking refuge from the vilest, the most infamous of men-a
wretch, who has been long resolutely determined to accomplish my destruction!'
'May I ask,' cried Julie, with apparent astonishment, 'who is this persecutor,
and what are his intentions?' 'His intentions are,' returned La Roque, 'to the
murder of a son to add that of a father; and was there a greater fiend than
himself, I would address him by that name, it is the Marchese de Montferrat.'
As he uttered these last words, Julie started, and turned pale. She had,
however, presence of mind to conceal her emotion, and bade him proceed. 'It
would detain you too long, Madame,' replied La Roque, 'and my spirits are
unequal to the task; but should we ever meet again you shall be thoroughly
acquainted with the history of my misfortunes.' 'That we should ever meet again
is, I fear, too improbable to be depended upon,' cried Madame de Rubine,
hesitatingly; 'yet I feel much interested in your narrative. May I ask where is
your intended residence?' 'In one of the convents on the borders of Germany,'
returned Mademoiselle La Roque, 'when my father's health will allow us to
travel. 'Then it is not impossible, as I am myself going to reside in Germany,
and may be fortunate enough to succeed in my inquiries.' 'If then,' cried the
invalid, 'you will so far honour me as to visit the convent, the name I mean to
take is Father Francisco; and should my disorder prove fatal, my daughter will
be there as sister Maria.' Mademoiselle La Roque, who was sitting by the side
of the bed attending earnestly to this discourse, wept as he reverted to the danger
of his situation. The idea of parting was not become familiar to her, and
covering her face with her handkerchief, she sobbed aloud. Madame de Rubine,
whose heart 'was so finely tuned, and harmonized by nature', that it vibrated
at the slightest touch of human calamity, endeavoured to console her young
friend, by a assurance that her fears were ill-founded respecting her father,
who was visibly in a state of convalescence; signifying also her intention of
sending a physician and a servant to attend him. Having removed some slight
objections that were offered by invalid, in opposition to her benevolent
proposal, she arose to depart; and taking the hand of Mademoiselle with the
tenderness and familiarity of an old acquaintance, she informed her, that she would
join in her prayers for the recovery of Monsieur La Roque, and would spare no
effort to discover the convent to which they were retiring.
After many
grateful adieus on the part of the strangers, his daughter following Julie out
of the apartment, requested the favour of her name, that by mutual inquiries
they might hasten second meeting. Not immediately prepared to reply, she
hesitated, blushed, and was silent. The impropriety of mentioning a name she
was soon to disown, was too evident; to be absent from her thoughts, and the
embarrassment she had already discovered, filled her with new confusion. Yet
aware of the necessity of framing a reply, she evaded the question, by
informing her, that she would avail herself of every possible means of learning
their place of abode, and would then take the earliest opportunity of
acquainting her with every circumstance she was permitted to disclose. Though
harassed and fatigued with traversing the mountains, Julie's mind was too much
discomposed by this strange unexpected adventure to allow her to hope for
repose. The story she had heard was imperfect, yet the villainy of the Marchese
was evident; and she reflected with terror on the certainty that she had thrown
herself upon the protection of a man capable of the most deliberate cruelty.
She wished that her curiosity had either been gratified or unexcited; but was
resolved to commence her inquiries immediately on her arrival in Germany. La
Roque had mentioned their having fallen into the hands of banditti, who had
murdered his servant, and that his daughter and himself had escaped with
difficulty: consequently they must have been plundered by these lawless
wretches, and probably had nothing left to defray their expenses, which
accounted in some measure for his having no person to attend upon him. With
sensation of exalted pleasure, peculiar to the noble and disinterested mind,
she recollected she was empowered to assist them; but this was an affair that
required to be conducted with the greatest delicacy imaginable, and she was for
some time irresolute in what manner to proceed. At last, however, she thought
of a expedient which would prevent every unpleasant consequence that might
otherwise arise from her benevolent intention--She had lately received fifty
ducats, the quarterly portion of her income; which, on mature deliberation, she
determined to inclose in a paper and leave to be delivered by the hostess after
her departure from the inn.
Then
advancing slowly towards the stairs, she paused for a moment to listen if Paoli
was yet retired. Finding all was silent, and remembering the lateness of the
hour, and that he was probably in bed, she ventured to proceed towards the
kitchen, where she discovered the host, his wife, and Dorothée, sitting by a
cheerful fire. Having asked for a pen and ink, which was instantly procured,
she returned to her room, and framing an elegant apology, in which she folded
up the ducats, gave it to the landlady, with orders to deliver it to
Mademoiselle immediately on her quitting the inn. In the morning she arose
early, and having satisfied the kind host for his civility, put another piece
of gold into the hands of his wife, desiring her to provide a servant to attend
upon La Roque and his amiable daughter, and then hastened to join the rest of
the party, who had already mounted their mules. After they had each taken leave
of the hospitable cottagers, they pursued their journey towards the Castle of
Elfinbach which was the name of the mansion selected for them by the Marchese
de Montferrat.
To be continued
