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ADELINE BLINDFOLDED IS CONDUCTED FROM 
 THE DESERTED HOUSE ON THE HEATH. 
 

 - 
 
 
 2d»»: 1 OTJE. 
 
 ( UIEBT 
 
 THOilAS HP HARD SOX & SOX 
 
p? 
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 c 
 
 HE FOREST. 
 
 Ere the bat hath fioTn 
 
 His cloister'd flight; ere to black Hecate's summons, 
 The shard-born beetle, with his drowsy hums, 
 Hath rung night's yawning peal, Shere shall be done 
 A deed of dreadful note." 3lACEETrr, 
 
 BY AKN RADCLIEFE, 
 
 Aothor of the "Mvjteries of Udolsbo," "The Castles of Athi.13 
 am) dt nbavne," " a slciixak romance, "&c, 
 
 DERBY: 
 THOMAS RICHARDSON AND SON 
 
 172, FLEET ST. LONDON, 
 
 AXD 9, CAPEL STREET, DUBLIN. 
 
 1S47 
 
rHINIEB BV RICHARDSON AND SOX, DERBY. 
 
THE 
 
 ROMANCE 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FOREST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " I am a man, 
 So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, 
 That I would set my life on any chance, 
 To mend it, or be rid on't." 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 "When once sordid interest seizes on the 
 heart, it freezes up the source of every warm 
 and liberal feeling; it is an enemy alike to virtue 
 and to taste— this it perverts, and that it annihi- 
 lates. The time may come, my friend, when 
 death shall dissolve the sinews of Avarice, and 
 Justice be permitted to resume her rights." 
 
 Such were the words of the advocate Nemours 
 to Pierre de la jiotte, as the latter stept at mid- 
 night into the carriage which was to bear him far 
 from Paris, from his creditors and the persecution 
 of the laws. De la Motte thanked him for this 
 last instance of his kindness, the assistance he 
 had given him in escape, and, when the carriage 
 drove away, uttered a sad adieu! The gloom of 
 the hoiir, and the peculiar emergency of his cir- 
 cumstances, sunk him in silent reverie. 
 
 Whoever has read Guyot de Pitaval, the most 
 faithful of those writers who record the proceed- 
 ings in the Parliamentary Courts of Paris, dur- 
 
8 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 ingthe seventeenth century, must surely remem- 
 ber the striking story of Pierre de la Motte, and 
 the Marquis Phillipe de Montalt: let all such, 
 therefore, be informed, that the person here in- 
 troduced to their notice -was that individual 
 Pierre de la Motte. 
 
 As Madame de la Motte leaned from the coach 
 ■window, and gave a last look to the walls of Paris 
 —Paris, the scene of her former happiness, and 
 the residence of many dear friends — the fortitude 
 •which had till now supported her, yielded to the 
 force of grief. "Farewell all!" sighed she, "this 
 last look— and we are "separated for ever!" 
 Tears followed her words, and sinking back, she 
 resigned herself to the stillness of sorrow. The 
 recollection of former times pressed heavily upon 
 her heart: a few months before, and she was sur- 
 rounded by friends, fortune, and consequence; 
 now, she was deprived of all, a miserable exile 
 from her native place, -without home, without 
 comfort — almost without hope. It was not the 
 least of her afflictions that she had been obliged 
 to quit Paris without bidding adieu to her only 
 son, who was now on duty with his regiment in 
 Germany: and such had been the precipitancy of 
 this removal, that had she even known where he 
 was stationed she had no time to inform him of 
 it, or of the alteration in his father's circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Pierre de la Motte was a gentleman, descended 
 from an ancient house of France. He was a man 
 whose passions often overcame his reason, and, 
 for a time, silenced his conscience; but, though 
 the image of virtue, which Nature had impressed 
 upon his heart, was sometimes obscured by the 
 passing influence of vice, it was never wholly ob- 
 literated. With strength of mind sufficient to 
 have withstood temptation, he would have been 
 a good man; as it was, he was always a weak, 
 and sometimes a vicious member of society: yet 
 his mind was active, and his imagination vivid, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 9 
 
 ■which, co-operating -with the force of passion, 
 often dazzled his judgment and subdued princi- 
 ple. Thus he was a man, infirm in purpose, and 
 visionary in virtue: in a word, his conduct was 
 suggested by feeling rather than principle; and 
 his virtue, such as it was, could not stand the 
 pressure of occasion. 
 
 Early in life he had married Constance Valen- 
 tia, a beautiful and elegant wornan, attached to 
 her family and beloved by them. Her birth was 
 equal, her fortune superior to his; and their nup- 
 tials had been celebrated under the auspices of 
 an approving and flattering world. Her heart 
 was devoted to La Motte, and, for some time, she 
 found in him an affectionate husband; but, allur- 
 ed by the gaieties of Paris, he was soon devoted 
 to its luxuries, and in a few years his fortune and 
 affection were equally lost in dissipation. A 
 false pride had still operated against his interest, 
 and withheld him from honourable retreat while 
 it was yet in his power: the habits which he had 
 acquired, enchained him to the scene of his form- 
 er pleasure: and thus he had continued an ex- 
 pensive style of life till the means of prolonging 
 it were exhausted. He at length awoke from 
 this lethargy of security; but it was only to 
 plunge into new error, and to attempt schemes 
 for the reparation of his fortune, which served to 
 sink him deeper in destruction. The conse- 
 quence of a transaction, in which he thus en- 
 gaged, now drove him, with the small wreck of 
 his property, into dangerous and ignominious 
 exile. 
 
 It was his design to pass into one of the South- 
 ern Provinces, and there seek, near the borders 
 of the kingdom, an asylum in some obscure vil- 
 lage. His family consisted of his wife, and two 
 faithful domestics, a man and woman, who fol- 
 lowed the fortunes of their master. 
 
 The night, was dark and tempestuous, and, at 
 about the distance of three leagues from Paris, 
 
10 - THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Peter, who now acted as postillion, having drove 
 for some time over a wild heath where many 
 ■ways crossed, stopped, and acquainted De la 
 Mo'tte with his perplexity. The sudden stopping 
 of the carriage roused the latter from Ins reverie, 
 and filled the whole party with the terror of pur- 
 suit; he was unable to supply the necessary di- 
 rection, and the extreme darkness made it dan- 
 gerous to proceed without one. During this pe- 
 riod of distress, a light was perceived at some 
 distance, and after much doubt and hesitation, 
 La Motte, in the hope of obtaining assistance, 
 alighted and advanced towards it; he proceeded 
 slowly, from the fear of unknown pits. The 
 light issued from the window of a small and an- 
 cient house, -which stood alone on the heath, at 
 the distance of half a mile. 
 
 Having reached the door, he stopped for some 
 moments, listening in apprehensive anxiety — no 
 sound was heard but that of the wind, which 
 swept in hollow gusts over the w r aste. At length 
 he ventured to knock, and, having waited some 
 time, during which he indistinctly heard several 
 voices in conversation, some one within inquired 
 what he wanted. La Motte answered, that he 
 was a traveller who had lost his way, and desired 
 to be directed to the nearest town. "That," said 
 the person, "is seven miles off, and the road bad 
 enough, even if you could see it; if you only 
 want a bed, you may have it here, and had bet- 
 ter stay." 
 
 The "pitiless pelting" of the storm, which at 
 this time beat with increasing fury upon La 
 Motte, inclined him to give up the attempt of 
 proceeding farther till day-light; but, desirous of 
 seeing the person with whom he conversed, be- 
 fore he ventured to expose his family by calling 
 up the carriage, he asked to be admitted. The 
 door was now opened by a tall figure with a light, 
 who invited La Mctte to enter. He followed the 
 man through a passage into a room almost un- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. II 
 
 furnished, in one corner of which a bed was 
 
 spread upon the floor. The forlorn and desolate 
 aspect of this apartment made La Mott-e shrink 
 involuntarily, and he was turning to go out when 
 the man suddenly pushed him back, and he 
 heard the door locked upon him: his heart fail- 
 ed, yet he made a desperate, though vain effort, 
 to force the door, and called loudly for release. 
 No answer -was returned; but he distinguished 
 the voices of men in the room above, and, not 
 doubting but their intention was to rob and mur- 
 der him, his agitation at first. nearly overcame 
 his reason. By the light of some almost-ex- 
 piring embers, he perceived a window; but the 
 hope which this discovery revived, was quickly 
 lost, wben he found the aperture guarded by 
 strong iron bars. Such preparation for security 
 surprised him, and confirmed his worst appre- 
 hensions. — Alone, unarmed — beyond the chance 
 of assistance, he saw himself in the power of 
 people, whose trade apparently rapine! — murder 
 their means! — After revolving every possibility 
 of escape, he endeavoured to await the event 
 with fortitude; but La Motte could boast of no 
 6uch virtue. 
 
 The voices had ceased, and all remained still 
 for a quarter of an hour, when, between the pauses 
 of the wind, he thought he distinguished the sobs 
 and moaning of a female; he listened attentively, 
 and became confirmed in his conjecture; it was 
 too evidently the accent of distress. At this 
 conviction, the remains of his courage forsook 
 him, and a terrible surmise darted, with the ra- 
 pidity of lightning, across his brain. It was pro- 
 bable that his carriage had been discovered by 
 the people of the house, who, with a design to 
 plunder, had secured his servant, and brought 
 hither Madame de la Motte. Ke was the more 
 inclined to believe this, by the stillness which 
 had, for some time, reigned in the house, previ- 
 ous to the sounds he now heard, Or, it was pos- 
 
12 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Bible that the inhabitants were not robbers, but 
 persons to whom he had been betrayed by his 
 friend or servant, and who were appointed to de- 
 liver him into the hands of justice. Yet he 
 hardly dared to doubt the integrity of his friend, 
 who had been intrusted with the secret of his 
 flight, and the plan of his route, and had procur- 
 ed him the carriage in which he had escaped. 
 "Such depravity," exclaimed La Motte, "cannot 
 surely exist in human nature, much less in the 
 heart of Nernours!" 
 
 This ejaculation was interrupted by a noise in 
 the passage, leading to the room: it approached 
 — the door was unlocked — and the man who had 
 admitted La Motte into the house entered, lead- 
 ing, or i-ather forcibly dragging along, a beautiful 
 girl, who appeared to be about eighteen. Her 
 features were bathed in tears, and she seemed to 
 suffer the utmost distress. The man fastened the 
 lock, and put the key in his pocket. He then ad- 
 vanced to La Motte, who had before observed 
 other persons in the passage, and pointing a pis- 
 tol to his breast, "You are wholly in our power," 
 said he, "no assistance can reach you: if you 
 wish to save your life, swear that you will convey 
 this girl where I may never see her more; or ra- 
 ther, consent to take her with you, for your oath 
 I would not believe, and I can take care you shall 
 not find me again.— Answer quickly, you have no 
 time to lose." 
 
 He now seized the trembling hand of the girl, 
 who shrunk aghast with terror, and hurried her 
 towards La Motte, whom surprise still kept silent 
 She sunk at his feet, and with supplicating eyes, 
 that streamed with tears, implored him to have 
 pity on her. Notwithstanding his present agita- 
 tion, he found it impossible to contemplate the 
 beauty and distress of the object before him with 
 indifference. Her youth, her apparent innocence 
 — the artless energy of her manner, forcibly assail- 
 ed his heart, and he was going to speak, when 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 13 
 
 the ruffian, who mistook the silence of astonish- 
 ment for that of hesitation, prevented him. " I 
 have a horse ready to take you from hence," said 
 he, ' ; and I will direct you over the heath. If you 
 return within an hour you die: after then, you 
 are at liberty to come here when you please." 
 
 La Motte, without answering, raised the lovely 
 girl from the floor, and was so much relieved 
 from his own apprehensions, that he had leisure 
 to attempt dissipating hers. " Let us be gone," 
 said the ruffian, " and have no more of this non- 
 sense; you may think yourself well off it's no 
 worse. I'll go and get the horse ready." 
 
 The last words roused La Motte, and perplex- 
 ed him with new fears; he dreaded to mention 
 his carriage, lest it might tempt the banditti to 
 plunder; and to depart on horseback with this 
 man might produce a consequence yet more to 
 be dreaded. Madame La Motte, wearied witli 
 apprehension, would probably send for her hus- 
 band to the house, when all the former danger 
 would be incurred, with the additional evil of 
 being separated from his family, and the chance 
 of being detected by the emissaries of justice in 
 endeavouring to recover them. As these reflec- 
 tions passed over his mind in tumultuous rapid- 
 ity, a noise was again heard in the passage, and 
 uproar and scuffle ensued, and in the same mo- 
 ment he could distinguish the voice of his ser- 
 vant, who had been sent by Madame La Motte 
 in search of him. Being now determined to dis- 
 close what coidd not long be concealed, he ex- 
 claimed aloud, that a horse was unnecessary; 
 that he had a carriage at some distance, which 
 would convey them from the heath, the man, 
 who was seized, being his servant. 
 
 The ruffian, speaking through the door, bid 
 him be patient awhile, and he should hear more 
 from him. La Motte now turned his eyes upon 
 his unfortunate companion, who, pale and ex- 
 hausted, ieaned for support against the wail, 
 
14 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Her features, which were delicately beautiful, had 
 gained from distress an expression of captivating 
 sweetness: she had 
 
 " An eye, 
 As when the blue sky trembles thro' a cloud 
 Of purest white." 
 
 A habit of grey camlet, with short slashed 
 sleeves, showed, but did not adorn her figure: it 
 was thrown open at the bosom, upon which part 
 of her hair had fallen in disorder, while the light 
 veil hastily thrown on, had, in her confusion, 
 been suffered to fall back. Every moment of 
 farther observation heightened the surprise of 
 La Motte, and interested him more warmly in 
 her favour. Such elegance and apparent refine- 
 ment, contrasted with the desolation of the 
 house, and the savage manners of its inhabitants, 
 seemed to him like a romance of imagination, ra- 
 ther than an occurrence of real life. He endea- 
 voured to comfort her, and his sense of compas- 
 sion was too sincere to be misunderstood. Her 
 terror gradually subsided into gratitude and 
 grief. "Ah, Sir!" said she, "Heaven has sent 
 you to my relief, and will surely reward you for 
 your protection: I have no friend in the world if 
 I do not find one in you." 
 
 La Motte assured her of his kindness, when he 
 was interrupted by the entrance of the ruffian. 
 He desired to be conducted to his family. "All 
 in good time," replied the latter; "I have taken 
 care of one of them, and will of you, please St. 
 Peter; so be comforted." These comfortable 
 words renewed the terror of La Motte, who now 
 earnestly begged to know if his family were 
 safe. "0! as for that matter they are safe 
 enough, and you will be with them presently; 
 but don't stand parleying here all night. Do you 
 choose to go or stay? you know the conditions." 
 They now bound the eyes of La Motte and of the 
 oung lady, whom terror had hitherto kept si- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. ]5 
 
 lent, and then placed tliem on two horses, a man 
 mounted behind each, and they immediately 
 galloped off. They had proceeded in this way 
 near half an hour, when La Motte entreated to 
 know whither he was going: "You will know 
 that bye and bye," said the ruffian, "so be at 
 peace.'' Finding interrogatories useless, La 
 Motte resumed silence till the horses stopped. 
 His conductor then hallooed, and being answered 
 by voices at some distance, in a few moments the 
 sound of carriage wheels was heard, and, pre- 
 sently after, the words of a man directing Peter 
 which way to drive. As the carriage approach- 
 ed, La Motte called, and, to his inexpressible joy, 
 was. answered by his wife. 
 
 " You are now beyond the borders of the heath, 
 and may go which way you will," said the ruffian; 
 "if you return within an hour, you will be wel- 
 comed b} r a brace of bullets." This was a very 
 unnecessary caution to La Motte, whom they 
 now released. The young stranger sighed deep- 
 ly as she entered the carriage; and the ruffians 
 having bestowed upon Peter some directions and 
 more threats, waited to see him drive off. They 
 did not wait long. 
 
 La Motte immediately gave a short relation of 
 what had passed at the house, including an ac- 
 count of the manner in which the young stran- 
 ger had been introduced to him. During this 
 narrative, her deep convulsive sighs frequently 
 drew the attention of Madame La Motte, whose 
 compassion became gradually interested in her 
 behalf, and who now endeavoured to tranquillize 
 her spirits. The unhappy girl answered her 
 kindness in artless and simple expressions, and 
 then relapsed into tears and silence. Madame 
 forbore for the present to ask any questions that 
 might lead to a discovery of her connexions, or 
 seem to require an explanation of the late adven 
 ture, which now furnishing her with a new sub 
 ject of reflection; the sense of her own inisfor- 
 
16 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 tunes pressed less heavily upon her mind. The 
 distress even of La Motte was for a while suspen- 
 ded ; he ruminated on the late scene, and it ap- 
 peared like a vision, or one of those extravagant 
 fictions that sometimes are exhibited in romance: 
 he could reduce it to no principle of probability, 
 or render it comprehensible by any endeavour to 
 analyze it. The present charge, and the chance 
 of future trouble, brought upon him by this ad- 
 venture, occasioned some dissatisfaction; but the 
 beauty and seeming innocence of Adeline, united 
 with the pleadings of humanity in her favour, and 
 he determined to protect her. 
 
 The tumult of emotions -which had passed in 
 the bosom of Adeline, began now to subside; 
 terror was softened into anxiety, and despair into 
 grief. The sympathy so evident in the manners 
 of her companions, particularly in those of 
 Madame La Motte, soothed her heart, and en- 
 couraged her to hope for better days. 
 
 Dismally and silently the night passed on; for 
 the minds of the travellers were too much occu- 
 pied by their several sufferings to admit of con- 
 versation. The dawn, so anxiously watched for, 
 at length appeared, and introduced the strangers 
 more fully to each other. Adeline derived com- 
 fort from the looks of Madame La Motte, who 
 gazed frequently and attentively at her, and 
 thought she had seldom seen a countenance so 
 interesting, or a form so striking. The languor 
 of sorrow threw a melancholy grace upon her 
 features, that appealed immediate^ to the heart; 
 and there was a penetrating sweetness in her 
 blue eyes, which indicated an intelligent and 
 amiable mind. 
 
 La Motte now looked anxiously from the coach 
 window, that he might judge of his situation, and 
 observe whether he was followed. The obscuri- 
 ty of the dawn confined his views, but no person 
 appeared. The sun at length tinted the eastern 
 clouds, and the tops of the highest hills a and soon 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 17 
 
 after burst in full splendour on the scene. The 
 terrors of La Motte began to subside, and the 
 griefs of Adeline to soften. They entered upon a 
 lane confined by high banks, and over-arched by 
 trees, on whose branches appeared the first green 
 buds of spring glittering -with dews. The fresh 
 breeze of the morning animated the spirits of 
 Adeline, whose mind was delicately sensible to 
 the beauties of nature. As she viewed the flow- 
 ery luxuriance of the turf, and the tender green 
 of the trees, or caught between the opening 
 banks a glimpse of the varied landscape, rich 
 with wood, and fading into blue and distant 
 mountains, her heart expanded in momentary 
 joy. With Adeline the charms of external na- 
 ture were heightened by those of novelty; che 
 had seldom seen the grandeur of an extensive 
 prospect, or the magnificence of a wide horizon 
 — and not often the picturesque beauties of more 
 confined scenery. Her mind had not lost, by 
 long oppression, that elastic energy, which re- 
 sists calamity; else, however susceptible might 
 haye been her original taste, the beauties of na- 
 ture would no longer have charmed her thus 
 easily, even to temporary repose. 
 
 The road at length wound down the side of a 
 hill, and La Motte, again looking anxiously from 
 the window, saw before him an open champaign 
 country, through which the road, wholly unshel- 
 tered from observation, extended almost in a di- 
 rect line. The danger of these circumstances 
 alarmed him, for his flight might, without diffi- 
 culty, be traced for many leagues, from the hills 
 he was now descending. Of the first peasant 
 that passed, he inquired for a road among the 
 hills, but heard of none. La Motte now sunk 
 into his former terrors. Madame, notwithstand- 
 ing her own apprehensions, endeavoured to re- 
 assure him: but, finding her efforts ineffectual, 
 she also retired to the contemplation of her mis- 
 fortunes. Often, as they went on, did La Motte 
 
]3 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 look back upon the country they had passed, and 
 often did imagination suggest to him the sounds 
 of distant pursuit. 
 
 The travellers stopped to breakfast in a vil- 
 lage, where the road was at length obscured by 
 woods, and La Motte's spirits again revived. 
 Adeline appeared more tranquil than she had yet 
 been, and La Motte now asked her for an ex- 
 planation of the scene lie had witnessed on the 
 preceding night. The inquiry renewed all her 
 distress, and with tears she entreated for the 
 present to be spared on the subject. La Motte 
 pressed it no farther, but he observed that for the 
 greater part of the day she seemed to remember 
 it in melancholy and dejection. They now tra- 
 velled among the hills, and were therefore in less 
 danger of observation; but La Motte avoided the 
 great towns, and stopped in obscure ones no 
 longer than to refresh the horses. About two 
 hours after noon, the road wound into a deep val- 
 ley, watered by a rivulet, and over-hung with 
 wood. La Motte called to Peter, and ordered 
 him to drive to a thickly embowered spot, that 
 appeared on the left. Here he alighted with his 
 family, and Peter having spread the provisions 
 on the turf, they seated themselves and partook 
 of a repast, which, in other circumstances would 
 have been thought delicious. Adeline endea- 
 voured to smile, but the languor of grief was 
 now heightened by indisposition. The violent 
 agitation of mind, and fatigue of body, which she 
 had suffered for the last twenty-four hours, had 
 overpowered her strength, and when La Motte 
 led her back to the carriage, her whole frame 
 trembled with illness; but she uttered no com- 
 plaint, and having long observed the dejection of 
 her companions, she made a feeble effoi t to en- 
 liven them. 
 
 They continued to travel throughout the day 
 without any accident or interruption, and about 
 three hours after sun-set arrived at Monville, a 
 
THE ROMANCE CF THE FOREST, 19 
 
 small town, where La Motte determined to pass 
 the night. Repose was indeed necessary to the 
 whole party, whose pale and haggard looks, as 
 they alighted from the carriage, were but too ob- 
 vious to pass unobserved by the people of the 
 inn. As soon as beds could be prepared, Adeline 
 withdrew to her chamber, accompanied by 
 Madame La Motte, whose concern for the fair 
 stranger made her exert every effort to soothe 
 and console her. Adeline wept in silence, and 
 taking the hand of Madame, pressed it to her 
 bosom. These were not merely tears of grief— 
 they were mingled with those which flow from 
 the grateful heart, when unexpectedly it meets 
 with sympathy. Madame La Motte understood 
 them. After some momentary silence, she re 
 newed her assurances of kindness, and entreated 
 Adeline to confide in her friendship; but she 
 carefully avoided any mention of the subject 
 which had before so much affected her. Adeline 
 at length found words to express her sense of 
 this goodness, which she did in a manner so na- 
 tural and sincere, that Madame, finding herself 
 much affected, took leave of her for the night. 
 
 In the morning La Motte rose at an early hour, 
 impatient to be gone. Every thing was prepared 
 for his departure, and the breakfast had been 
 waiting some time, but Adeline did not appear. 
 Madame La Motte went to her chamber, and 
 found her sunk in a disturbed slumber. Her 
 breathing was short and irregular — she frequent- 
 ly started, or sighed, and sometimes she muttered 
 an incoherent sentence. While Madame gazed 
 with concern upon her languid countenance, she 
 awoke, and looking up, gave her hand to Madame 
 La Motte, who found it burning with fever. She 
 had passed a restless night, and, as she now at- 
 tempted to rise, her head, which beat with in- 
 tense pain, grew giddy, her strength failed, and 
 she sunk back. 
 
 Madame was much alarmed, being at once con- 
 
20 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 vinced that it was impossible she could travel, 
 and that a delay might prove fatal to her hus- 
 band. She went to inform him of the truth, and 
 his distress may be more easily imagined than de- 
 scribed. He saw all the inconvenience and dan- 
 ger of delay, yet he could not so far divest him- 
 self of humanity, as to abandon Adeline to the 
 care, or rather to the neglect of strangers. He 
 sent immediately for a physician, who pronounc- 
 ed her to be in a high fever, and said, a removal 
 in her present state must be fatal. La Motte 
 now determined to wait, the event, and endea- 
 voured to calm the transports of terror, which, 
 at times, assailed him. In the mean while, he 
 took such precautions as hi3 situation admitted 
 of, passing the greater part of the day out of the 
 village, in a spot from whence he had a view of 
 the road for some distance; yet to be exposed to 
 destruction by the illness of a girl, whom he did 
 not know, and who had actually been forced 
 upon him, was a misfortune, to which La Motte 
 had not philosophy enough to submit with com- 
 posure, 
 
 Adeline's fever continued to increase during the 
 whole day, and at night, when the physician took 
 his leave, he told La Motte the event would very 
 soon be decided. La Motte received this hint of 
 her danger with real concern. The beauty and 
 innocence of Adeline had overcome the disadvan- 
 tageous circumstances under which she had been 
 introduced to him, and he now gave less con- 
 sideration to the inconvenience she might here- 
 after occasion him, than to the hope of her re- 
 covery. 
 
 Madame La Motte watched over her with ten- 
 der anxiety, and observed, with admiration, her 
 patient sweetness and mild resignation. Adeline 
 amply repaid her, though she thought she could 
 not. ""Young as I am," she would say, "and de- 
 serted -by those upon whom I have a claim for 
 protection, I can remember no connexion to 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 21 
 
 make me regret life so much as that I hoped to 
 form with you. If I live, my conduct will best 
 express my sense of your goodness — words are 
 but feeble testimonies." 
 
 The sweetness of her manners so much attract- 
 ed Madame La Motte, that she watched the crisis 
 of her disorder with a solicitude which preclu- 
 ded every other interest. Adeline passed a very 
 disturbed night, and when the physician appear- 
 ed in the morning, he gave orders that she 
 should be indulged with whatever she liked, and 
 answered the inquiries of La Motte with a frank- 
 ness that left him nothing to hope. 
 
 In the mean time, his patient, after drinking 
 profusely of some mild liquids, fell asleep, in 
 which she continued for several hours; and so 
 profound was her repose, that her breath alone 
 gave sign of existence. She awoke free from 
 fever, and with no other disorder than weakness, 
 which in a few days she overcame so well, as to 
 be able to set out with La Motte for B , a vil- 
 lage out of the great road, which he thought 
 it prudent to quit. There they passed the fol- 
 lowing night, and early the next morning com- 
 menced their journey upon a wild and woody 
 tract of country. They stopped about noon at a 
 solitary village, where they took refreshments, 
 and obtained directions for passing the vast for- 
 est of Fontanville, upon the borders of which 
 they now were. La Motte wished at first to take 
 a guide, but he apprehended more evil from the 
 disclosure he might make of Iris route, than he 
 hoped for benefit from assistance in the wilds of 
 this uncultivated tract. 
 
 La Motte now designed to pass on to Lyons, 
 where he could either seek concealment in its 
 neighbourhood, or embark on the Rhone for 
 Geneva, should the emergency of his circumstan- 
 ces hereafter require him to leave France. It 
 was about twelve o'clock at noon, and he was de- 
 sirous to hasten forward, that lie might pass the 
 
22 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 forest of Fontanville, and reach the town on its 
 opposite borders, before night-fall. Having de- 
 posited a fresh stock of provisions in the carriage, 
 and received such directions as were necessary 
 concerning the roads, they again set forward, and 
 in a short time entered upon the forest. It was 
 now the latter end of April, and the weather was 
 remarkably temperate and fine. The balmy 
 freshness of the air, which breathed the first pure 
 essence of vegetation, and the gentle warmth of 
 the sun, whose beams vivified every hue of na- 
 ture, and opened every floweret of spring, revi- 
 ved Adeline, and inspired her with life and 
 health. As she inhaled the breeze, her strength 
 seemed to return, and, as her eyes wandered 
 through the romantic glades that opened into the 
 forest, her heart was gladdened with complacent 
 delight: but when from these objects she turn- 
 ed her regard upon Monsieur and Madame La 
 Motte, to whose tender attentions she owed her 
 life, and in whose looks she now read esteem and 
 kindness, her bosom glowed with sweet affections, 
 and she experienced a force of gratitude which 
 might be palled sublime. 
 
 For the remainder of the day they continued 
 to travel, without seeing a hut, or meeting a hu- 
 man being. It was now near sun-set, and the 
 prospect being closed on all sides by the forest, 
 La Motte began to have apprehensions that his 
 servant had mistaken the way. The road, if a 
 road it could be called, which afforded only a 
 slight ti-act upon the grass, was sometimes over- 
 run by luxuriant vegetation, and sometimes ob- 
 scured by the deep shades, and Peter at length 
 stopped, uncertain of the way. La Motte, who 
 dreaded being benighted in a scene so wild and 
 solitary r.s this forest, and whose apprehensions 
 of banditti were very strong, ordered him to 
 proceed at any rate, and, if he found no track, to 
 endeavour to gain a more open part of the forest. 
 With these orders Peter again set forwards; but 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 23 
 
 having proceeded some way, and his views being 
 still confined by woody glades and forest walks, 
 he began to despair of extricating himself, and 
 stopped for farther orders. The sun was now 
 set; but, as La Motte looked anxiously from the 
 window, he observed upon the vivid glow of the 
 western horizon, some dark towers rising from 
 among the trees at a little distance, and ordered 
 Peter to drive towards them. " If they belong 
 to a monastery," said he, " we may probably gain 
 admittance for the night." 
 
 The carriage drove along under the shade of 
 " melancholy boughs," through which the even- 
 ing twilight, which 3 r et coloured the air, diffused 
 a solemnity that vibrated in thrilling sensations 
 upon the hearts of the travellers. Expectation 
 kept them silent. The present scene recalled to 
 Adeline a remembrance of the late terrific cir- 
 cumstances, and her mind responded but too ea- 
 sily to the apprehension of new misfortunes, 
 La Motte alighted at the foot of a green knoll, 
 where the trees again opening to light, permitted 
 a nearer, though imperfect, view of the edifice. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 He approached, and perceived the Gothic re- 
 mains of an abbey: it stood on. a kind of rude 
 lawn, overshadowed by high and spreading trees, 
 which seemed coeval with the building, and dif- 
 fused a romantic gloom around. The greater 
 part of the pile appeared to be sinking into ruins, 
 and that which had withstood the ravages of 
 time, showed the remaining features of the fa- 
 bric more awful in decay. The lofty battlements, 
 thickly enwreathed with ivy, were half demolish- 
 ed and become the residence of birds of prey. 
 Huge fragments of the eastern tower, which was 
 almost demolished, lay scattered amid the high 
 grass, that waved slowly to the breeze. "The 
 
24 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 thistle shook its lonely head ; the moss whistled 
 to the wind." A Gothic gate, richly ornamented 
 with fret-work, which opened into the main body 
 of the edifice, but which was now obstructed with 
 brushwood, remained entire. Above the vast and 
 magnificent portal of this gate arose a window of 
 the^same order, whose pointed arches still exhi- 
 bited fragments of stained glass, once the pride 
 of monkish devotion. La Motte, thinking it 
 possible it might yet shelter some human being, 
 advanced to the gate and lifted a massy knocker. 
 The hollow sounds rung through the emptiness 
 of the place. After Waiting a few minutes, he 
 forced back the gate, which was heavy with iron 
 work, and creaked harshly on its hinges. 
 
 He entered what appeared to have been the 
 chapel of the abbey where the hymn of devotion 
 had once been raised, and the tear of penitence 
 had once been shed; sounds, which could now 
 only be recalled by imagination — tears of peni- 
 tence, which had been long since fixed in fate. 
 La Motte paused a moment, for he felt a sensa- 
 tion of sublimity rising into terror — a suspension 
 of mingled astonishment and awe! he surveyed 
 the vastness of the place, and as he contemplated 
 its ruins, fancy bore him back to past ages. 
 "And these walls," said he/' where once super- 
 stition lurked, and austerity anticipated an earth- 
 ly purgatory, now tremble over the mortal re- 
 mains of the beings who reared them." 
 
 The deepening gloom reminded La Motte that 
 he had no time to lose; but curiosity prompted 
 him to explore farther, and he obeyed the im- 
 pulse. As he walked over the broken pavement, 
 the sound of his steps ran in echoes through the 
 place, and seemed like the mysterious accents of 
 the dead, reproving the sacrilegious mortal who 
 thus dared to disturb their preciucts. 
 
 From this chapel he passed into the nave of 
 the great church, of which one window, more 
 perfect than the rest, opened upon a long vista of 
 
THE ROMANCE OV THE FOREST, 25 
 
 the forest, through which was seen the rich co- 
 louring of evening, melting by imperceptible 
 gradations into the solemn grey of upper air. 
 Dark hills, whose outline appeared distinct upon 
 the vivid glow of the horizon, closed the per- 
 spective. Several of the pillars which had once 
 supported the roof, remained the proud effigies 
 of sinking greatness, and seemed to nod at every 
 murmur of the blast over the fragments of those 
 that had fallen a little before them. La Motte 
 sighed. The comparison between himself and 
 the gradation of decay, which these columns ex- 
 hibited, was but too obvious and affecting. " A 
 few years," said he, "and I shall become like the 
 mortals on whose reliques I now gaze, and like 
 them, too, I may be the subject of meditation to 
 a succeeding generation, which shall totter but a 
 little while over the object they contemplate, ere 
 they also sink into the dust." 
 
 Retiring from this scene, he walked through the 
 cloisters, till a door, which communicated with a 
 lofty part of the building, attracted his curiosity. 
 He opened this, and perceived, across the foot of 
 a stair- case, another door; — but now partly check- 
 ed by fear, and partly by the recollection of the 
 surprise his family might feel in his absence, he 
 returned with hasty steps to his carriage, having 
 wasted some of the precious moments of twilight 
 and gained no information. 
 
 Some slight answer to Madame La Motte's in- 
 quiries, and a general direction to Peter to drive 
 carefully on, and look for a road, was all that his 
 anxiety would permit him to utter. The night 
 shade fell thick around, which, deepened by the 
 gloom of the forest, soon rendered it dangerous 
 to proceed. Peter stopped; but La Motte, per- 
 sisting in his first determination, ordered him to 
 go on. Peter ventured to remonstrate, Madame 
 La Motte entreated; but La Motte reproved — 
 commanded, and at length, repented; for the 
 hind wheel rising ivoon the stumu of an old tree, 
 
2o THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 which the darkness had prevented Peter from 
 observing, the carriage was in an instant over- 
 turned. 
 
 The party, as may be supposed, were much 
 terrified, but no one "was materially hurt; and 
 having disengaged themselves from their perilous 
 situation, La Motte and Peter endeavoured to 
 raise the carriage. The extent of this misfor- 
 tune was now discovered, for they perceived that 
 the wheel was broke. Their distress was reason- 
 ably great, for not only was the coach disabled 
 from proceeding, but it could not even afford a 
 shelter from the cold dews of the night, it being 
 impossible to preserve it in an upright situation. 
 After a few moments' silence, La Motte proposed 
 that they should return to the ruins they had 
 just quit ted,* which lay at a very short distance, 
 and pass the night an the most habitable part of 
 them; that, when morning dawned, Peter should 
 take one of the coach horse3, and endeavour to 
 find a road and a town, from whence assistance 
 could be procured for repairing the carriage. 
 This proposal was opposed by Madame La Motte, 
 who shuddered at the idea of passing so many 
 hours in darkness in a place so forlorn as the 
 monastery. Terrors, which she neither endea- 
 voured to examine, or combat, overcame her, 
 and she told La Motte she had rather remain ex- 
 posed to the unwholesome dews of night, than 
 encounter the desolation of the ruins. La Motte 
 had at first felt an equal reluctance to return to 
 this spot; but having subdued his own feelings, 
 he resolved not to yield to those of his wife. 
 
 The horses being now disengaged from the car- 
 riage, the party moved towards the edifice. As 
 they proceeded, Peter, who followed them, 
 struck a light, and they entered the ruins by the 
 flame of sticks, which he had collected. The par- 
 tial gleams thrown across the fabric seemed to 
 make its desolation more solemn, while the obscu- 
 rity of the greater part of the pile heightened its 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 27 
 
 sublimit}-, and led fancy on to scenes of horror. 
 Adeline, who had hitherto remained silent, now 
 uttered an exclamation of mingled admiration 
 and fear. A kind of pleasing dread thrilled her 
 bosom, and filled all her soul. Tears started to 
 her eyes — she wished, yet feared, to go on— she 
 hung upon the arm of La Motte, and looked at 
 him with a sort of hesitating interrogation. 
 
 He opened the door of the great hall, and they 
 entered: its extent was lost in gloom. " Let us 
 stay here/' said Madame de la Motte, "I will go 
 no farther." La Motte pointed to the broken 
 roof, and was proceeding, when he was interrupt- 
 ed by an uncommon noise, which passed along 
 the hall. They were all silent — it was the silence 
 of terror. Madame La Motte spoke first. "Let 
 us quit this spot," said she, "any evil is prefer- 
 able to the feeling which now oppresses me. Let 
 us retire instantly."' The stillness had for some 
 time remained undisturbed, and La Motte, 
 ashamed of the fear he had involuntarily betray- 
 ed, now thought it necessary to affect a boldness, 
 which he did not feel. He, therefore, opposed 
 ridicule to the terror of Madame, and insisted 
 upon proceeding. Thus compelled to acquiesce, 
 she traversed the hall with trembling steps. 
 They came to a narrow passage, and Peter's 
 sticks being nearly exhausted, they awaited 
 here, while he went in search of more. 
 
 The almost expiring light flashed faintly upon 
 the Avails of the passage, showing the recess 
 more horrible. Across the hall, the greater part 
 of which was concealed in shadow, the feeble ray 
 spread a tremulous gleam, exhibiting the chasm 
 in the roof, while many nameless objects were 
 seen imperfectly through the dusk. Adeline, 
 with a smile, inquired of La Motte, if he believ- 
 ed in spirits. The question was ill-timed, for 
 the present scene impressed its terrors upon La 
 Motte, and, in spite of endeavour, he felt a super- 
 stitious dread stealing upon him. He was now 
 
28 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 perhaps, standing over the ashes of the dead. If 
 spirits were ever permitted to revisit the earth, 
 this seemed the hour and the place most suitable 
 for their appearance. La Motte remained silent. 
 Adeline said, " Were I inclined to superstition" 
 — She was interrupted by a return of the noise 
 which had been lately heard: it sounded down 
 the passage, at whose entrance they stood, and 
 sunk gradually away. Every hears^alpitated, 
 and they remained listening in silence. A new 
 subject of apprehension seized La Motte: — the 
 noise might proceed from banditti, and he hesi- 
 tated whether it would be safe to proceed. Peter 
 now came with the light: Madame refused to 
 enter the passage— La Motte was not much in- 
 clined to it; but Peter, in whom curiosity was 
 more prevalent than fear, readily offered his 
 services. La Motte after some hesitation, suffer- 
 ed him to go, while he awaited at the entrance 
 the result of the examination. The extent of the 
 passage soon concealed Peter from view, and the 
 echoes of his footsteps were lost in a sound, 
 which rushed along the avenue, and became 
 fainter and fainter, till it sunk in silence. La 
 Motte now called aloud to Peter, but no answer 
 was returned; at length, they heard the sound of 
 a distant foot-step, and Peter soon after appeared 
 breathless, and pale with fear. 
 
 When he came within hearing of La Motte, 
 he called out, "An' please your honour, I've 
 done for them, I believe; but I have had a hard 
 bout. I thought I was fighting with the devil." 
 — " What are you speaking of?" said La Motte. 
 
 "They were nothing but owls and rooks after 
 all," continued Peter; "but the light brought 
 them all about my ears, and they made such a 
 confounded clapping with their wings, that I 
 thought at first I had been beset with a legion of 
 devils. But I have drove them all out, Master, 
 and you have nothing to fear now." 
 
 The 1-atter part of the sentence, intimating a 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 29 
 
 suspicion of his courage, La Motte could Lave 
 dispensed with, and, to retrieve in some degree 
 his reputation, he made a point of proceeding 
 through the passage. They now moved on with 
 alacrity, for, as Peter said, ''they had nothing to 
 fear." 
 
 The passage led into a large area, on one side 
 of- which, over a range of cloisters, appeared the 
 west tower, and a lofty part of the edifice; the 
 other side was open to the woods. La Motte led 
 the way to a door of the tower, which he now 
 perceived was the same he had formerly entered; 
 but he found some difficulty in advancing, for the 
 area was overgrown with brambles and nettle?, 
 and the light, which Peter carried, afforded only 
 an uncertain gleam. When he unclosed the 
 door, the dismal aspect of the place revived the 
 apprehensions of Madame La Motte, and extort- 
 ed from Adeline an inquiry whither they were 
 going. Peter held up the light to show the nar- 
 row staircase that wound round the tower; but 
 La Motte, observing the second door, drew back 
 the rusty bolts, and entered a spacious apart- 
 ment, which, from its style and condition, was 
 evidently of a much later date than the other 
 part of the structure: though desolate and for- 
 lorn, it was very little impaired by time; the 
 walls were damp, but not decayed; and the 
 glass was yet firm in the windows. 
 
 They passed on to a suite of apartments re- 
 sembling the first they had seen, and expressed 
 their surprise at the incongruous appearance of 
 this part of the edifice with the mouldering walls 
 they had left behind. These apartments con- 
 ducted them to a winding passage, that received 
 light and air through narrow cavities, placed 
 high in the wall; and was at length closed by a 
 door barred with iron, which being with some 
 difficulty opened, they entered a vaulted room. 
 La Motte surveyed it with a scrutinizing eye, 
 and endeavoured to conjecture for what purpose 
 
SO THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 it had been guarded by a door of such strength; 
 but he saw little within to assist his curiosity. 
 The room appeared to have been built in modern 
 times upon a Gothic plan. Adeline approached 
 a large window that formed a kind of recess 
 raised by one step over the level of the floor; 
 she observed to La Motte that the whole floor 
 was inlaid with Mosaic work; which drew from 
 him a remark, that the style of this apartment 
 was not strictly Gothic. He passed on to a door, 
 which appeared on the opposite side of the 
 apartment, and, unlocking it, found himself in 
 the great hall, by which he had entered the 
 fabric. 
 
 He now perceived, what the gloom had before 
 concealed, a spiral staircase, which led to a gal- 
 lery above; and which, from its present condi- 
 tion, seemed to have been built with the more 
 modern part of the fabric, though this also affect- 
 ed the Gothic mode of architecture: La Motte 
 had little doubt that these stairs led to apart- 
 ments, corresponding with those he had passed 
 below, and hesitated whether to explore them; 
 but the entreaties of Madame, who was much fa- 
 tigued, prevailed with him to defer all farther 
 examination. After some deliberation, in which 
 of the rooms they should pass the night, they 
 determined to return to that which opened from 
 the tower. 
 
 A fire was kindled on a hearth, which it is pro- 
 bable had not for many years before afforded the 
 warmth of hospitality; and Peter having spread 
 the provision he had brought from the coach, La 
 Motte and his family, encircling the fire, partook 
 of a repast, which hunger and fatigue made deli- 
 cious. "Apprehension gradually gave way to con- 
 fidence, for they now found themselves in some- 
 thing like a human habitation, and they had lei- 
 sure to laugh at their late terrors; but, ps the 
 blast shook the doors. Adeline often started, and 
 threw a fearful glance aromid. They continued 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 31 
 
 to laugh and talk cheerfully for a time; yet their 
 merriment was transient, if not affected; for a 
 sense of their peculiar aud distressed circum- 
 stances pressed upon their recollection, and sunk 
 each individual into languor and pensive silence. 
 Adeline felt the forlornness of her condition with 
 energy; she reflected upon the past with asto- 
 nishment, and anticipated the future with fear. 
 She found herself wholly dependent upon stran- 
 gers, with no other claim than what distress de- 
 mands from the common sympathy of kindred 
 beings; sighs swelled her heart, and the frequent 
 tear started to her eye; but she cheeked it, ere 
 it betrayed on her cheek the sorrow which she 
 thought it would be ungrateful to reveal. 
 
 La Motte, at length, broke this meditative si- 
 lence, by directing the fire to be renewed for the 
 night, and the door to be secured: this seemed a 
 necessary precaution, even in this solitude, and 
 was effected by means of large stones piled against 
 it; for other fastening there was none. It had 
 frequently occurred to La Motte, that this appa- 
 rently forsaken edifice might be a place of refuge 
 to banditti. Here was solitude to conceal them; 
 and a wild and extensive forest to assist their 
 schemes of rapine, and to perplex, with its laby- 
 rinths, those who might be bold enough to attempt 
 pursuit. These apprehensions, however, he hid 
 within his own bosom, saving his companions 
 from a share of the uneasiness they occasioned. 
 Peter was ordered to watch at the door, and, 
 having given the fire a rousing stir, our desolate 
 party drew round it, and sought in sleep a short 
 oblivion of care. 
 
 _ The night passed on without disturbance. Ade- 
 line slept, but uneasy dreams fleeted before hei 
 fancy, and she awoke at an early horn': the re- 
 collection of her sorrows arose upon her mind, 
 and yielding to their pressure, her tears flowed 
 silently and fast. That she might indulge them 
 without restraint, she went to a window that 
 
32 TilE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 looked upon an open part of the forest; all was 
 gloom and silence; she stood for some time view- 
 ing the shadowy scene. 
 
 The first tender tints of morning now appeared 
 on the verge of the horizon, stealing upon the 
 darkness; so pure, so fine, so ethereal! it seemed 
 as if Heaven Mere opening to the view. The dark 
 mists were seen to roll off to the west, as the tints 
 of light grew stronger, deepening the obscurity of 
 that part of the hemisphere, and involving 'the 
 features of the country beloAv; meanwhile, in the 
 east, the hues became more vivid, darting a trem- 
 bling lustre far around, till a ruddy glow, which 
 fired all that part of the heavens, announced the 
 rising sun. At first, a small line of inconceivable 
 splendour emerged on the horizon, which quickly 
 expanding, the sun appeared in all his glory, un- 
 veiling the whole face of nature, vivifying every 
 colour of the landscape-, and sprinkling the dewy 
 earth with glittering light. The low and gentle 
 responses of birds, awakened by the morning ray, 
 now broke the silence of the hour ; their soft 
 warbling rising by degrees till they swelled the 
 chorus of universal gladness. Adeline's heart 
 swelled, too, with gratitude and adoration. 
 
 The scene before her soothed her mind, and 
 exalted her thoughts to the great Author of Na- 
 ture; she uttered an involuntary prayer: "Fa- 
 ther of good, who made this glorious scene! I re- 
 sign myself to thy hands; thou wilt support me 
 under my present sorrows, and protect me from 
 future evil." 
 
 Thus confiding in the benevolence of God, she 
 wiped the tears from her eyes, while the sweet 
 union of conscience and reflection rewarded her 
 trust; and her mind, losing the feelings which 
 had lately oppressed it, became tranquil and 
 composed. 
 
 La Motte awoke soon after, and Peter prepared 
 to set out on his expedition. As he mounted his 
 horse* ■" An' please you, Master," said he, " I 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 83 
 
 think we had as good look no farther for an 
 habitation till better times turn up; for nobody 
 will think of looking for us here; and when ono 
 sees the place by daylight, it's none so bad, but 
 what a little patching up would make it comfort- 
 able enough." La Motte made no reply, but he 
 thought, of Peter's words. During the intervals 
 of the.night, when anxiety had kept him waking, 
 the same idea had occurred to him; concealment 
 was his only security, and this place afforded it. 
 The desolation of the spot was repulsive to his 
 wishes, but he had only a choice of evils — a forest 
 with liberty was not a bad home for one who had 
 too much reason to expect a prison. As he walked 
 through the apartments, and examined their con- 
 dition more attentively, he perceived they might 
 easily be made habitable; and now surveying 
 them under the cheerfulness of morning, his de- 
 sign strengthened, and he mused upon the means 
 of accomplishing it, which nothing seemed so 
 much to obstruct as the apparent difficulty of 
 procuring food. 
 
 He communicated his thoughts to Madame La 
 Motte, who felt repugnance at the scheme. La 
 Motte, however, seldom consulted his wife till he 
 had determined how to act; and he had already 
 resolved to be guided in this affair by the report 
 of Peter. If he could discover a town in the 
 neighbourhood of the forest, where provisions 
 and other necessaries could be procured, he 
 would seek no farther for a place of rest. 
 
 In the mean time, he spent the anxious inter- 
 val of Peter's absence in examining the ruin, and 
 walking over the environs; they were sweetly 
 romantic, and the luxuriant woods with which 
 they abounded, seemed to sequester this spot 
 from the rest of the world. Frequently a natural 
 vista would yield a view of the country, termi- 
 nated by hills, which retiring in distance, faded 
 into the blue horizon. A stream, various and 
 musical in its course, wound at the foot of the 
 
34 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 lawn, on which stood the abbey; here it silently 
 glided beneath the shades, feeding the flowers 
 that bloomed on its banks, and diffusing dewy 
 freshness around; there it spread in broad ex- 
 panse to-day, reflecting the sylvan scene, and the 
 wild deer that tasted its waves. La Motte ob- 
 served every where a profusion of game; the 
 pheasants scarcely flew from his approach, and 
 the deer gazed mildly at him as he passed. They 
 were strangers to man. 
 
 On his return to the abbey, La Motte ascended 
 the stairs that led to the tower. About half way 
 up, a door appeared in the wall; it yielded, with- 
 out resistance, to his hand; but a sudden noise 
 within, accompanied by a cloud of dust, made 
 him step back and close the door. After waiting 
 a few minutes, he again opened it, and perceived 
 a large room of the more modern building. The 
 remains of tapestry hung in tatters upon the 
 walls, which were become the residence of -birds 
 of prey, whose sudden flight on the opening of 
 the door had brought down a quantity of dust, 
 and occasioned the noise. The windows were 
 shattered, and almost without glass; but he was 
 surprised to observe some remains of furniture; 
 chairs, whose fashion and condition bore the date 
 of their antiquity; a broken table, and an iron 
 grate almost consumed by rust. 
 
 On the opposite side of the room was a door, 
 which led to another apartment, proportioned 
 like the first, but hung with arras somewhat less 
 tattered. In one corner stood a small bedstead, 
 and a few shattered chairs were placed round 
 the walls. La Motte gazed with a mixture of 
 wonder and curiosity: "'Tis strange," said he, 
 " that these rooms, and these alone, should bear 
 the marks of inhabitation: perhaps some wretch- 
 ed wanderer, like myself, may have here sought 
 refuge from a persecuting world; and here, per- 
 haps, laid down the load of existence: perhaps, 
 too, I have followed his footsteps, but to mingle 
 
THE ROMANCE 01' THE FOREST. 35 
 
 my dust with liis — ! " He turned suddenly, and 
 was about to quit the room, when he perceived a 
 door near the bed; it opened into a closet, which 
 was lighted by one small window, and w r as in the 
 same condition as the apartments he had passed, 
 except that it was destitute even of the remains 
 of furniture. As he walked over the floor, he 
 thought he felt one part of it shake beneath his 
 steps, and examining found a^trap door. Curio- 
 sity prompted him to explore farther, and with 
 some difficulty he opened it: it disclosed a stair- 
 case which terminated in darkness. La Motte 
 descended a few steps but was unwilling to trust 
 the abyss; and, after wonderiug for what purpose 
 it was so secretly constructed, he closed the trap, 
 and quitted this suite of apartments. 
 
 The stairs in the tower above w r ere so much 
 decayed, that he did not attempt to ascend them: 
 he returned to the hall, and by the spiral stair- 
 case, wmich he had observed the evening before, 
 reached the gallery, and found another suite of 
 apartments entirely itufurnished, very much like 
 those below. 
 
 He renewed with Madame La Motte his former 
 conversation respectiug the abbey, and she ex- 
 erted all her endeavours to dissuade him from his 
 purpose, acknowledging the solitary security of 
 the spot, but pleading that other places might be 
 found equally well adapted for concealment, and 
 more for comfort. 
 
 This La Motte doubted: besides, the forest 
 abounded with game which would at once afford 
 him amusement and food; a circumstance, consi- 
 dei'ing his small stock of money, by no means to 
 be overlooked: and he had suffered his mind to 
 dw^eil so much upon the scheme, that it was be- 
 come a favourite one. Adeline listened in silent 
 anxiety to the discourse, and waited with impa- 
 tience the issue of Peter's report. 
 
 The morning passed, but Peter did not return. 
 Our solitary party took their dinner of the provi- 
 
36 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 sion they had fortunately brought with them, and 
 afterwards walked forth into the woods. Adeline, 
 who never suffered any good to pass unnoticed, 
 because it came attended with evil, forgot for 
 awhile the desolation of the abbey in the beauty 
 of the adjacent scenery. The pleasantness of the 
 shades soothed her heart, and the varied features 
 of the landscape amused her fancy; she almost 
 thought she could fee contented to live here. Al- 
 ready she began to feel an interest in the con- 
 cerns of her companions, and for Madame La 
 Motte she felt more; it was the warm emotion of 
 gratitude and affection. 
 
 The afternoon wore away, and they returned 
 to the abbey. Peter was still absent, and his ab- 
 sence now began to excite surprise and appre- 
 hension. The approach of darkness also threw a 
 gloom upon the hopes of the wanderers: another 
 night must be passed under the same forlorn cir- 
 cumstances as the preceding one: and, what was 
 still worse, with a very scanty stock of provisions. 
 The fortitude of Madame La Motte now entirely 
 forsook her, and she wept bitterly. Adeline's 
 heart was as mournful as Madame's ; but she 
 rallied her drooping spirits, and gave the first 
 instance of her kindness by endeavouring to re- 
 vive those of her friend. 
 
 La Motte was restless and uneasy, and leaving 
 the abbey, he walked alone the way which Peter 
 had taken. He had not gone far, when he per- 
 ceived him between the trees leading his horse. 
 " What news, Peter? " hallooed La Motte. Peter 
 came on, panting for breath, and said not a word, 
 till La Motte repeated the question in a tone of 
 somewhat more authority. " Ah, bless you, 
 Master!" said he, when he had taken breath to 
 answer, "I am glad to see you; I thought I 
 should never' have got back again; I've met with 
 a world of misfortunes." 
 
 " Well, you may relate them hereafter* let me 
 hear whether you have discovered — " 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 37 
 
 '•'Discovered!" interrupted Peter, K yes, I am 
 discovered with a vengeance ! If your Honour will 
 look at my arms, you'll see how I am discovered." 
 
 " Discoloured ! I suppose you mean," said La 
 Motte; " but how came" you in this condition? " 
 
 "Why, I'll tell you how it was, Sir; your Ho- 
 nour knows I learned a smack of boxing of that 
 Englishman that used to come with his master to 
 our house." 
 
 " Well, well— tell me where you have been." 
 
 "I scarcely know myself, Master; I've been 
 where I got a sound drubbing, but then it was in 
 your business, and so I don't mind. — But if ever 
 I meet with that rascal again! — " 
 
 " You seem to like your first drubbing so well, 
 that you want another, and unless you speak 
 more to the purpose, you shall soon have on» " 
 
 Peter was now frightened into method, and en- 
 deavoured to proceed: " When I left the old 
 abbey," said he, " I followed the way you direct- 
 ed, and turning to the right of that grove of trees 
 yonder, I looked this way and that, to see if I 
 could see a house, or a cottage, or even a man; 
 but not a soul of them was to be seen, and so I 
 jogged on, near the value of a league, I warrant, 
 a.nd then I came to a track; Oh! oh! says I, we 
 have you now; this will do — paths can't be made 
 without feet. However, I was out in my reckon- 
 ing, for the devil a bit of a soul could I see, and, 
 after following the track this way and that "way, 
 for the third of a league, I lost it, and had to find 
 out another." 
 
 " Is it impossible for you to speak to the 
 point?" said La Motte: "omit these foolish par- 
 ticulars, and tell whether yon have succeeded." 
 
 " Well, then, Master, to" be short, for that's the 
 nearest way after all, I wandered a long while at 
 random, I did not know where, all through a fo- 
 rest like this, and I took special care to note how 
 the trees stood, that I might find my way back. 
 3 
 
38 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 At last I came to another path, and was sure I 
 should find something now, though I had found 
 nothing before, for I could not be mistaken 
 twice; so, peeping between the trees, I spied a 
 cottage, and I gave my horse a lash, that sound- 
 ed through the forest, and I was at the door in a 
 minute. They told me there was a town about 
 half a league off, and bade me follow the track 
 and it would bring me there; so it did; and my 
 horse, I believe, smelt the corn in the manger, 
 by the rate he went at. I inquired for a wheel- 
 wright, and was told there was but one in the 
 place, and he could not be found. I waited and 
 waited, for I knew it was in vain to think of re- 
 turning without doing my business. The man at 
 last came home from the country, and I told him 
 how long I had waited; for, says I, I knew it was 
 in vain to return withoiH my business." 
 
 " Do be less tedious," said La Motte, "if it is 
 in thy nature." 
 
 " It is in my nature," answered Peter, "and if 
 it was more in my nature, your Honour should 
 have it all. Would you think it, Sir, the fellow 
 had the impudence to ask a louis-d'or for mend- 
 ing the coach wheel? I believe in my conscience 
 he saw I was in a hurry, and could not do without 
 him. A louis-d'or! says I, rm r Master shall give 
 no such price; he sha'n't be imposed upon by no 
 such rascal as you. Whereupon the fellow looked 
 glum, and gave me a douse o'the chops: wif& 
 this, I up with my fist and gave him another, 
 and should have beat him presently, if another 
 man had not come in, and then I was obliged to 
 give up." 
 
 " And so you are returned as wise as you 
 went! " 
 
 " Why, Master, I hope I have too. much spirit 
 to submit to a rascal, or let you submit to one 
 either: besides, I have bought some nails, to try 
 if I can't mend the wheel myself— I had always 
 a hand at carpentry.'' 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 39 
 
 " Well, I commend your zeal in my cause, but 
 on tins occasion it was rather ill-timed. And 
 ■what have you got in that basket? " 
 
 " Why, Master, I bethought me that we could 
 not get away from this place till the carriage was 
 ready to draw us, and in the mean time, says I, 
 nobody can live without victuals, so I'll e'en lay 
 out the little money I have, and take a basket 
 with me." 
 
 " That's the only wise thing you have done 
 vet; and this, indeed, redeems your blunders." 
 
 "Why now, Master, it does my heart good to 
 hear yon speak; I knew I was doing for the best 
 all the while: but I've had a hard job to find my 
 way back; and here's another piece of ill luck, 
 for'the horse has got a thorn in his foot." 
 
 La Motte made inquiries concerning the town, 
 and found it was capable of supplying him with 
 provision, and what little furniture was necessary 
 to render the abbey habitable. This intelligence 
 almost settled his plans, and he ordered Peter to 
 return on the following morning and make-in- 
 quiries concerning the abbey. If the answers 
 were favourable to his Avishes, he commissioned 
 him to buy a cart, and load it with some furni- 
 ture, and some materials necessary for repairing 
 the modern apartments. Peter stared: "What, 
 does your honour mean to live here? " 
 
 " Why, suppose I do." 
 
 " Why then your honour has made a^g^de- 
 termination.according to my hint; for your ho- 
 nour knows l said — " 
 
 '•' Well, Peter, it is not necessary to repeat 
 what you said; perhaps I had determined on ike 
 subject before." 
 
 "'Egad, master, you're in the right, and I'm 
 glad of it, for I believe we shall not quickly be 
 disturbed here, except by the rooks and oVls. 
 Yes, yes— I warrant I'll make it a place fit for a 
 king; and as for the town, one may get anything, 
 I'm sure of that; though they think no more 
 
40 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 about this place than the}* do about India, or 
 England, or any of those places." 
 
 They now reached the abbey, where Peter was 
 received with great joy; but the hopes of his 
 Mistress and Adeline were repressed, when they 
 learned that he returned without having exe- 
 cuted his commission, and heard his account of 
 the town. La Motto's orders to Peter were heard 
 with almost equal concern by Madame and Ade- 
 line; but the latter concealed her uneasiness, and 
 used all her efforts to overcome that of her 
 friend. The sweetness of her behaviour, and the 
 air of satisfaction she assumed, sensibly affected 
 Madame, and discovered to her a source of com- 
 fort, which she had hitherto overlooked. The 
 affectionate attentions of her young friend pro- 
 mised to console her for the want of other so- 
 ciety, and her conversation to enliven the hours, 
 which might otherwise be passed in painful 
 regret. 
 
 The observations and general behaviour of 
 Adeline already bespoke a good understanding 
 and an amiable heart; but she had yet more — 
 she had genius. She was now in her nineteenth 
 year; her figure of the middling size, and turned 
 to the most exquisite proportion; her hair was 
 dark auburn, her eyes blue, and whether they 
 sparkled with intelligence, or melted with ten- 
 derness, they were equally attractive: her form 
 had the airy lightness of a nymph, and when she 
 smiled, her countenance might have been drawn 
 for the younger sister of Hebe: the captivations 
 of her beauty were heightened by the grace and 
 simplicity of her manners, and confirmed by the 
 intrinsic value of a heart 
 
 " That might be shrin'd in crystal, 
 And have all its movements scaun'd." 
 
 Annette now kindled the fire for the night: 
 Peter's basket was opened, and supper prepared. 
 Madame La Motte was still pensive and silent. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 41 
 
 " There is scarcely any condition so bad," said 
 Adeline, '-'but we may, one time or other, wish 
 we had not quitted it. Honest Peter, when he 
 was bewildered in the forest, or had two enemies 
 to encounter instead of one, confesses he wished 
 himself at the abbey. And I am certain, there is 
 no situation so destitute, but comfort may be ex- 
 tracted from it. The blaze of this fire shines yet 
 more cheerfully from the contrasted dreariness 
 of the place; and this plentiful repast is made 
 yet more delicious, from the temporary want we 
 have suffered. Let us enjoy the good and forget 
 the evil." 
 
 " You speak, my dear-," replied Madame La 
 Motte, "like one whose spirits have not been 
 often depressed by misfortune (Adeline sighed), 
 and whose hopes are, therefore, vigorous," — ■ 
 " Long suffering," said La Motte, "has subdued 
 in our minds that elastic energy, which repels 
 the pressure of evil, and dances to the bound of 
 joy. But I speak in rhapsody, though only from 
 the remembrance of such a time. I once, like 
 you, Adeline, could extract comfort from most 
 situations." 
 
 "And may now, my dear Sir," said Adeline: 
 " still believe it possible, and you will find it is 
 so." 
 
 " The illusion is gone— I can no longer deceive 
 myself." 
 
 " Pardon me, Sir, if I say, it is now only you, 
 deceive yourself, by suffering the cloud of sorrow 
 to tinge every object you look upon." 
 
 " It may be so," said La Motte, " but let us 
 leave the subject." 
 
 After supper, the doors were secured, as be- 
 fore, for the night, and the wanderers resigned 
 themselves to repose. 
 
 On the following morning, Peter again set out 
 for the little town of Auboine, and the hours of 
 his absence were again spent by Madame La 
 Motte and Adeline in much anxiety and some 
 
42 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOHEST. 
 
 hope; for the intelligence lie might bring con- 
 cerning the abbey might yet release them from 
 the plans of La Motte. Towards the close of day 
 lie -was descried coming slowly on ; and the cart 
 which accompanied him, too certainly confirmed 
 their fears. He brought materials for repairing 
 the place, and some furniture. 
 
 Of the abbey he gave an account, of which the 
 following is the substance: — It belonged, toge- 
 ther with a large part of the adjacent forest, to a 
 nobleman, who now resided with his family on a 
 remote estate. He inherited it in right of his 
 wife, from his father-in-law, who had caused the 
 more modern apartments to be erected, and had 
 resided in them some part of every year, for the 
 purpose of shooting and hunting. It was report- 
 ed, that some person was, soon after it came to 
 the present possessor, brought secretly to the 
 abbey, and confined in these apartments; who 
 or what he was had never been conjectured, and 
 what became of him nobody knew. The report 
 died gradually away, and many persons entirely 
 disbelieved the whole of it. But however this 
 affair might be, certain it was, the present owner 
 had visited the abbey only two summers, since 
 his succeeding to it; and the furniture, after 
 some time, was removed. 
 
 This circumstance had at first excited surprise, 
 and various reports arose in consequence; but it 
 was difficult to know what ought to be believed. 
 Among the rest, it was said, that strange appear- 
 ances had been observed at the abbey, and un- 
 common noises heard; and though this report 
 had been ridiculed by sensible persons, as the 
 idle superstition of ignorance, it had fastened so 
 strongly upon the minds of the common people, 
 that for the last seventeen years none of the 
 peasantry had ventured to approach the spot. 
 The abbey was now, therefore, abandoned to 
 decay. 
 
 La Motte ruminated upon this account. At 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 43 
 
 first, it called up unpleasant ideas, but they were 
 soon dismissed, and considerations more inter- 
 esting to his welfare took place: he congratulated 
 himself that he had now found a spot, where he 
 was not likely to be either discovered or disturb- 
 ed; yet it could not escape him that there was 
 a strange coincidence between one part of Pe- 
 ter's narrative, and the condition of the cham- 
 bers that opened from the tower above stairs 
 The remains of furniture, of which the other 
 apartments were void — the solitary bed — the 
 number and connexion of the rooms, were cir- 
 cumstances that united to confirm his opinion. 
 This, however, he concealed in his own breast, 
 for he already perceived that Peter's account had 
 not assisted in reconciling his family to the ne- 
 cessity of dwelling at the abbey. 
 
 But they had only to submit in silence ; and 
 whatever disagreeable apprehension might in- 
 trude upon them, they now appeared willing to 
 suppress the expression of it. Peter, indeed, was 
 exempt from any evil of this kind; he knew no 
 fear, and his mind was now wholly occupied with 
 his approaching business. Madame La Motte, 
 with a placid kind of despair, endeavoured to re- 
 concile herself to that, which no effort of under- 
 standing could teach her to avoid, and which an 
 indulgence in lamentation could only make more 
 intolerable. Indeed, though a sense of the im- 
 mediate inconveniences to be endured at the ab- 
 bey, had made her oppose the scheme of living 
 there, she did not really know how their situa- 
 tion could be improved by removal: yet her 
 thoughts often wandered towards Paris, and re- 
 flected the retrospect of past times, with the im- 
 ages of weeping friends left, perhaps, for ever. 
 The affectionate endearments of her only son, 
 whom from the danger of his situation and the 
 obscurity of her's, she might reasonably fear 
 never to see again, arose upon her memory, and 
 overcome her fortitude.—" Why, why was I re- 
 
44 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 served for this hour?" would she say, "and what 
 will be my years to come?" 
 
 Adeline had no retrospect of past delight to 
 give emphasis to present calamity — no weeping 
 friends— no dear regretted objects to sharpen the 
 edge of sorrow, and throw a sickly hue upon her 
 future prospects ; she knew not yet the pangs of 
 disappointed hope, or the acuter sting of self-ac- 
 cusation ; she had no misery, but what patience 
 could assuage, or fortitude overcome. 
 
 At the dawn of the following day Peter arose 
 to his labour; he proceeded with alacrity, and, 
 in a few days, two of the lower apartments were 
 so much altered for the better, that La Motte 
 began to exult, and his family to perceive that 
 their situation would not be so miserable as they 
 had imagined. The furniture Peter had already 
 brought was disposed in these rooms, one of 
 which was the vaulted apartment. Madame La 
 Motte furnished this as a sitting room, preferring 
 it for its large Gothic window, that descended 
 almost to the floor, admitting a prospect of the 
 lawn, and the picturesque scenery of the sur- 
 rounding woods. 
 
 Peter having returned to Auboine for a farther 
 supply, all the lower apartments where in a few 
 weeks not only habitable, but comfortable. 
 These however, being insufficient for the accom- 
 modation of the family, a room above stairs was 
 prepared for Adeline: it was the chamber that 
 opened immediately from the tower, and she 
 preferred it to those beyond, because it was less 
 distant from the family, and the windows, front- 
 ing an avenue of the forest, afforded a more ex- 
 tensive prospect. The tapestry, that was decay- 
 ed, and hung loosely from the walls, was now 
 nailed up, and made to look less desolate; and, 
 though the room had still a solemn aspect, from 
 its spaciousness, and the narrowness of the win- 
 dows, it was not uncomfortable. 
 
 The first night that Adeline retired hither, she 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 45 
 
 slept little : the solitary air of the place affected 
 her spirits; the more so, perhaps, because she 
 had, with friendly consideration, endeavoured to 
 support them in the presence of Madame La 
 Motte. She remembered the narrative of Peter, 
 several circumstances of which had impressed 
 her imagination in spite of her reason, and she 
 found it difficult wholly to subdue apprehension. 
 At one time, terror so strongly seized her mind, 
 that she had even opened the door with an in- 
 tention of calling Madame La Motte; but, listen- 
 ing for a moment on the stairs of the tower, every 
 tiling seemed still; at length, she heard the voice 
 of La Motte speaking cheerfully, and the absurd- 
 ity of her fears struck her forcibly; she blushed 
 that she had for a moment submitted to them, 
 and returned to her chamber, wondering at 
 herself. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 La Motte aranged his little plan of living. His 
 mornings were usually spent in shooting, or fish- 
 ing, and the dinner, thus provided by his indus- 
 try, he relished with a keener appetite than had 
 ever attended him at the luxurious tables of 
 Paris. The afternoons he passed with his family, 
 sometimes he would select a book from the few 
 he had brought with him, and endeavour to fix 
 his attention to the words his lips repeated: — but 
 his mind suffered little abstraction from its own 
 cares, and the sentiment he pronounced left no 
 trace behind it. Sometimes he conversed, but 
 oftener sat in gloomy silence, musing upon the 
 past, or anticipating the future. 
 
 At these moments, Adeline, with a sweetness 
 almost irresistible, endeavoured to enliven his 
 spirits, and to withdraw him from himself. Sel- 
 dom she succeeded, but when she did, the grate- 
 ful looks of Madame La Motte. and the benevo- 
 
46 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 lent feelings of her own bosom, realized the 
 cheerfulness she had at first only assumed. Ade- 
 line's mind had the happy art, or perhaps it were 
 more just to say, the happy nature, of accommo- 
 dating itself to her situation. Her present con- 
 dition, though forlorn, was "not devoid of comfort, 
 and this comfort was confirmed by her virtues. 
 So much she won upon the affections of her pro- 
 tectors, that Madame La Motte loved her as her 
 child, and La Motte himself, though a man little 
 susceptible of tenderness, could not be insensible 
 to her solicitudes. Whenever he relaxed from 
 the sullenness of misery, it was at the influence 
 of Adeline. 
 
 Peter regularly brought a weekly supply of 
 provisions from Auboine, and, on those occasions, 
 always quitted the town by a route contrary to 
 that leading to the abbey. Several weeks hav- 
 ing passed without molestation, La Motte dismiss- 
 ed all apprehension of pursuit, and at length be- 
 came tolerably reconciled to the complexion of 
 his circumstances. As habit and effort strength- 
 ened the fortitude of Madame La Motte, the fea- 
 tures of misfortune appeared to soften. The for- 
 est, which at first seemed to her a frightful soli- 
 tude, had lost its terrific aspect ; and that edifice, 
 whose half-demolished Avails, and gloomy desola- 
 tion, had struck her mind with the force of me- 
 lancholy and dismay, was now beheld as a domes- 
 tic asylum, and a safe refuge from the storms of 
 power. 
 
 She was a sensible and highly accomplished 
 ■woman, and it became her chief delight to form 
 the rising graces of Adeline, who had, as has 
 been already shown, a sweetness of disposition, 
 which made her quick to repay instruction with 
 improvement, and indulgence with love. Never 
 ■was Adeline so pleased as when she anticipated 
 her wishes, and never so diligent as when she 
 was employed in her business. The little affairs 
 of the household she overlooked and managed 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 47 
 
 ■with such_admirable exactness, that Madame La 
 Motte had neither anxiety, nor care, concerning 
 them. And Adeline formed for herself in this 
 barren situation many amusements, that occa- 
 sionally banished the remembrance of her mis- 
 fortunes. La Motte's books were her chief con- 
 solation. With one of these she would frequent- 
 ly ramble into the forest, to where the river, 
 winding through a glade, diffused coolness, and 
 with its murmuring accents invited repose: there 
 she would seat herself, and resigned to the illu- 
 sions of the page, pass many hours in oblivion of 
 sorrow. 
 
 Madame La Motte had frequently expressed 
 curiosity concerning the events of Adeline's life, 
 and by what circumstances she had been thrown 
 into a situation so perilous and mysterious as 
 that in which La Motte had found her. Adeline 
 had given a brief account of the manner in 
 which she had been brought thither, but had 
 always with tears entreated to be spared for that 
 time from a particular relation of her history. 
 Her spirits were not then equal to retrospection ; 
 but now that they were soothed by quiet, and 
 strengthened by confidence, she one day gave 
 Madame La Motte the following narration: 
 
 "I am the only child," said Adeline, "of Louis 
 de St. Pierre, a chevalier of reputable family, 
 but of small fortune, who for many years resided 
 at Paris. Of my mother I have a faint remem- 
 brance; I lost her when I was only seven year* 
 old, and this was my first misfortune. At he? 
 death my father gave up house-keeping, board- 
 ed me in a convent, and quitted Paris. Thus 
 was I, at this early period of my life, abandoned 
 to strangers. My father came sometimes t<t 
 Paris; he then visited me, and I well remember 
 the grief I used to feel when he bade me fare- 
 well, On these occasions, which wrung my 
 
48 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOBEST. 
 
 heart with grief, he appeared unmoved ; so that 
 I often thought he had little tenderness for me. 
 But he was my father, and the only person to 
 whom I could look up for protection and love. 
 
 " In this convent I continued till I was twelve 
 years old. A thousand times I had entreated 
 my father to take me home; but at first motives 
 of prudence, and afterwards of avarice, prevent- 
 ed him. I was now removed from this convent, 
 and placed in another, where I learned my fa- 
 ther intended I should take the veil. I will not 
 attempt to express my surprise and grief on this 
 occasion. Too long I had been immured in the 
 walls of a cloister, and too much had I seen of 
 the sullen misery of its votaries, not to feel hor- 
 ror and disgust at the prospect of being added to 
 their number. 
 
 " The Lady Abbess was a woman of rigid de- 
 corum and severe devotion; exact in the observ- 
 ance of every detail of form, and never forgave 
 an offence against ceremony. It was her me- 
 thod, when she wanted to make converts to her 
 order, to denounce aud terrify rather than to per- 
 suade and allure. Ker's were the arts of cunning 
 practised upon fear, not those of sophistication 
 upon reason. She employed numberless strata- 
 gems to gain me to her purpose, and they all wore 
 the complexion of her character. But in the 
 life to which she would have devoted me, I saw 
 too many forms of real terror, to be overcome by 
 the influence of her ideal host, and was resolute 
 in rejecting the veil. Here I passed several 
 years of miserable resistance against cruelty and 
 superstition. My father I seldom saw; when I 
 did, I entreated him to alter my destination, but 
 he objected that his fortune was insufficient to 
 support me in the world, and at length denounc- 
 ed vengeance on my head if I persisted in disobe- 
 dience. 
 
 "You, my dear Madame, can form little idea of 
 the wretchedness of my situation, condemned to 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 49 
 
 perpetual imprisonment, and imprisonment of 
 the most dreadful kind, or to the vengeance of a 
 father, from whom I had no appeal. My resolu- 
 tion relaxed— for some time I paused upon the 
 choice of evils — but at length the horrors of a 
 monastic life rose so fully to my view, that forti- 
 tude gave way before them. Excluded from the 
 cheerful intercourse of society— from the plea- 
 sant view of nature — almost from the light of 
 day— condemned to silence, rigid formality, ab- 
 stinence, and penance — condemned to forego the 
 delights of a world, which imagination painted in 
 the gayest and most alluring colours, and whose 
 hues were, perhaps, not the less captivating be- 
 cause they were only ideal; — such was the state 
 to which I was destined. Again my resolu- 
 tion was invigorated: my father's cruelty subdu- 
 ed tenderness, and roused indignation. — Since he 
 can forget, said I, the affection of a parent, and 
 condemn his child without remorse to wretched- 
 ness and despair — the bond of filial and parental 
 duty no longer subsists between us — he has him- 
 self dissolved it, and I will yet struggle for liber- 
 ty and life. 
 
 " Finding me unmoved by menace, the Lady 
 Abbess had now recourse to more subtle mea- 
 sures: she condescended to smile, and even to 
 flatter; but her's was the distorted smile of cun- 
 ning, not the gracious emblem of kindness; it 
 provoked disgust, instead of inspiring affection. 
 She painted the character of a vestal in the most 
 beautiful tints of art — its holy innocence — its 
 mild dignity — its sublime devotion. I sighed as 
 she spoke. This she regarded as a favourable 
 symptom, and proceeded on her picture with 
 more animation. She described the serenity of 
 a monastic life, its security from the seductive 
 charms, restless passions, and sorrowful vicissi- 
 tudes of the world— the rapturous delights of re- 
 ligion, and the sweet reciprocal affection of the 
 sisterhood. 
 
50 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 " So highly she finished the piece, that the 
 lurking lines of cunning would, to an inexpe- 
 rienced eye, have escaped detection. Mine was 
 too sorrowfully informed. Too often had I wit- 
 nessed the secret tear and bursting sigh of vain 
 regret, the sullen pinings of discontent, and the 
 mute anguish of despair. My silence and my 
 manner assured her of my incredulity, and it was 
 with difficulty that she preserved a "decent com- 
 posure. 
 
 " My father, as may he imagined, was highly 
 incensed at my perseverance, which he called ob- 
 stinacy; but, what will not be so easily believed, 
 he- soon after relented, and appointed a day to 
 take me from the convent. O! judge of my feel- 
 ings when I received this intelligence! The joy it 
 occasioned awakened all my gratitude; I forgot 
 the former cruelty of my father, and that the 
 present indulgence was less the effect o'f his kind- 
 ness than of my resolution. I wept that I could 
 not indulge his every wish. 
 
 "What days of blissful expectation were those 
 that preceded my departure! The world from 
 which I had been hitherto secluded — the world, 
 in which my fancy had been so often delighted to 
 roam — whose paths were strewn with fadeless 
 roses — whose every scene smiled in beauty and in- 
 vited to delight — where all the people were good, 
 and all the good happy — Ah! then that world 
 was bursting iipon my view. Let me catch the 
 rapturous remembrance before it vanish! It is 
 like the passing lights of autumn, that gleam for a 
 moment on a hill, and then leave it to darkness. 
 I counted the days and hours that withheld me 
 from this fairy land. It was in the convent only 
 that people were deceitful and cruel: it was there 
 only that misery dwelt. I was quitting it all! 
 How pitied the poor nuns that Avere to be left 
 behind! I would have given half that world I 
 prized so much, had it been mine, to have taken 
 them, out with me. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF IHE FOREST. 51 
 
 " The long-wished for day at last arrived. My 
 father came, and for a moment my joy was lost 
 in the sorrow of bidding farewell to iny poor 
 companions, for whom I had never felt such 
 warmth of kindness as at this instant. I was 
 soon beyond the gates of the convent. I looked 
 around me, and viewed the vast vault of heaven 
 no longer hounded by monastic walls, and the 
 green earth extended in hill and dale to the 
 round verge of the horizon ! My heart danced 
 with delight, tears swelled in my eyes, and for 
 some moments I was unable to speak. My 
 thoughts arose to Heaven in sentiments of grati- 
 tude to the Giver of all good ! 
 
 " At length, I turned to my father; 'Dear Sir, 
 said I, 'how I thank you for my deliverance, and 
 how I wish I conld do every thing to oblige you. 5 
 
 ' ; ' Return, then, to your convent,' said he, in a 
 harsh accent. I shuddered: his look and man- 
 ner jarred the tone of my feelings; they struck 
 discord upon my heart, which had before re- 
 sponded only to harmony. The ardour of joy was 
 in a moment repressed, and every object around 
 me was saddened with the gloom of disappoint- 
 ment. It was not that I suspected my father 
 would take me back to the convent: but that his 
 feelings seemed so very dissonant to the joy and 
 gratitude, which I had but a moment before felt 
 and expressed to him. — Pardon, Madame, a rela- 
 tion of these trivial circumstances; the strong vi- 
 cissitudes of feeling which they impressed upon 
 iny heart, make me think them important, when 
 they are, perhaps, only disgusting." 
 
 " No, my dear," said Madame La Motte, 
 " they are interesting to me; they illustrate little 
 traits of character which I love to observe. You 
 are worthy of all my regards, and from this mo- 
 ment I give my tenderest pity to your ruisfor- 
 tues, and my affection to your goodness." 
 
 These words melted the heart of Adeline; she 
 kissed the hand which Madame held out, and re- 
 
52 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 mained a few minutes silent. At length she said, 
 " May I deserve this goodness! and may I ever 
 be thankful to God, -who, in giving me such a 
 friend, has raised me to comfort and hope. 
 
 " My father's house was situated a few leagues 
 on the other side of Paris, and in our way to it 
 we passed through that city. What a novel 
 scene! Where were now the solemn faces, the 
 demure manners I had been accustomed to see in 
 the convent? Every countenance was here ani- 
 mated, either by business or pleasure: every step 
 was airy, and every smile was gay. • All the peo- 
 ple appeared like friends; they looked and smi- 
 led at me; I smiled again, and wished to have 
 told them how pleased I was. How delightful, 
 said I, to live surrounded by friends! 
 
 "What crowded streets! What magnificent 
 hotels! What splendid equipages! I scarcely 
 observed that the streets were narrow, or the 
 way dangerous. What bustle, what tumult, what 
 delight! I could never be sufficiently thankful 
 that I was removed from the convent. Again I 
 was going to express my gratitude to my father, 
 but his looks forbade me, and I was silent. I am 
 too diffuse; even the faint forms which memory 
 reflects of passed delight are grateful to the 
 heart. The shadow of pleasure is still gazed 
 upon with a melancholy enjoyment, though the 
 substance is fled beyond our reach. 
 
 " Having quitted Paris, which I left with many 
 sighs, and gazed upon till the towers of every 
 church dissolved in distance from my view ; we 
 entered upon a gloomy and unfrequented road. 
 It was evening when we reached a wild heath; 
 I looked round in search of a human dwelling, 
 but could find none; and not a human being was 
 to be seen. I experienced something of what I 
 used to feel in the convent; my heart had not 
 been so sad since I left it. Of my father, who 
 still sat in silence, I inquired if we were near 
 home; be answered in the affirmative. Night 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 53 
 
 came on, however, before we readied the place 
 of our destination; it was a lone house on the 
 waste ; but I need not describe it to you, Madame. 
 "When the carriage stopped, two men appeared 
 at the door, and assisted us to alight; so gloomy 
 were their countenances, and so few their words, 
 I almost fancied myself again in the convent. 
 Certain it is, I had not seen such melancholy 
 faces since I quitted it. Is this a part of the 
 world I have so fondly contemplated? said I. 
 
 " The interior appearance of the house was de- 
 solate and mean; I was surprised that my father 
 had chosen such a place for his habitation, and 
 also that no woman was to be seen; but I knew 
 that inquiry would only produce reproof, and 
 was therefore silent. At supper, the two men I 
 had before seen sat down with us; they said 
 little, but seemed to observe me much. I was 
 confused and displeased, which my father no- 
 ticing, frowned at them with a look, which con- 
 vinced me he meant more than I comprehended. 
 When the cloth was drawn, my father took my 
 hand, and conducted me to the door of my cham- 
 ber; having set down the candle, and wished 
 me good night, he left me to my own solitary 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Hoav different were they from those I had 
 indulged a few hours before! then expectation, 
 hope, delight, danced before me; now melan- 
 choly and disappointment chilled the ardour of 
 my mind, and- discoloured my future prospect. 
 The appearauce of every thing around conduced 
 to depress me. On the floor lay a small bed 
 without curtains or hangings; two old chairs and 
 a table were all the remaining furniture in the 
 room. I went to the window with an intention 
 of looking out upon the surrounding scene, and 
 found it -was grated. I was shocked at this cir- 
 cumstance, and, comparing it with the lonely si- 
 tuation, and the strange appearance of the house, 
 4 
 
54 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 together with the countenances and behaviour of 
 the men who had supped with us, I was lost in a 
 labyrinth of conjecture. 
 
 At length I lay down to sleep; but the anxiety 
 of my mind prevented repose ; gloomy, unpleas- 
 ing images flitted before my fancy, and I fell into 
 a sort of waking dream: I thought that I was in 
 a lonely forest with my father; his looks were 
 severe, and his gestures menacing: he upbraided 
 me for leaving the convent, and while he spoke, 
 drew from his pocket a mirror, which he held 
 before my face; I looked in it and saw, (my 
 blood now thrills as I repeat it,) I saw myself 
 wounded, and bleeding profusely. Then I thought 
 myself in the house again; and suddenly heard 
 these words, in accents so distinct, that for some 
 time after I awoke I could scarcely believe them, 
 ideal — 'Depart this house, destruction hovers 
 here.' 
 
 u I was awakened by a footstep on the stairs; 
 it was my father retiring to his chamber; the 
 lateness of the hour surprised me, for it was past 
 midnight. 
 
 " On the following morning, the party of the 
 preceding evening assembled at breakfast, and 
 were as gloomy and silent as before. The table 
 was spread b}' a boy of my father's ; but the cook 
 and the house-maid, whatever they might be, 
 Avere invisible. 
 
 " The next morning I -was surprised, on at- 
 tempting to leave my chamber, to fiud the door 
 locked: I waited a considerable time before I 
 ventured to call; when I did no answer was re- 
 turned: I then went to the window, and called 
 more loudly; but my own voice was still the 
 only sound I heard. Near an hour I passed in a 
 state of surprise and terror not to be described: 
 at length, I heard a person coming up stairs, and 
 I renewed the call; I was .answered, that my 
 father had that morning set off for Paris, whence 
 he would return in a few days; in the meanwhile 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. B5 
 
 he had ordered me to be confined in my cham- 
 ber. On my expressing surprise and apprehen- 
 sion at this circumstance, I was assured I had 
 nothing to fear, and that I should live as well as 
 if I were at liberty. 
 
 " The latter part of this speech seemed to con- 
 tain an odd kind of comfort; I made little reply, 
 but submitted to necessity. Once more I was 
 abandoned to sorrowful reflection; what a day 
 was the one I now passed— alone and agitated 
 with grief and apprehension! I endeavoured to 
 conjecture the cause of this harsh tretitment; 
 and at length concluded it was designed by my 
 father, as a punishment for my former disobedi- 
 ence. But why abandon me to the power of 
 strangers, to men, whose countenances bore the 
 stamp of villany so strongly as to impress even 
 my inexperienced mind with terror! surmise in- 
 volved me only deeper in perplexity, yet I found 
 it impossible to forbear pursuing the subject; 
 and the day was divided between lamentation 
 and conjecture. Night at length came, and such 
 a night! Darkness brought new terrors: I look- 
 ed round the chamber for some means of fasten- 
 ing my door on the inside, but could perceive 
 none; at last, I contrived to place the back of a 
 chair in an oblique direction, so as to render it 
 secure. 
 
 " I had scarcely done this, and laid down upon 
 my bed in my clothes, not to sleep, but to watch, 
 when I heard a rap at the door of the house, 
 which was opened and shut so quickly, that the 
 person who had knocked seemed only to deliver 
 a letter or message. Soon after, I heard voices 
 at intervals in a room below stairs, sometimes 
 speaking very low, and sometimes rising alto- 
 gether, as if in dispute. Something more excu- 
 sable than curiosity made me endeavour to dis- 
 tinguish what was said, but in vain; now and 
 then a word or two reached me, and once I heard 
 my name repeated, but no more. 
 
55 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 " Thus passed the hours till midnight, when all 
 became still. I had lain for some time in a state 
 between fear and hope, when I heard the lock of 
 my door gently moved backward and forward; I 
 started up and listened; for a moment it was 
 still, then the noise returned, and I heard a 
 whispering without; my spirits died away, but 
 I was yet sensible. Presently an effort was made 
 at the door, as if to force it; I shrieked aloud, 
 and immediately heard the voices of the men I 
 had seen at my father's table: they called loudly 
 for the door to be opened, and on my returning 
 no answer, uttered dreadful execrations. I had 
 just strength sufficient to move to the window, 
 in the desperate hope of escaping thence; but 
 my feeble efforts could not even shake the bars. 
 O ! how can I recollect these moments of horror, 
 and be sufficiently thankful that I am now in 
 safety and comfort! 
 
 " They remained some time at the door, then 
 they quitted it, and went down stairs. How my 
 heart revived at every step of their departure! 
 I fell upon my knees, thanked God that he had 
 preserved me this time, and implored his farther 
 protection. I was rising from this short prayer, 
 when suddenly I heard a noise in a different part 
 of the room, and on looking round, I perceived 
 the door of a small closet open, and two men 
 enter the chamber. 
 
 " They seized me, and I sunk senseless in their 
 arms; how long I remained in this condition I 
 know not; but, on reviving, I perceived myself 
 again alone, and heard several voices from below 
 stairs. I had presence of mind to run to the door 
 of the closet, my only chance of escape; but it 
 was locked! I then recollected it was possible, 
 that the ruffians might have forgot to turn the 
 key of the chamber-door, which was held by the 
 chair; but here, also, I was disappointed. I 
 clasped my hands in an agony of despair, and 
 stood for some time immoveable. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 57 
 
 " A violent noise from below roused me, and 
 soon after I heard people ascending the stairs: I 
 now gave myself up for lost. The steps ap- 
 proached, the door of the closet was again un- 
 locked. I stood calmly, and again saw the men 
 enter the chamber; I neither spoke, or resisted: 
 the faculties of my soul were wrought up beyond 
 the power of feeling; as a violent blow on the 
 body stuns for a -while the sense of pain. They 
 led me down stairs; the door of a room below 
 was thrown open, and I beheld a stranger; it was 
 then that my senses returned; I shrieked, and 
 resisted, but was forced along. It is unnecessary 
 to say that this stranger was Monsieur La Motte, 
 or to add, that I shall for ever bless him as my 
 deliverer." 
 
 Adeline ceased to speak; Madame La Motte 
 remained silent. There were some circumstances 
 in Adeline's narrative which raised all her curi- 
 osity. She asked if Adeline believed her father 
 to be a party m this mysterious affair. Adeline, 
 though it was impossible to doubt that he had 
 been principally and materially concerned in 
 some part of it, thought, or said she thought, he 
 was innocent of any intention against her life. 
 " Yet, what motive," said Madame La Motte, 
 " could there be for a degree of cruelty so appa- 
 rently unprofitable?" Here the inquiry end- 
 ed; and Adeline confessed she had pursued it, 
 till her mind shrunk from all farther research. 
 
 The sympathy which such uncommon misfor- 
 tunes excited, Madame La Motte now expressed 
 without reserve; and this expression of it 
 strengthened the bond of mutual friendship. 
 Adeline felt her spirits relieved by the disclosure 
 she had made to Madame La Motte; and the 
 latter acknowledged the value of the confidence, 
 by an increase of affectionate attentions. 
 
58 TIIE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 La Motte had now passed above a month in 
 this seclusion; and his wife had the pleasure to 
 see him recover tranquillity, and even cheerful- 
 ness. In this pleasure Adeline warmly partici- 
 pated; and she might justly have congratulated 
 herself, as one cause of his restoration ; her cheer- 
 fulness and delicate attention had effected Avhat 
 Madame La Motte's greater anxiety had failed to 
 accomplish. La Motte did not seem regardless 
 of her amiable disposition, and sometimes thank- 
 ed her in a manner more earnest than was usual 
 with him. She, in her turn, considered him as 
 her only protector, and now felt towards him the 
 affection of a daughter. 
 
 The time she had spent in this peaceful retire- 
 ment had softened the remembrance of past 
 events, and restored her mind to its natural tone; 
 and when memory brought back to her view her 
 former short and romantic expectations of happi- 
 ness, though she gave a sigh to the rapturous 
 illusion, she less lamented the disappointment, 
 than rejoiced in her present security and comfort. 
 
 But the satisfaction which La Motte's cheer- 
 fulness diffused around him was of short continu- 
 ance; he became suddenly gloomy and reserved; 
 the society of his family was no longer grateful 
 to him; and he would spend whole hours in the 
 most secluded parts of the forest, devoted to me- 
 lancholy and secret grief. He did not, as for- 
 merly, indulge the humour of his sadness, with- 
 out restraint, in the presence of others; he now 
 evidently endeavoured to conceal it, and affected 
 a cheerfulness that was too artificial to escape 
 detection. 
 
 His servant Peter, either impelled by curiosity 
 or kindness, sometimes followed him, unseen, 
 into the forest. He observed him frequently 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 59 
 
 retire to one particular spot, in a remote part, 
 which having gained, he always disappeared, 
 before Peter, who was obliged to follow at a dis- 
 tance, could exactly notice where. All his en- 
 deavours, now prompted by wonder, and invigo- 
 rated by disappointment, were unsuccessful, and 
 he was still compelled to endure the tortures of 
 unsatisfied curiosity. 
 
 This change in the manners and habits of her 
 husband was too conspicuous to pass unobserved 
 by Madame La Motte, who endeavoured, by all 
 the stratagems which affection could suggest, or 
 female invention supply, to win him to her confi- 
 dence. He seemed insensible to the influence of 
 the first, and withstocd the wiles of the latter. 
 Finding all her efforts insufficient to dissipate 
 the glooms which overhung his mind, or to pene- 
 trate their secret cause, she desisted from farther 
 attempt, and endeavoured to submit to this mys- 
 terious distress. 
 
 Week after week elapsed, and the same un- 
 known cause sealed the lips, and corroded the 
 heart of La Motte. The place of his visitation 
 in the forest had not been traced. Peter had fre- 
 quently examined round the spot where his mas- 
 ter disappeared, but had never discovered any 
 recess, which could be supposed to conceal him. 
 The astonishment of the servant was at length 
 raised to an insupportable degree, and he com- 
 municated to his mistress the subject of it. 
 
 The emotion which this information excited, 
 she disguised from Peter, and reproved him for 
 the means he had taken to gratify his curiosity. 
 But she revolved this circumstance in her 
 thoughts, and comparing it with the late altera- 
 tion in his temper, her uneasiness was renewed, 
 and her perplexity considerably increased. After 
 much consideration, being unable to assign any 
 other motive for his conduct, she began to attri- 
 bute it to the influence of illicit passion; and her 
 heart, which now out-ran her judgment, con- 
 
00 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 firmed the supposition, and roused all the tor- 
 turing pangs of jealousy. 
 
 Comparatively speaking, she had never known 
 affliction till now: she had abandoned her dear- 
 est friends and connexions — had relinquished the 
 gaieties, the luxuries, and almost the necessaries 
 of life — fled with her family into exile, an exile 
 the most dreary and comfortless; experiencing 
 the evils of reality, and those of apprehension, 
 united; all these she had patiently endured, shJ- 
 ported by the affection of him, for whose salfe 
 she suffered. Though that affection, indeed, hdfl 
 for some time appeared to be abated, she had 
 borne its decrease with fortitude; but the last 
 stroke of calamity, hitherto withheld, now camje 
 with irresistible force— the love, of which she la- 
 mented the loss, she now believed was transfer- 
 red to another. 
 
 The operation of strong passion confuses the 
 powers of reason, and warps them to its own par- 
 ticular direction. Her usual degree of judgment, 
 unopposed by the influence of her heart, would 
 probably have pointed out to Madame La Motte 
 some circumstances upon the subject of her dis- 
 tress, equivocal, if not contradictory to her suspi- 
 cions. No such circumstances appeared to her, 
 and she did not long hesitate to decide, that Ade- 
 line was the object of her husband's attachment. 
 Her beauty out of the question, who else, indeed, 
 could it be in a spot thus secluded from the 
 world * 
 
 The same cause destroyed, almost at the same 
 moment, her only remaining comfort; and, when 
 she wept that she could no longer look for happi- 
 ness in the affection of La Motte, she wept also, 
 that she could no longer seek solace in the friend- 
 ship of Adeline. She had too great an esteem for 
 fler to doubt, at first, the integrity of her con- 
 duct; but, in spite of reason, her heai-t no longer 
 expanded to her with its usual warmth of kind- 
 ness. She shrunk from her confidence, and, as 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 61 
 
 the secret broodfngs of jealousy cherished her 
 suspicions, she became less kind to her, even in 
 manner. 
 
 Adeline, observing the change, at first attri- 
 buted it to accident, and afterwards to a tempo- 
 rary displeasure, arising from some little inad- 
 vertency in her conduct. She therefore increas- 
 ed her assiduities; but perceiving, contrary to all 
 expectation, that her efforts to please failed of 
 their usual consequence, and that the reserve of 
 Madame's manner rather increased than abated, 
 she became seriously uneasy, and resolved to seek 
 an explanation. This Madame La Motte as sedu- 
 lously avoided, and was for some time able to 
 prevent. Adeline, however, too much interested 
 in the event to yield to delicate scruples, pressed 
 the subject so closely, that Madame was at first 
 agitated and confused, but at length invented 
 some idle excuse, and laughed off the affair. 
 
 She now saw the necessity of subduing all ap- 
 pearance of reserve towards Adeline; and though 
 her art could not conquer the prejudices of pas- 
 sion, it taught her to assume, with tolerable suc- 
 cess, the aspect of kindness. Adeline was de- 
 ceived, and was again at peace. Indeed, confi- 
 dence in the sincerity and goodness of others 
 ■was her weakness. But the paugs of stifled jea- 
 lousy struck deeper to the heart of Madame La 
 Motte, and she resolved, at all events, to obtain 
 some certainty upon the subject of her suspi- 
 cions. 
 
 She now condescended to an act of meanness, 
 which she had before despised, and ordered Pe- 
 ter to watch the steps of his master, in order to 
 discover, if possible, the place of his visitation. 
 So much did passion win upon her judgment, by 
 time and indulgence, that she sometimes ventur- 
 ed even to doubt the integrity of Adeline, and 
 afterwards proceeded to believe it possible that 
 the object of La Motte's rambles might be an 
 assignation with her. What suggested this con- 
 
62 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 jecture was, that Adeline frequently took long 
 •walks alone in the forest, and sometimes was ab- 
 sent from the abbey for many hours. This cir- 
 cumstance, -which Madame La Motte had at first 
 attributed to Adeline's fondness for the pictu- 
 resque beauties of nature, now operated forcibly 
 upon her imagination, and she could view it in 
 no light, than as affording an opportunity for se- 
 cret conversation with her husband. 
 
 Peter obeyed the orders of his mistress with 
 alacrity, for they were warmly seconded by his 
 own curiosity. All his endeavours, were, how- 
 ever, fruitless; he never dared to follow La 
 Motte near enough to observe the place of his 
 last retreat. Her impatience thus heightened by 
 delay, and her passion stimulated by difficulty, 
 Madame La Motte now resolved to apply to her 
 husband for an explanation of his conduct. 
 
 After some consideration, concerning the man- 
 ner most likely to succeed with him, she went to 
 La Motte; but when she entered the room where 
 he sat, forgetting all her concerted address, she 
 fell at his feet, and was, for some moments, lost 
 in tears. Surprised at her attitude and distress, 
 he inquired the occasion of it, and was answered, 
 that it was caused by his own conduct. "My con- 
 duct! What part of it, pray?" inquired he. 
 
 " Your reserve, your secret sorrow, and fre- 
 quent absence from the abbey." 
 
 " Is it then so wonderful, that a man, who has 
 lost almost every thing, should sometimes lament 
 his misfortunes? or so criminal to attempt con- 
 cealing his grief, that he must be blamed for it 
 by those whom he would save from the pain of 
 sharing it?" 
 
 Having uttered these words, he quitted the 
 room, leaving Madame La Motte lost in surprise, 
 but somewhat relieved from the pressure of her 
 former suspicions. Still, however, she pursued 
 Adeline with an eye of scrutiny; and the mask 
 of kindness would sometimes fall off, and chs- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 63 
 
 cover the features of distrust. Adeline, without 
 exactly knowing why, felt less at ease and less 
 happy in her presence than formerly; her spirits 
 drooped, and she would often, when alone, weep 
 at the forlornness of her condition. Formerly, 
 her remembrance of past sufferings was lost in 
 the friendship of Madame La Motte; now, though 
 her behaviour was too guarded to betray any 
 striking instance of unkindness, there was some- 
 thing in her manner which chilled the hopes of 
 Adeline, unable as she was to analyse it. But a 
 circumstance which soon occurred, suspended for 
 awhile the jealousy of Madame La Motte, and 
 roused her husband froni his state of gloomy stu- 
 pefaction. 
 
 Peter, having been one day to Auboine, for the 
 weekly supply of provisions, returned with intel- 
 ligence that awakened in La Motte new appre- 
 hension and anxiety. 
 
 " Oh, Sir! I've heard something that has aston- 
 ished me, as well it may," cried Peter, " and so 
 it will you, wdien you come to know it. As I 
 was standing in the blacksmith's shop while the 
 smith was driving a nail into the horse's shoe (by 
 the bye, the horse lost it in an odd way, I'll tell 
 you, Sir, how it was) — " 
 
 " Nay, prithee, leave it till another time, and 
 go on with your story." 
 
 " Why then, Sir, as I was standing in the black- 
 smith's shop, comes hi a man with a pipe in his 
 mouth, and a large pouch of tobacco in his 
 hand—" 
 
 " Well— what has the pipe to do with the 
 story? " 
 
 " Nay, Sir, you put me out; I can't go on, un- 
 less you let me tell it my own way. As I was 
 saying— with a pipe in his mouth— I think I was 
 there, your honour? " 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 " He sets himself down on the bench, and, ta- 
 king the pipe from his mouth, says to the black- 
 
64 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 smith, ' Neighbour, do you know any body of the 
 name of La Motte, hereabouts?' — Bless your 
 honour, 1 turned all of a cold sweat in a minute! 
 — Is not your honour well? shall I fetch you 
 any thing? " 
 
 " No— but be brief in your narrative." 
 
 " 'La Motte! La Motte!' said the blacksmith, 'I 
 think I've heard the name.' — ' Have you?' said I; 
 ' 3'ou're cunning then, for there's no such person 
 hereabouts, to my knowledge.' " 
 
 " Fool!— why did you say that?" 
 
 " Because I did not want them to know your 
 honour was here; and if I had not managed very 
 cleverly, they would have found me out. ' There 
 is no such person hereabouts, to my knowledge,' 
 says I. — 'Indeed!' says the blacksmith, *yoit 
 know more of the neighbourhood than I do, 
 then.' — * Aye,' says the man with the pipe, ' that's 
 very true. How came you to know so much of 
 the neighbourhood? I came here twenty-six 
 years ago, come next St. Michael, and you know 
 more than I do. How came you to know so 
 much?' 
 
 " With that he put his pipe in his mouth, and 
 gave a whiff full in my face. Lord! your ho- 
 nour, I trembled from head to foot. * Nay, as 
 for that matter, 5 says I, ' I don't know more than 
 other people, but I'm sure I never heard of such 
 a man as that.' — ' Pray,' says the blacksmith, 
 staring me full 4 in the face, ' an't j t ou the man 
 that was inquiring some time since. about Saint 
 Clair's Abbey?'— ' Well, what of that?' says I; 
 ' what does that prove?' — ' Why, they say, some- 
 body lives in the abbey now,' said the man, turn- 
 ing to the other; 'and, for aught I know, it may 
 be this same La Motte.' — ' Aye, or for aught I 
 know either,' says the man with the pipe, getting 
 up from the bench, ' and you know more of thi3 
 than you'll own. I'll lay my life on't, this Mon- 
 sieur La Motte lives at the abbey.'—' Aye,' says 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 65 
 
 I, f you are out there, for lie does not live at the 
 abbey bow.' " 
 
 " Confound your folly!" cried La Motte; "but 
 be quick — how did the matter end?" 
 
 " 'My master does not live there now,' said I. — 
 'Oh! oh!' said the man with the pipe, 'he is 
 your master then? And pray how long has he 
 left the abbey — and where does he live now?' — 
 'Hold,' said I, 'not so fast— I know when to 
 speak, and when to hold my tongue — but who 
 has been inquiring for him?' 
 
 "' What! he expected somebody to inquire for 
 him?' says the man. — 'No,' says I, 'he did not, 
 but if he did, what does that prove? that argues 
 nothing.' With that he looked at the black- 
 smith, and they went out of the shop together, 
 leaving my horse's shoe undone. But I never 
 minded that, for the moment they were gone, 
 I mounted and rode away as fast as I could. 
 But in my fright, your honour, 1 forgot to take 
 the round-about way, and so came straight 
 home." 
 
 La Motte, extremely shocked at Peter's intelli- 
 gence, made no other reply than by cursing his 
 folly, and immediately went in search of Madame, 
 who was walking with Adeline on the banks of 
 the river. La Motte was too much agitated to 
 soften his information by preface: "We are dis- 
 covered!" said he, "the king's officers have been 
 inquiring for me at Auboine, and Peter has blun- 
 dered upon my ruin!" He then informed her of 
 what Peter had related, and bade her prepare to 
 quit the abbey. 
 
 "But whither can we fly?" said Madame La 
 Motte, scarcely able to support herself. — "Any 
 where!"; said he, "to stay here is certain destruc- 
 tion. We must take refuge in Switzerland. I 
 think. If any part of France would have con- 
 cealed me, surely it had been this!" 
 
 "Alas, how are we persecuted!" rejoined Ma- 
 dame. " This spot is scarcely made comfortable, 
 
66 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 "before we are obliged to leave it, and go we know 
 not whither.'"' 
 
 " I wish Ave may not know whither," replied 
 La Motte; "that is the least evil that threatens 
 us. Let us escape a prison, and I care not whi- 
 ther we go.. But return to the abbey immediate- 
 ly, and pack up what moveables you can." A 
 flood of tears came to the relief of Madame La 
 Motte, and she hung upon Adeline's arm, silent 
 and trembling: Adeline, though she had no com- 
 fort to bestow, endeavoured to command her 
 feelings, and appeared composed. " Come," said 
 La Motte, "we waste time; let us lament here- 
 after, but at present prepare for flight. Exert a 
 little of that fortitude, which is so necessary for 
 our preservation. Adeline does not weep, yet 
 her state is as wretched as your own, for I know 
 not how long I shall be able to protect her." 
 
 Notwithstanding her terror, this reproof touch- 
 ed the pride of Madame La Motte, who dried 
 her tears, but disdained to rephy, and looked at 
 Adeline with a strong expression of displeasure. 
 As they moved silently towards the abbey, Ade- 
 line asked La Motte if he was sure they were the 
 king's officers, who inquired for him. — " I cannot 
 doubt it," he replied ; " who else could possibly 
 inquire for me? Besides, the behaviour of the 
 man, Avho mentioned my name, puts the matter 
 beyond a question." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said Madame La Motte: "let 
 us wait till morning ere we set off. We may 
 then find it will be unnecessary to go." 
 
 "We may, indeed; the king's officers would 
 probably by that time have told us as much." 
 La Motte went to give orders to Peter. — " Set off 
 in an hour!" said Peter, "Lord bless you, mas- 
 ter! only consider the coach wheel: it would 
 take me a day at least to mend it, for your hon- 
 our knows I never mended one in my life." 
 
 This was a circumstance which La Motte had 
 entirely overlooked. When they settled at the 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 67 
 
 abbey, Peter had at first been too busy in repair- 
 ing the apartments, to remember the carriage, 
 and afterwards, believing it would not quickly be 
 wanted, he had neglected to do it. La Motte's 
 temper now entirely forsook him, and with many 
 execrations he ordered Peter to go to work im- 
 mediately: but on searching for the materials 
 formerly bought, they were no where to be 
 found, and Peter at length remembered, though 
 he was prudent enough to conceal this circum- 
 stance, that he had used the nails in repairing 
 the abbey. 
 
 It was now, therefore, impossible to quit the 
 forest that night, and La Motte had only to con- 
 sider the most probable plan of concealment, 
 should the officers of justice visit the ruin before 
 the morning; a circumstance, which the thought- 
 lessness of Peter in returning from Auboine by 
 the straight way, made not unlikely. 
 
 At first, indeed, it occurred to him, that though 
 his family could not be removed, he might him- 
 self take one of the horses, and escape from the 
 forest before night. But he thought there would 
 still be some danger of detection in the towns 
 through which he must pass, and he could not 
 well bear the idea of leaving his family unpro- 
 tected, without knowing when he could return to 
 them, or whither he could direct them to follow 
 him. La Motte was not a man of very vigorous 
 resolution, and he was, perhaps, rather more will- 
 ing to suffer in company than alone. 
 
 After much consideration, he recollected the 
 trap-door of the closet belonging to the chambers 
 above: it was invisible to the eye, and whatever 
 might be its direction, it would securely shelter 
 him at least from discovery. Having deliberated 
 farther upon the subject, he determined to ex- 
 plore the recess to which the stairs led, aud 
 thought it possible, that for a short time his 
 whole family might be concealed within it. 
 
69 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the plan and the execution of his purpose, for 
 darkness was spreading around, and in every mur- 
 mur of the wind he thought he heard the voices 
 of his enemies. 
 
 He called for a light, and ascended alone to the 
 chamber. When h© came to the closet, it was 
 some time before he could find the trap-door, so 
 exactly did it correspond with the boards of the 
 floor. At length he found and raised it. The 
 chill damps oflong-confined air rushed from the 
 aperture, and he stood for a moment to let them 
 pass, ere he descended. As he stood looking 
 down the abyss, he recollected the report which 
 Peter had brought concerning the abbey, and it 
 gave him an uneasj' sensation; but this soon 
 yielded to more pressing interests. 
 
 The stairs were steep, and in many places trem- 
 bled beneath his weight. Having continued to 
 descend for some time, his feet touched the 
 ground, and he found himself in a narrow pas- 
 sage; but as he turned to pursue it, the damp 
 vapours curled round him and extinguished the 
 light. He called aloud for Peter, but could make 
 nobody hear, and after some time, he endeavour- 
 ed to find his way up the stairs. In this, with 
 difficulty, he succeeded, and, passing the cham- 
 bers with cautious steps, descended the tower. 
 
 The security, which the place he had just emit- 
 ted seemed to promise, was of too much import- 
 ance to be slightly rejected, and he determined 
 immediately to make another experiment with 
 the light: — having now fixed it in a lantern, he 
 descended a second time to the passage. The 
 current of vapours occasioned by the opening of 
 the trap-door was abated, and the fresh air 
 thence admitted had begun to circulate: La 
 Motte passed on unmolested. 
 
 The passage was of considerable length, and 
 led him to a door, which was fastened. He placed 
 the lantern at some distance, to avoid the cur- 
 rent of air, and applied his strength to the door: 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 69 
 
 it shook under his hands, but did not yield. Up- 
 on examining it more closely, he perceived the 
 wood round the lock was decayed, probably by 
 the damps, and this encouraged him to proceed. 
 After some time it gave way to his effort, and he 
 found himself in a square stone room. 
 
 He stood for some time to survey it. The walls, 
 which were dripping with unwholesome dews, 
 were entirely bare, and afforded not even a win- 
 dow. A small iron grate alone admitted the air. 
 At the farther end, near a low recess, was ano- 
 ther door. La Motte went towards it, and, as he 
 passed, looked into the recess. Upon the ground 
 within it, stood a large chest, which he went for- 
 ward to examine, and, lifting the lid, he saw the 
 remains of a human skeleton. Horror struck up- 
 on his heart, and he involuntarily stepped back. 
 During a pause of some moments, his first emo- 
 tions subsided. That thrilling curiosity which 
 objects of terror often excite in the human mind, 
 impelled him to take a second view of this dismal 
 spectacle. 
 
 La Motte stood motionless as he gazed; the 
 object before him seemed to confirm the report 
 that some person had formerly been murdered 
 in the abbey. At length he closed the chest, and 
 advanced to the second door, which also was fas- 
 tened, but the kej'- was in the lock. He turned it 
 with difficulty, and then found the door was held 
 by two strong bolts. Having undrawn these, it 
 disclosed a flight of steps, which he descended: 
 they terminated in a chain of low vaults, or ra- 
 ther cells, that, from the manner of their con- 
 struction and present condition, seemed to have 
 been coeval with the most ancient parts of the 
 abbey. La Motte, in his then depressed state of 
 mind, thought them the burial places of the 
 monks, who formerly inhabited the pile abovej 
 but they were more calculated for places of pe- 
 nance for the living, than of rest for the dead. 
 5 
 
70 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Having reached the extremity of these cells, 
 the way was again closed by a door. La Motte 
 now hesitated whether he should attempt to pro- 
 ceed any farther. The present spot seemed to 
 afford the security he sought. Here he might 
 pass the night unmolested by appi-ehension of 
 discovery, and it was most probable, that if the 
 officers arrived in the night, and found the abbey 
 vacated, they would quit it before morning, or, 
 at least, before he could have any occasion to 
 emerge from concealment. These considerations 
 restored his mind to a state of greater composure. 
 His only immediate care was to bring his family, 
 as soon as possible, to this place of securit3 r , lest 
 the officers should come unawares upon them; 
 and while he stood thus musing, he blamed him- 
 self for delay. 
 
 But an irresistible desire of knowing to what 
 this door led arrested his steps, and he turned to 
 open it: the door, however, was fastened, and a3 
 lie attempted to force it, he suddenly thought he 
 heard a noise above. It now occurred to him, 
 that the officers might already have arrived, and 
 he quitted the cells with precipitation, intending 
 to listen at the trap-door. 
 
 " There," said he, (i I may wait in security, and 
 perhaps hear something of what passes. My fa- 
 mily will not be known, or, at least, not hurt, and 
 their uneasiness on my accoimt they must learn 
 to endure." 
 
 These were the arguments of La Motte, in 
 which, it must be owned, selfish prudence was 
 more conspicuous than tender anxiety for his 
 wife. He had by this time reached the bottom 
 of the stairs, when, on looking up, he perceived 
 the trap-door -was left open, and ascending in 
 haste to close it, he heard footsteps advancing 
 through the chambers above. Before he could 
 descend entirely out of sight, he again looked up 
 and perceived through the aperture the face of a 
 man looking down upon him. "Master" cried 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 71 
 
 Peter;— La Motte was somewhat relieved at the 
 sound of his voice, though angiy that he had oc- 
 casioned him so much terror. 
 
 " What brings you here, and what is the matter 
 below V 
 
 " Nothing, Sir, nothing's the matter, only my 
 mistress sent me to see after your honour." 
 
 " There's nobody there, then," said La Mctte 3 
 setting his foot upon the step." 
 
 " Yes, Sir, there is my mistress and Mademoi- 
 selle Adeline and — " 
 
 "Well— well," said La Motte, briskly, "go 
 your ways, I am coming." 
 
 He informed Madame La Motte where he had 
 been, and of his intention of secreting himself, 
 and deliberated upon the means of convincing 
 the officers, should they arrive, that he had quit- 
 ted the abbey. For this purpose he ordered all 
 the moveable furniture to be conveyed to the 
 cells below. La Motte himself assisted in the 
 business, and every hand was employed for dis- 
 patch. In a very short time, the habitable part 
 of the fabric was left almost as desolate as he had 
 found it. He then bade Peter take the horses to 
 a distance from the abbey, and turn them loose. 
 After farther consideration, he thought it might 
 contribute to mislead the officers if lie placed in 
 some conspicuous part of the fabric an inscrip- 
 tion, signifying his condition, and mentioning the 
 date of his departure from the abbey. Over the 
 door of the tower, which led to the habitable 
 part oithe structure, he therefore cut the follow- 
 ing lines:— 
 
 " O ye! whom misfortune ma}' lead to this spot, 
 
 Learn that there are others as miserable as yourselyes. 
 
 " p L— M . a wretched exile, sought within these 
 
 walls a refuge from persecution, on the 27th of April, 16-58, 
 and quitted them on the 12th of July in the same year, in 
 search of a more convenient asylum." 
 
 After engraving these words with a knife, the 
 
72 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 small stock of provisions remaining from the 
 week's supply (for Peter, in his fright, had re- 
 turned unloaded from his last journey) was put 
 into a basket, and La Motte having assembled 
 his family, they all ascended the stairs of the 
 tower, and passed through the chambers to the 
 closet. Peter went first with a light, and with 
 some difficulty found the trap-door. Madame 
 La Motte shuddered as she surveyed the gloomy 
 abyss ; but they were all silent. 
 
 La Motte now took the light, and led the way; 
 Madame followed, and then Adeline. "These 
 old monks loved good wine, as well as other peo- 
 ple," said Peter, who brought up the rear, I war- 
 rant your honour, now, this was their cellar; I 
 smell the casks already." 
 
 "Peace," said La Motte, "reserve your jokes 
 for a proper occasion." 
 
 " There is no harm in loving good wine, as 
 your honour knows." 
 
 " Have done with this buffoonery," said La 
 Motte in a tone more authoritative, "and go 
 first." Peter obeyed. 
 
 They came to the vaulted room. The dismal 
 spectacle he had seen here, deterred La Motte 
 from passing the night in this chamber; and the 
 furniture had, by his own order, been conveyed 
 to the cells below. He was anxious that his' fa- 
 mily should not perceive the skeleton; an object 
 which would, probably, excite a degree of horror 
 not to be overcome during their stay. La Motte 
 now passed the chest in haste; and Madame La 
 Motte and Adeline were too much engrossed by 
 their own thoughts, to give minute attention to 
 external circumstances. 
 
 When they reached the cells, Madame La 
 Motte wept at the necessity which condemned 
 her to a spot so dismal. " Alas," said she, " are 
 we, indeed, thus reduced ! The apartments above 
 formerly appeared to me a deplorable habitation; 
 but they are a palace, compared to these!" 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 73 
 
 "True, my dear," said La Motte, "and let the 
 remembrance of what you once thought them, 
 soothe your discontent now; these cells are also 
 a palace, compared to the Bicetre, or the Bastile, 
 aud to the terrors of farther punishment, which 
 would accompany them: let the apprehension of 
 the greater evil teach you to endure the less; I 
 am contented if we find here the refuge I seek." 
 
 Madame La Motte was silent, and Adeline, for- 
 getting her late unkindness, endeavoured a,s much 
 as she could to console her; while her heart was 
 sinking with the misfortunes, which she could 
 not hut anticipate, she appe?a-ed composed, and 
 even cheerful. She attended Madame La Motte 
 with the most watchful solicitude, and felt so 
 thankful that La Motte was now secreted within 
 this recess, that she almost lost her perception of 
 its glooms and inconveniences. 
 
 This she artlessly expressed tu him, who could 
 not he insensible to the tenderness it discovered. 
 Madame La Motte was also sensible of it, and it 
 renewed a painful sensation. The effusions of 
 gratitude she mistook for those of tenderness. 
 
 La Motte returned frequently to the trap-door, 
 to listen if any body was in the abbey, but no 
 sound disturbed the stillness of night; at length 
 they sat down to supper; the repast was a melan- 
 choly one. " If the officers do not come hither 
 to-night," said Madame La Motte, sighing, "sup- 
 pose, my dear, Peter returns to Auboine to-mor- 
 row; he may there learn something more of this 
 affair; or at least he might procure a carriage to 
 convey us hence." 
 
 " To be sure he might," said La Motte, peevish- 
 ly, and " people to attend it also. Peter would 
 be an excellent person to show the officers the 
 way to the abbey, and to inform them of what 
 they might else be in doubt about, my conceal- 
 ment here." 
 
 " How cruel is this irony I" replied Madame 
 La Motte, "I proposed only what I thought 
 
74 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 would "be for our mutual good; my judgment 
 was, perhaps, wrong, but my intention was cer- 
 tainly right." Tears swelled into her eyes as 
 she spoke these words. Adeline wished to re- 
 lieve her; hut delicacy kept her silent. La 
 Motte observed the effect of his speech, and 
 something like remorse touched his heart. He 
 approached, and taking her hand, "You must 
 allow for the perturbation of my mind," said he, 
 " I did not mean to afflict you thus. The idea of 
 sending Peter to Auboine, where he has already 
 done so much harm by his blunders, teazed me, 
 and I could not let it pass unnoticed. No, my 
 dear, our only chance of safety is to remain 
 where we are while our provisions last. If the 
 officers do not come here to-night, they probably 
 will to-morrow, or perhaps the next day. When 
 they have searched the abbey, without finding 
 me, they will depart: we may then emerge from 
 this recess, and take measures for removing to a 
 distant country." 
 
 Madame La'Motte acknowledged the justice of 
 his words, and her mind being relieved by the 
 little apology he had made, she became tolerably 
 cheerful. Supper being ended. La Motte station- 
 ed the faithful, though simple, Peter, at the foot 
 of the steps that ascended to the closet, there to 
 keep watch during the night. Having done this, 
 he returned to the lower cells, where he had left 
 his little family. The beds were spread, and hav- 
 ing mournfully bade each other good night, they 
 laid down, and implored rest. 
 
 Adeline's thoughts were too busy to suffer her 
 to repose, and when she believed her companions 
 were sunk in slumber, she indulged the sorrow 
 which reflection brought. She also looked for- 
 ward to the future with the most mournful ap- 
 prehension. " Should La Motte be seized, what 
 was to become of her? She would then be a wan- 
 derer in the wide world; without friends to pro- 
 tect, or money to support her; the prospect was 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 75 
 
 gloomy — was terrible!" She surveyed it and 
 shuddered ! The distresses too of Monsieur and 
 Madame La Motte, whom she loved with the 
 most lively affection, formed no inconsiderable 
 part of hers. 
 
 Sometimes she looked back to her father; but 
 in him she only saw an enemy, from whom she 
 must fly: this remembrance heightened her sor- 
 row; yet it was not the recollection of the suffer- 
 ing he had occasioned her, by which she was so 
 much afflicted, as by the sense of his unkindness: 
 she -wept bitterly. At length, with^ that artless 
 piety which innocence only knows, she addressed 
 the Supreme Being, and resigned herself to his 
 care. Her mind then gradually became peaceful 
 and reassured, and soon after she sunk to repose. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A Surprise — An, Adventure — A Mystery. 
 
 The night passed without any alarm; Peter 
 had remained upon his post, and heard nothing 
 that prevented his sleeping. La Motte heard 
 him, long before he saw him, most musically 
 snoring; though it must be owned there was 
 more of the bass, than of any other part of the 
 gamut in his performance. He was soon roused 
 by the bravura of La Motte, whose notes sounded 
 discord to his ears, and destroyed the torpor of 
 his tranquillity. 
 
 "God bless you, Master, what's the matter," 
 cried Peter, waking; ■ '• are they come?" 
 
 " Yes, for aught you care, they might be come. 
 Did I place you here to sleep, sirrah !" 
 
 " Bless you, Master,*' returned Peter, sleep is 
 the only comfort to be had here; I'm sure I 
 would not deny it to a dog in such a place as 
 this. 1 ' 
 
 La Motte sternly questioned him concerning 
 any noise he might have heard in the night, and 
 
76 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 Peter full as solemnly protested he had heard 
 none; an assertion which was sti'ictly true, for he 
 had enjoyed the comfort of being asleep the 
 whole time. 
 
 La Motte ascended to the trap-door, and lis- 
 tened attentively. No sounds were heard, and, 
 as he ventured to lift it, the full light of the sun 
 burst upon his sight, the morning being now far 
 advanced; he walked softly along the chambers, 
 and looked through a window: no person was to 
 be seen. Encouraged by this apparent security, 
 he ventured down the stairs of the tower, and en- 
 tered the first apartment. He was proceeding 
 towards the second, when suddenly recollecting 
 himself, he first peeped through the crevice of the 
 door, which stood half open. He looked, and 
 distinctly saw a person sitting near the window, 
 upon which his arm rested. 
 
 The discovery so much shocked him, that for a 
 moment he lest all presence of mind, and was ut- 
 terly unable to move from the spot. The person, 
 whose back was towards him, arose, and turned 
 his head. La Motte now recovered himself, and 
 quitting the apartment as quickly, and at the 
 same time as silently as possible, ascended to the 
 closet. He raised the trap-door, but before he 
 closed it, heard the footsteps of a person entering 
 the outer chamber. Bolts, or other fastening to 
 the trap there was none; and his security de- 
 pended solely upon the exact correspondence of 
 the boards. The outer door of the stone room 
 had no means of defence; and the fastenings of 
 the inner one were on the wrong side to afford 
 him security, even till some means of escape 
 could be found. 
 
 When he reached this room, he paused, and 
 heard distinctly, persons walking in the closet 
 above. While he was listening, he heard a voice 
 call him by name, and he instantly fled to the 
 cells below, expecting every moment to hear the 
 trap lifted and the footsteps of pursuit; but he 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 77 
 
 ■was fled beyond the reach of hearing either. 
 Having thrown himself on the ground, at the 
 farthest extremity of the vaults, he lay for some 
 time breathless with agitation. Madame La 
 Motte and Adeline, in the utmost terror, inquired 
 what Lad happened. It was some time before he 
 could speak ; when he did, it was almost unneces- 
 sary, for the distant noises, which sounded from 
 above, informed the family of a part of the truth. 
 
 The sounds did not seem to approach, but Ma- 
 dame La Motte, unable to command her terror, 
 shrieked aloud : this redoubled the distress of La 
 Motte. " You have already destroyed me," cried 
 he; "that shriek has informed them where I 
 am." He traversed the cells with clasped hands 
 and quick steps. Adeline stood pale and still as 
 death, supporting Madame La Motte, whom with 
 difficulty, she prevented from fainting. "O! 
 Dupras! Dupras! you are already avenged!" said 
 he, in a voice that seemed to burst from his heart: 
 there was a pause of silence. " But why should 
 I deceive myself with a hope of escaping?" he 
 resumed, "why do I wait here for their coming? 
 Let me rather end these torturing pangs by 
 throwing myself into their hands at once." 
 
 As he spoke, he moved towards the door; but 
 the distresses of Madame La Motte arrested his 
 steps. " Stay!" said she, " for my sake stay; do 
 not leave me thus, nor throw yourself volunta- 
 rily upon destruction." 
 
 "Surely, Sir," said Adeline, "you are too pre- 
 cipitate; this despair is useless, as it is ill-found- 
 ed. We hear no person approaching; if the offi- 
 cers had discovered the trap-door, they would 
 certainly have beeu here before now." The 
 words of Adeline stilled the tumult of his mind: 
 the agitation of terror subsided; and reason 
 beamed a feeble ray upon his hopes. He listened 
 attentively, and perceiving that all was silent ad- 
 vanced with caution to the stone room, and 
 thence to the foot of the stairs that led to the 
 
78 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 trap-door. It was closed; no sound was heard 
 above. 
 
 He watched a long time, and the siience>con- 
 tinuing, his hopes strengthened, and at lerigtitiie 
 began to believe that "the officers had quittedaag 
 abbey; the day however was spent in anxious 
 watchfulness. He did not dare to unclose, the 
 trap-door; and he frequently thought he heard 
 distant noises. It was evident, however,ythat 
 the secret of the closet had escaped discovery; 
 and on this circumstance he justly founded his 
 security. The following night was passed, like 
 the day, in trembling hope, and incessant watch- 
 ing. 
 
 But the necessities of hunger now threatened 
 them. The provisions, which had been distri- 
 buted with the nicest economy, were nearly ex- 
 hausted, and the most deplorable consequences 
 might be expected from their remaining longer 
 in concealment. Thus circumstanced, La Motte 
 deliberated upon the most prudent method of 
 proceeding. There appeared no other alterna- 
 tive, than to send Peter to Auboine, the only 
 town from which he could return within the time 
 prescribed by their necessities. There was game, 
 indeed, in the forest; but Peter could neither 
 handle a gun, or use a fishing-rod to any advan- 
 tage. 
 
 It was therefore agreed he should go to Au- 
 boine, for a supply of provisions, and at the 
 same time bring materials for mending the coach 
 wheel, that they might have some ready convey- 
 ance from the forest. La Motte forbade Peter to 
 ask any questions concerning the people who had 
 inquired for him, or take airy methods for dis- 
 covering whether they had quitted the country, 
 lest his blunders should again betray him. He 
 ordered him to be entirely silent as to these sub- 
 jects, and to finish his business, and leave the 
 place with all possible dispatch. 
 
 A difficulty yet remained to be overcome— 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 79 
 
 Who should first venture abroad into the abbey, 
 to learn whether it was vacated by the officers of 
 justice? La Motte considered, that if he was 
 again seen, lie should Ineffectually betrayed; 
 which could not be so certain, if one of his family 
 was observed, for they were each unknown to 
 the officers. It was necessary, however, that the 
 person he sent should have courage enough to gt 
 through with the inquiry, and wit enough to con 
 duct it with caution. Peter, perhaps, had the 
 first; but Avas certainly destitute of the last. 
 Annette had neither. La Motte looked at his 
 wife, and asked her, if, for his sake, she dared to 
 venture. Her heart shrunk from the proposal, 
 yet she was unwilling to refuse, or appear indif- 
 ferent upon a point so essential to the safety of 
 her husband. Adeline observed in her counte- 
 nance the agitation of her mind, and, surmount- 
 ing the fears which had hitherto kept her silent, 
 she offered herself to go. 
 
 " They will be less likely to offend me/' said 
 she, "than a man." Shame would not suffer La 
 Motte to accept her offer; and Madame, touched 
 by the magnanimity of her conduct, felt a mo- 
 mentary renewal of all her former kindness. 
 Adeline pressed her proposal so warmly, and 
 seemed so much in earnest, that La Motte began 
 to hesitate. "You, Sir," said she, "once pre- 
 served me from the most imminent danger, and 
 your kindness has since protected me. Do not 
 refuse me the satisfaction of deserving your good- 
 ness, by a grateful return of it. Let me go into 
 the abbey, and if, by so doing, I should preserve 
 you from evil, I shall be sufficiently rewarded for 
 what little danger I may incur, for my pleasure 
 will be at least equal to your's." 
 
 Madame La Motte coidd scarcely refrain from 
 tears as Adeline spoke; and La Motte, sighing 
 deeply, said, " Well, be it so; go, Adeline, and 
 from this moment consider me as your debtor." 
 Adeline stayed not to reply, but taking a light, 
 
80 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 quitted the cells, La Motte following to raise the 
 trap-door, and cautioning- her to look, if possible, 
 into every apartment, before she entered it. " If 
 you shouIH be seen," said he, " you must account 
 for your appearance so as not to discover me. 
 Your own presence of mind may assist you, I 
 cannot.— God bless you!" 
 
 When she was gone, Madame La Motte's ad- 
 miration of her conduct began to yield to other 
 emotions. Distrust gradually undermined kind- 
 ness, and jealousy raised Suspicions. " It must 
 be a sentiment more powerful than gratitude," 
 thought she, " that could teach Adeline to sub- 
 due her fears. What, but love, could influence 
 her to a conduct, so generous!" Madam* JLa 
 Motte, when she found it impossible to account 
 for Adeline's conduct, without alleging some in- 
 terested motives for it, however her suspicions 
 might agree with the practice of the world, had 
 surely forgotten how much she once admired the 
 purity and disinterestedness of her young friend. 
 
 Adeline, mean while, ascended to the cham- 
 bers: the cheerful beams of the sun played once 
 more upon her sight, and re-animated her spirits; 
 she walked lightly through the apartments, nor 
 stopped till she came to the stairs of the tower. 
 Here she stood for some time, but no sounds met 
 her ear, save the sighing of the wind among the 
 trees, and at length she descended. She passed 
 the apartments below, without seeing any person; 
 and the little furniture that remained, seemed to 
 stand exactly as she had left it. She now ven- 
 tured to look out from the tower: the only 
 animate objects that appeared were the deer, 
 quietly grazing under the shade of the woods. 
 Her favourite little fawn distinguished Adeline, 
 and came bounding towards her with strong 
 marks of joy. She was somewhat alarmed lest 
 the animal, being observed, should betray her, 
 and walked swiftly away through the cloisters. 
 
 She opened the door that led to the great hall 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 81 
 
 of the abbey, but the passage was so gloomy and 
 dark, that she feared to enter it, and started back. 
 It was necessary, however, that she should ex- 
 amine farther, particularly on the opposite side 
 of the ruin, of which she had hitherto had no 
 view: but her fears returned when she recollect- 
 ed how far it would lead her from her ouly place 
 of refuge, and how difficult it would be to retreat. 
 She hesitated what to do; but when she recol- 
 lected her obligations to La Motte, and consi- 
 dered this as, perhaps, her only opportunity of 
 doing him a service, she determined to proceed. 
 
 As these thoughts passed rapidly over her 
 mind, she raised her innocent looks to heaven, 
 and breathed a silent prayer. With trembling 
 steps she proceeded over fragments of the ruin, 
 looking anxiously around, and often starting as 
 the breeze rustled among the trees, mistaking 
 it for the whisperings of men. She came to the 
 lawn which fronted the fabric, but no person was 
 to be seen, and her spirits revived. The great 
 door of the ha.il she now endeavoured to open, 
 but suddenly remembering that it was fastened 
 by La Motte's orders, she proceeded to the north 
 end of the abbey; and, having surveyed the pros- 
 pect around, as far as the thick foliage of the 
 trees would permit, without perceiving any per- 
 son, she turned her steps to the tower from which 
 she had issued. 
 
 Adeline was now light of heartland returned 
 with impatience to inform La Motte\f his secu- 
 rity. In the cloisters she was agarn/lEhet by her 
 little favourite, and stopped for^a'Jpoment to 
 caress it. The fawn seemed sensible to the sound 
 of her voice, and discovered new joy; but while 
 she spoke, it suddenly started : fijbm. her hand, 
 and looking up, she perceived the door of the 
 passage leading to the great hall, open, and a 
 man in the habit of a soldier issue forth. 
 
 With the swiftness of an arrow she fled along 
 the cloisters, nor once ventured to look back; 
 
82 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 but a voice called to her to stop, and she heard 
 steps advancing quick in pursuit. Before she 
 could reach the tower, her breath failed her, and 
 she leaned against a pillar of the ruin, pale and 
 exhausted. The man came up, and gazing at her 
 •with a strong expression of surprise and curiosity, 
 he assumed a gentle manner, assured her she had 
 nothing to fear, and inquired if she belonged to 
 La Motte: observing that she still looked terri- 
 fied and remained silent, he repeated his assu- 
 rances and his question. 
 
 " I know that he is concealed within the ruin," 
 said the stranger; "the occasion of his conceal- 
 ment I also know; but it is of the utmost impoi-- 
 tance I should see him, and he will then be con- 
 vinced he has nothing to fear from me." Ade- 
 line trembled so excessively, that it was with 
 difficulty she could support herself — she hesi- 
 tated, and knew not what to reply. Her manner 
 seemed to confirm the suspicions of the stranger, 
 and her consciousness of this increased her em- 
 barrassment: he took advantage of it to press her 
 farther. Adeline at length replied, that La Motte 
 had some time since resided at the abbey. — 
 " And does still, Madam," said the stranger ; 
 " lead me to where he may be found — I must see 
 him, and — " 
 
 " Never, Sir," replied Adeline, " and I solemn- 
 ly assure you, it will be in vain to search for him." 
 
 " That I must try," resumed he, " since you, 
 Madam, will not assist me. I have already fol- 
 lowed him to some chambers above, where I 
 suddenly lost him: thereabouts he must be con- 
 cealed, and it's plain, therefore, they afford some 
 secret passage." 
 
 Without waiting Adeline's reply, he sprung to 
 the door of the tower. She now thought it would 
 betray a consciousness of the truth of his conjec- 
 ture to follow him, and resolved to remain below. 
 But, upon farther consideration, it occurred to 
 her, that he might steal silently into the closet, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 83 
 
 and possibly surprise La Motte at the door of the 
 trap. She therefore hastened after him, that her 
 voice might prevent the danger she apprehended. 
 He was already in the second chamber, when 
 she overtook him ; she immediately began to 
 speak aloud. 
 
 This room he searched with the most scrupu- 
 lous care; but finding no private door, or other 
 cutlet, he proceeded to the closet: then it was 
 that it required all her fortitude to conceal her 
 agitation. He continued the search. " Within 
 these chambers I know he is concealed," said he, 
 " though hitherto I have not been able to disco- 
 ver how. It was hither I followed a man, whom 
 I believe to be him, and he could not escape 
 without a passage; I shall not quit the place till 
 I have found it." 
 
 He examined the walls and the boards, but 
 without discovering the division of the floor; 
 which, indeed, so exactly corresponded, that La 
 Motte himself had not perceived it by the eye, 
 but by the trembling of the floor beneath his 
 feet. " Here is some mystery," said the stranger, 
 " which I cannot comprehend, and perhaps never 
 shall." He was turning to quit the closet, when, 
 who can paint the distress of Adeline, upon seeing 
 the trap -door gently raised, and La Motte him- 
 self appear! "Hah!" cried the stranger, advan- 
 cing eagerly to him. La Motte sprang forward, 
 and they were locked in each other's arms. 
 
 The astonishment of Adeline, for a moment, 
 surpassed even her former distress; but a remem- 
 brance darted across her mind, which explained 
 the present scene, and before La Motte could 
 exclaim, " My son !" she knew the stranger as 
 such. Peter, who stood at the foot of the stairs, 
 and heard what passed above, flew to acquaint 
 his mistress with the joyful discovery, and, in a 
 few moments, she was "folded in the embrace of 
 her son. This spot, so lately the mansion of des- 
 pair, seemed metamorphosed into the palace of 
 
84 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 pleasure, and the walls echoed only to the accents 
 of joy and congratulation. 
 
 The joy of Peter on this occasion was beyond 
 expression: he acted a perfect pantomime— lie 
 capered about, clapped his hands— ran to bis 
 young master — shook him by the hand, in spite 
 of the frowns of La Motte; ran every where, 
 without knowing for what, and gave no rational 
 answer to any thing that was said to him. 
 
 After their first emotions were subsided, La 
 Motte, as if suddenly recollecting himself, resu- 
 med his wonted solemnity: "I am to blame," said 
 he. "thus to give way to joj T , when 1 am still, 
 perhaps, surrounded by danger. Let us secure 
 a retreat, while it is yet in our power," continued 
 he; "in a few hours the king's officers may 
 search for me again." 
 
 Louis comprehended his father's words, aud 
 immediately relieved his apprehensions by the 
 following relation : — 
 
 " A letter from Monsieur Nemours, containing 
 an account of your flight from Paris, reached me 
 at Perrone, where I was then upon duty with my 
 regiment. He mentioned, that you were gone 
 towards the south of France; but as he had not 
 since heard from jou^ he was ignorant of the 
 place of your refuge, it was about this time that 
 I was despatched into Flanders; and, being un- 
 able to obtain farther intelligence of you, I pass- 
 ed some weeks of very painful solicitude. At 
 the conclusion of the campaign, I obtained leave 
 of absence, and immediately set out for Paris, 
 hoping to learn from Nemours where yoii had 
 found an asylum. 
 
 "Of this, however, he was equally ignorant 
 with myself. He informed me that you had once 
 
 before written to him from D , upon your 
 
 second day's journey from Paris, under an as- 
 sumed name, as had been agreed upon ; and that 
 you then said the fear of discovery would prevent 
 your hazarding another letter: he, therefore, re- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOHEST. '85 
 
 mained ignorant of your abode, but said, he had 
 no doubt you had continued your journey to the 
 southward. Upon this slender information I 
 quitted Paris in search of you, and proceeded im- 
 mediately to V , where my inquiries concern- 
 ing your farther progress were successful as far 
 
 as M . There they told me you had stayed 
 
 some time, on account of the illness of a young 
 lady; a circumstance which perplexed me much, 
 as I could not imagine what young lady would 
 
 accompa^' you. I proceeded, however, to L ; 
 
 but there all traces of you seemed to be lost. As 
 I sat musing at the window of the inn, I observed 
 some scribbling on the glass, and the curiosity of 
 idleness prompted me to read it. I thought I 
 knew the characters, and the lines I read con- 
 firmed my conjecture; for I remembered to have 
 heard you often repeat them. 
 
 " Here I renewed my inquiries concerning 1 
 your route, and at length I made the people of 
 the inn recollect you, and traced you as far as 
 Auboine. There I again lost you, till upon my 
 return from a fruitless inquiry in the neighbour- 
 hood, the landlord of the little inn where I lodg- 
 ed told me he believed he had heard news of 
 you, and immediately recounted what had hap- 
 pened at a blacksmith's shop a few hours before. 
 
 " His description of Peter was so exact, that I 
 had not a doubt it was you who inhabited the 
 abbey; and, as I knew j^our necessity for con- 
 cealment, Peter's denial did not shake my confi- 
 dence. The next morning, with the assistance 
 of my landlord, I found my way hither, and, hav- 
 ing searched every visible part of the fabric, I 
 begau to credit Peter's assertion: yoiir appear- 
 ance, however, destroyed this fear, by proving 
 that the place was still inhabited; for you dis- 
 appeared so instantaneously, that I was not cer- 
 tain it was you whom I had seen. I continued 
 seeking you till near the close of day, and till 
 6 
 
86 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 then scarcely quitted the chambers whence yon 
 had disappeared. I called on you repeatedly, 
 believing that my voice might convince you of 
 your mistake. At length I retired, to pass the 
 night at a cottage near the border of the forest. 
 
 " I came early this morning, to renew my in- 
 quiries, and hoped that, believing yourself safe, 
 you would emerge from concealment. But how 
 was I disappointed to find the abbey as silent 
 and solitary as I had left it the preceding even- 
 ing. I was returning once more from the great 
 hall, when the voice of this young lady caught 
 my ear, and effected the discovery I had so anx- 
 iously sought." 
 
 This little narrative entirely dissipated the late 
 apprehensions of La Motte; but he now dreaded 
 that the inquiries of his son, and his own obvious 
 desire of concealment, might excite a curiosity 
 amongst the people of Auboine, and lead to a dis- 
 covery of his true circumstances. However, for 
 the present he determined to dismiss all painful 
 thoughts, and endeavour to enjoy the comfort 
 which the presence of his son had brought him. 
 The furniture was removed to a more habitable 
 part of the abbey, and the cells were again aban- 
 doned to their own glooms. 
 
 The arrival of her son seemed to have ani- 
 mated Madame La Motte with new life, and all 
 her afflictions were, for the present, absorbed in 
 joy. She often gazed silently on him with a 
 mother's fondness, and her partiality heightened 
 every improvement which time had wrought in 
 his person and manner. He was now in his 
 twenty-third year; his person was manly, artd 
 his air military; his manners were unaffected 
 and graceful, rather than dignified; and though 
 his features were irregular, they composed a 
 countenance, which, having seen it once, you 
 would seek again. 
 
 She made eager inquiries after the friends she 
 had left at Paris, and learned, that within the 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 87 
 
 few months of her absence, some had died and 
 others quitted the place. La Motte also learned 
 that a very strenuous search for him had been 
 prosecuted at Paris; and, though this intelligence 
 was only what he had before expected, it shock- 
 ed him so much that he now declared it would 
 be expedient to remove to a distant country. 
 Louis did not scruple to say, that he thought he 
 would be as safe at the abbey as at any other 
 place ; and repeated what Nemours had said, 
 that the king's officers had been unable to trace 
 any part of his route from Paris. 
 
 " Besides," resumed Louis, " this abbey is pro- 
 tected by a supernatural power, and none of the 
 country people dare approach it." 
 
 "Please you, my young master,'' said Peter, 
 who was waiting in the room, "we were fright- 
 ened enough the first night we came here, and I, 
 myself, God forgive me! thought the place was 
 inhabited by devils, but they were only owls, and 
 such like, after all." 
 
 "Your opinion was not asked," said La Motte; 
 "learn to be silent." 
 
 Peter was abashed. When he had quitted the 
 room, La Motte asked his son, with seeming care- 
 lessness, what were the reports circulated by the 
 country people. "0! Sir," replied Louis, "I 
 cannot recollect half of them. 1 remember, how- 
 ever, they said that many years ago a person (but 
 nobody had ever seen him, so we may judge how 
 far the report ought to be credited), was privately 
 brought to this abbey, and confined in some part 
 of it, and that there were strong reasons to be- 
 lieve he came unfairly to his end." 
 
 La Motte sighed. '" They farther said," conti- 
 nued Louis, " that the spectre of the deceased 
 had ever since watched nightly among the ruins; 
 and to make the story more wonderful (for the 
 marvellous is the delight of the vulgar) they 
 added, that there was a certain part of the ruin, 
 from whence no person that had dared to explore 
 
83 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 it, had ever returned. Thus people, who have 
 few objects of real interest to engage their 
 thoughts, conjure up for themselves imaginary 
 ones." 
 
 La Motte sat musing. " And what were the 
 reasons," said he, at length awaking from his re- 
 verie, " they pretended' to assign, for believing 
 the person confined here was murdered?" 
 
 " They did not use a term so positive as that," 
 replied Louis. 
 
 " True," said La Motte, recollecting himself, 
 f: they only said he came unfairly to his end." 
 
 '■ That is a nice distinction," said Adeline. 
 
 " Why I could not well comprehend what these 
 reasons were," resumed Louis; "the people, in- 
 deed, say, that the person who was brought here, 
 was never known to depart; but I do not find it 
 certain that he ever arrived ; that there was 
 strange privacy and mystery observed while he 
 was here, and that the abbey has never since 
 been inhabited by its owner. There seems, how- 
 ever, to be nothing in all this that deserves to be 
 remembered." La Motte raised his head, as if to 
 reply, when the entrance of Madame turned the 
 discourse upon a new subject, and it was not re- 
 sumed that day. 
 
 Peter was now despatched for provisions, while 
 La Motte and Louis retired to consider how far 
 it was safe for them to continue at the abbey. 
 La Motte, notwithstanding the assurances lately 
 given him, could not but think that Peter's blun- 
 ders and his son's inquiries, might lead to a dis- 
 covery of his residence. He revolved this in his 
 mind for some time; but at length a thought 
 struck him, that the latter of these circumstances 
 might considerably contribute to his security. 
 " If you," said he to Louis, "return to the inn at 
 Auboine, from whence you were directed here, 
 and without seeming to intend giving intelli- 
 gence, do give the landlord an account of your 
 having found the abbey uninhabited, and then 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 89 
 
 acid, that you had discovered the residence of 
 the person you sought in some distant town, it 
 would suppress any reports that may at present, 
 exist, and prevent the belief of any in future. 
 And if, after all this, you can trust yourself for 
 presence of mind and command of countenance, 
 so far as to describe some dreadful apparition, I 
 think these circumstances, together with the dis- 
 tance of the abbey, and the intricacies of the 
 forest, could entitle me to consider this place as 
 my castle.'"' 
 
 Louis agreed to all that his father had pro- 
 posed, and on the following day executed his 
 commission with such success, that the tranquil- 
 lity of the abbey may be then said to have been 
 entirely restored. 
 
 Thus ended this adventure, the only one that 
 had occurred to disturb the family during their 
 residence in the forest. Adeline, removed from 
 the apprehension of those evils with which the 
 late situation of La Motte had threatened her, 
 and from the depression which her interest in his 
 fate occasioned her, now experienced a more than 
 usual complacency of mind. She thought too, 
 that she observed in Madame La Motte a renew- 
 al of her former kindness; and this circumstance 
 awakened all her gratitude, and imparted to her 
 a pleasure as lively as it was innocent. The sa- 
 tisfaction with which the presence of her son in- 
 spired Madame La Motte, Adeline mistook for 
 kindness to herself, and she exerted her whole 
 attention in an endeavour to become worthy 
 of it. 
 
 But the joy which his unexpected arrival had 
 given to La Motte quickly began to evaporate, 
 and the gloom of despoudency again settled on 
 his countenance. Lie returned frequently to his 
 haunt in the forest — the same mysterious sadness 
 tinctured his manner, and revived the anxiety of 
 Madame La Motte. who was resolved to acquaint 
 
50 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 her son with this subject of distress, and solicit 
 his assistance to penetrate its source. 
 
 Her jealousy of Adeline, however, she could 
 not communicate, though it again tormented her, 
 and taught her to misconstrue, with wonderful 
 ingenuity, every look and word of La Motte, and 
 often to mistake the artless expressions of Ade- 
 line's gratitude and regard, for those of warmer 
 tenderness. Adeline had formerly accustomed 
 herself to long walks in the forest, and the de- 
 sign Madame had formed of watching her steps, 
 had been frustrated by the late circumstances, 
 and was now entirely overcome by her sense of 
 its difficulty and danger. To employ Peter in the 
 affair, wouid be to acquaint him with her fears; 
 and to follow her herself, would most probably 
 betray her scheme, by making Adeline aware of 
 her jealousy. Being thus restrained by pride 
 and delicacy, she was obliged to endure the 
 pangs of uncertainty concerning the greatest 
 part of her suspicions. 
 
 To Louis, however, she related the mysterious 
 change in his father's temper. He listened to 
 her account with very earnest attention, and the 
 surprise and concern impressed upon his coun- 
 tenance spoke how much his heart was interest- 
 ed. He Avas, hoAvever, involved in equal perplex- 
 ity AAith herself upon this subject, and readily 
 undertook to observe the motions of La Motte, 
 believing his interference likely to be of equal 
 service both to his father and his mother. He 
 saAv, in some degree, the suspicions of hi^ mo- 
 ther; but as he thought she wished to disguise 
 her feelings, he suffered her to believe that she 
 succeeded. 
 
 He now inquired concernL. & .^eline, and lis- 
 tened to her little history, of AA T hich his mother 
 gave a "brief relation, with great apparent inter- 
 est. So much pity did he express for her condi- 
 tion, and so much indignation at the unnatural 
 conduct of her father, that the apprehensions 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 91 
 
 ■which Madame La Motte began to form, of his 
 having discovered her jealousy, yielded to those 
 of a different kind. She perceived that the beau- 
 ty of Adeline had already fascinated his imagi- 
 nation, and she feared that her amiable manners 
 would soon impress his heart. Had her first 
 fondness for Adeline continued, she would still 
 have looked with displeasure upon their attach- 
 ment, as an obstacle to the promotion and the 
 fortune she hoped to see one day enjoyed by her 
 son. On these she rested all her future hopes of 
 prosperity, and regarded the matrimonial alli- 
 ance which he might form, as the only means of 
 extricating his family from their present difficul- 
 ties. She, therefore, touched lightly upon Ade- 
 line's merit, coolly joined with Louis in compas- 
 sionating her misfortunes, and with her censure 
 of the father's conduct, mixed an implied suspi- 
 cion of that of Adeline's. The means she em- 
 ployed to repress the passions of her son, had a 
 contrary effect. The indifference which she ex- 
 pressed towards Adeline, increased his pity for 
 her destitute condition, and the tenderness with 
 which she affected to judge the father, heighten- 
 ed his honest indignation at his character. 
 
 As he quitted Madame La Motte, he saw his 
 father cross the lawn, and enter the deep shads 
 of the forest, on the left. He judged this to be a 
 good opportunity of commencing his plan; and, 
 quitting the abbey, slowly followed at a distance. 
 La Motte continued to walk straight forward, 
 and seemed so deeply wrapt in thought, that he 
 lookJft neither to the right or left, and scarcely 
 lifted his head from the ground. Louis had fol- 
 lowed him n«"" half a mile, when he saw him 
 suddenly sti* .0 an avenue of the forest, 
 
 which took a dnierent direction from the way he 
 had hitherto gone. He quickened his steps that 
 he might not lose sight of him; but, having 
 reached the avenue, found the trees so thickly 
 
92 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOUEST. 
 
 interwoven, that La Motte was already hid from 
 his view. 
 
 He continued, however, to pursue the way he- 
 fore him : it conducted him through the most 
 gloomy part of the forest he had yet seen, till 
 at length it terminated in an obscure recess, 
 over-arched with high trees, whose interwoven 
 branches excluded the direct rays of the sun, 
 and admitted only a sort of solemn twilight. 
 Louis looked around in search of La Motte, but 
 he was nowhere to be seen. While he stood 
 surveying the place, and considering what far- 
 ther should be done, he observed, through the 
 gloom, an object at some distance; but the deep 
 shadow that fell around prevented his distin- 
 guishing what it was. 
 
 On advancing, he perceived the ruins of a small 
 building, which, from the traces that remained, 
 appeared to have been a tomb. As he gazed up- 
 on it, " Here," said he, " are probably deposited 
 the ashes of some ancient monk, once an inhabi- 
 tant of the abbey; perhaps of the founder, who, 
 after having spent a life of abstinence and prayer, 
 sought in heaven the reward of his forbearance 
 upon earth. Peace be to his soul! But did he 
 think a life of mere negative virtue deserved an 
 eternal reward? Mistaken man! reason, had you 
 trusted to its dictates, would have informed you, 
 that the active virtues, the adherence to the 
 golden rule, 'Do as you would be done unto,' 
 could alone deserve the favour of a Deity, whose 
 glory is benevolence." 
 
 He remained with his eyes fixed upon the spot, 
 and presently saw a figure arise under the arch 
 of the sepulchre. It started, as if on perceiv- 
 ing him, and immediately disappeared. Louis, 
 though unused to fear, felt at that moment an un- 
 easy sensation; but it almost immediately struck 
 him that this was La Motte himself. He advanc- 
 ed to the ruin, and called him. No answer was 
 returned, and he repeated the call, but all was 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 93 
 
 yet still as the grave. He then went up to the 
 arcli-way, arid endeavoured to examine the place 
 where he had disappeared; hut the shadowy ob- 
 scurity rendered the attempt fruitless. He ob- 
 served, however, a little to the right, an entrance 
 to the ruin, and advanced some steps down a dark 
 kind of passage, when, recollecting that this place 
 might he the haunt of banditti, his danger alarm- 
 ed him, and he retreated with precipitation. 
 
 He walked towards the abbey by the way he 
 came; and finding no person followed him, and 
 believing himself again in safety, his former sur- 
 mise returned, and he thought it was La Motte 
 he had seen. He mused upon this strange pos- 
 sibility, and endeavoured to assign a reason for 
 so mysterious a conduct, but in vain. Notwith- 
 standing this, his belief of it strengthened, and he 
 entered the abbey under as full a conviction as 
 the circumstances would admit of, that it was his 
 father who had appeared in the sepulchre. On 
 entering what was now used as a parlour, he was 
 much surprised to find him quietly seated there 
 with Madame La Motte and Adeline, and con- 
 versing as if he had been returned some time. 
 
 He took the first opportunity of acquainting his 
 mother with the late adventure, and of inquiring 
 how long La Motte had been returned before 
 him; Allien, learning that it was near half an 
 hour, his surprise increased, and he knew not 
 what to conclude. 
 
 Meanwhile a perception of the growing partial- 
 ity of Louis co-operated with the canker of sus- 
 picion, to destroy in Madame La Motte that af- 
 fection which pity and esteem had formerly ex- 
 cited for Adeline. Her unkindness was now too 
 obvious to escape the notice of her to whom it 
 was directed; and, being noticed, it occasioned 
 an anguish which Adeline found it very difficult 
 to endure. With the warmth and candour of 
 youth, she sought an explanation of this change 
 of behaviour, and an opportunity of exculpating 
 
94 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 herself from any intention of provoking it. But 
 this Madame La Motte artfully evaded, while at 
 the same time she threw out hints, that involved 
 Adeline in deeper perplexity, and served to make 
 her present affliction more intolerable. 
 
 " I have lost that affection," she would say, 
 "which was myall. It was my only comfort — 
 yet I have lost it — and this without even know- 
 ing my offence. But I am thankful I have not 
 merited unkindness, and, though she has aban- 
 doned me, I shall always love her" 
 
 Thus distressed, she would frequently leave the 
 parlour, and, retiring to her chamber, would 
 yield to a despondency, which she had never 
 known till now. 
 
 One morning, being unable to sleep, she arose 
 at a very early hour. The faint light of day now 
 trembled through the clouds, and gradually 
 spreading from the horizon, announced the rising 
 sun. Every feature of the landscape was slowly 
 unveiled, moist with the dews of night, and 
 brightening with the dawn, till at length the sun 
 appeared, and shed the full flood of day. The 
 beauty of the hour invited her to walk, and she 
 went forth into the forest to taste the sweets of 
 morning. The carols of new- waked birds saluted 
 her as she passed, and the fresh gale came scent- 
 ed with the breath of flowers, whose tints glowed 
 more vivid through the dew-drops that hung on 
 their leaves. 
 
 She wandered on without noticing the distance, 
 and following the windings of the river, came to 
 a dewy glade, whose woods, sweeping down to 
 the very edge of the Avater, formed a scene so 
 sweetly romantic, that she seated herself at the 
 foot of a tree to contemplate its beauty. These 
 images insensibly soothed her sorrow, and inspir- 
 ed her with that soft and pleasing melancholy so 
 dear to the feeling mind. For some time she sat 
 lost in a reverie, while the flowers that grew on 
 the banks beside her, seemed to smile in new 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 95 
 
 life, and drew from her a comparison with her 
 own condition. 
 
 A thousand apprehensions shot athwart her 
 busy thought; and she now first remembered her 
 distance from the abbey. She rose in haste to be 
 gone»when a stranger respectfully advanced; but 
 observing her timid looks and retiring steps, he 
 paused. She pursued her way towards the ab- 
 bey; and, though many reasons made her anxious 
 to know whether she was followed, delicacy for- 
 bade her to look back. When she reached the 
 abbey, finding the family was not yet assembled 
 to breakfast, she retired to her chamber, where 
 her whole thoughts were employed in conjectures 
 concerning the stranger; believing that she was 
 interested on this point no farther than as it con- 
 cerned the safety of La Motte, she indulged, 
 without scruple, the remembrance of that digni- 
 fied air and manner which so much distinguished 
 the youth she had seen. After revolving the cir- 
 cumstance more deeply, she believed it impossi- 
 ble that a person of his appearance should be en- 
 gaged in a stratagem to betray a fellow creature; 
 and though she was destitute of a single circum- 
 stance that might assist her surmises of who he 
 was, or what was his business hi an unfrequented 
 forest, she rejected, unconsciously, every suspi- 
 cion injurious to his character. Upon farther de- 
 liberation, therefore, she resolved not to mention 
 this little circumstance to La Motte; well know- 
 ing that though his danger might be imaginary, 
 his apprehensions would be real, and would re- 
 new all the sufferings and perplexity, from which 
 he was but just released. She resolved, how- 
 ever, to refrain, for some time, walking in the 
 forest. 
 
 When she came down to breakfast, she observ- 
 ed Madame La Motte to be more than usually 
 reserved. La Motte entered the room soon after 
 her, and made some trifling observations on the 
 weather; and, having endeavoured to support an 
 
06 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 effort at cheerfulness, sunk into his usual melan- 
 choly. Adeline watched the countenance of 
 Madame with anxiety ; and when there appeared 
 in it a gleam of kindness, it was as sunshine to 
 her soul: hut she very seldom suffered Adeline 
 thus to flatter herself. Her conversation w°s re- 
 strained, and often pointed at something more 
 than could be understood. The entrance of Louis 
 was a very seasonable relief to Adeline, who al- 
 most feared to trust her voice with a sentence, 
 lest its trembling accents should betray her un- 
 easiness. 
 
 " This charming morning drew you early from 
 your chamber," said Louis, addressing Adeline. 
 — "You had, no doubt, a pleasant companion 
 too," said Madame La Motte; "a solitary walk 
 is seldom agreeable." 
 
 "I was alone, Madame," replied Adeline. 
 
 "Indeed! your own thoughts must be highly 
 pleasing then." 
 
 "Alas!" returned Adeline, a tear, spite of her 
 efforts, starting to her eye, " there are now few 
 subjects of pleasure left for them." 
 
 "That is very surprising," pursued Madame 
 La Motte. 
 
 . "Is it, indeed, surprising, Madame, for those 
 who have lost their last friend to be unhappy? " 
 
 Madame La Motte's conscience acknowledged 
 the rebuke, and she blushed. " Well," resumed 
 she, after a short pause, "that is not your situation, 
 Adeline," looking earnestly at La Motte. Ade- 
 line, whose innocence protected her from sus- 
 picion, did not regard this circumstance; but, 
 smiling through her tears, said, she rejoiced to 
 hear her say so. During this conversation, La 
 Motte had remained absorbed in his own 
 thoughts; and Louis, unable to guess at what it 
 pointed, looked alternately at his mother and 
 Adeline for an explanation. The latter he re- 
 garded with an expression so full of tender com- 
 passion, that it revealed at once to Madame La 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 97 
 
 Motte the sentiments of liis soul; and she imme- 
 diately replied to the last words of Adeline Avith 
 a very serious air: "A friend is only estimable 
 when our conduct deserves one; the friendship 
 that survives the merit of its object, is a disgrace 
 instead of an honour, to both parties." 
 
 The manner and emphasis with which she de- 
 livered these words, again alarmed Adeline, who 
 mildly said, she hoped she should never deserve 
 such censure. Madame was silent; but Ade- 
 line was so much shocked by what had already 
 passed, that tears sprung from her eyes, and she 
 hid her face with her handkerchief. 
 
 Louis now rose with some emotion; and La 
 Motte, roused from his reverie, inquired what 
 was the matter; but, before he could receive an 
 answer, he seemed to have forgot that he had 
 asked a question. "Adeline may give you her 
 own account," said Madame La Motte. — " I have 
 not deserved this," said Adeline, rising, " but 
 since my presence is displeasing, I will retire." 
 
 She moved toward the door, when Louis, who 
 was pacing the room in apparent agitation, gently 
 took her hand, saying, "Here is some unhappy 
 mistake," and would" have led her to her seat; 
 but her spirits were too much depressed to en- 
 dure longer restraint; and, withdrawing her 
 hand, "Suffer me to go," said she; "if there is 
 anjr mistake, I am unable to explain it." Say- 
 ing this she quitted the room. Louis followed 
 her with his eyes to the door; when, turning to 
 his mother, "Surely, Madame," said he, " you are 
 to blame; my life on it, she deserves your warm- 
 est tenderness." 
 
 " You are very eloquent in her cause, Sir," said 
 Madame; "may I presume to ask what has inter- 
 ested you thus in her favour?" 
 
 "Her own amiable manners," rejoined Louis, 
 "which no one can observe without esteeming 
 them." 
 
 "But you may presume too much on your own 
 
98 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 observations; it is possible these amiable man- 
 ners may deceive you." 
 
 " Your pardon, Madame; I may, without pre- 
 sumption, affirm they cannot deceive me." 
 
 "You have, no doubt, good reasons for this 
 assertion ; and I perceive, by your admiration of 
 this artless innocent, she has succeeded in her 
 design of entrapping your heart." 
 
 " Without designing it, she has won my admi- 
 ration ; which would not have been the case, had 
 she been capable of the conduct you mention." 
 
 Madame La Motte was going to reply, but was 
 prevented by her husband, who, again roused 
 from his reverie, inquired into the cause of dis- 
 pute: "Away with this ridiculous behaviour," 
 said he, in a voice of displeasure. "Adeline has 
 omitted some household duty, I suppose, and an 
 offence so heinous deserves severe punishment, 
 no doubt; but let me be no more disturbed with 
 your petty quarrels; if you must be tyrannical, 
 Madame, indulge your humour in private." 
 
 Saying this, he abrubtly quitted the room, and 
 Louis immediately following, Madame was left to 
 her own unpleasant reflections. Her ill humour 
 proceeded from the usual cause. She had heard 
 of Adeline's walk; and La Motte having gone 
 forth into the forest at an early hour, her imagi- 
 nation, heated by the broodings of jealousj r , sug- 
 gested that they had appointed a meeting. This 
 was confirmed to her by the entrance of Ade- 
 line, quickly followed by La Motte ; and her per- 
 ceptions thus jaundiced by passion, neither the 
 presence of her son, or her usual attention to 
 good manners, had been able to restrain her emo- 
 tions. The behaviour of Adeline, in the late 
 scene, she considered as a refined piece of art; 
 and the indifference of La Motte as affected. 
 
 Adeline had retired to her chamber to weep. 
 When her first agitations were subsided, she 
 took an ample review of her conduct; and per- 
 ceiving nothing of which she could accuse herself, 
 
THE ROMAXCE OP TEE FOREST. 99 
 
 she became more satisfied, deriving her best com- 
 fort from the integrity of her intentions. In the 
 moment of accusation, innocence may sometimes 
 be oppressed with the punishment due only to 
 guilt; but reflection dissolves the illusions of ter- 
 ror, and brings to the aching bosom the consola- 
 tions of virtue. 
 
 When La Motte quitted the room, he had gone 
 into the forest; which Louis observing, he fol- 
 lowed and joined him, with an intention of touch- 
 ing upon the subject of his melancholy. " It is a 
 fine morning, Sir," said Louis; "if you will give 
 me leave, I will walk with you." La Motte, 
 though dissatisfied, did not object; and after 
 they had proceeded some way, "he changed the 
 course of his walk, striking into a path contrary 
 to that which Louis had observed him take on 
 the foregoing day. 
 
 Louis remarked, that the avenue they had 
 quitted was more shady, and, therefore, more 
 pleasant. La Motte not seeming to notice this 
 remark, " It leads to a singular spot," continued 
 he, "which I discovered yesterday." La Motte 
 raised his head, Louis proceeded to describe the 
 tomb, and the adventure he had met with: 
 dming this relation, La Motte regarded him with, 
 earnest attention, while his own countenance 
 suffered various changes. When he had conclu- 
 ded, " You were very daring," said La Motte, 
 "to examine that place, particularly when you 
 ventured down the passage: I would advise you 
 to be more cautious how you penetrate the 
 depths of this forest. I, myself, have not ven- 
 tured beyond a certain boundary; and am, there- 
 fore, uninformed what inhabitants it may harbour. 
 Your account has alarmed me," continued he, 
 "for if banditti are in the neighbourhood, I am 
 not safe from their depredations: 'tis true, I have 
 but little to lose, except my life." 
 
 ''And the lives of your family," rejoined Louis. 
 — " Of course," said La Motte. 
 
100 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 " It would be well to have more certainty upon 
 that head/' rejoined Louis; "I am considering 
 how we may obtain it." 
 
 " 'Tis useless to consider that," said La Motte, 
 " the inquiry itself brings danger with it; your 
 life would, perhaps, be paid for the indulgence of 
 your curiosity; our only chance of safety is by 
 endeavouring to remain undiscovered. "Let us 
 move towards the abbey." 
 
 Louis knew not what to think, but said no more 
 upon the subject. La Motte soon after relapsed 
 into a fit of musing; and his son now took occa- 
 sion to lament that depression of spirits which 
 he had lately observed in him. " Rather lament 
 the cause of it," said La Motte, with a sigh. — 
 " That I do most sincerely, whatever it may be. 
 May I venture to inquire, Sir, what is the cause?" 
 
 " Are, then, my misfortunes so little known to 
 you," rejoined La Motte, " as to make that ques- 
 tion necessary? Am I not driven from my home, 
 from my friends, and almost from my country, 
 and shail it be asked why I am afflicted?" — Louis 
 felt the justice of this reproof, and was a moment 
 silent: " That you are afflicted, Sir, does not ex- 
 cite my surprise," resumed he; "it would, in- 
 deed, be strange, were you not." 
 
 " What then does excite your surprise?" 
 
 " The air of cheerfulness you wore when I first 
 came hither." 
 
 " You lately lamented that I was afflicted," 
 said La Motte, "and now seem not very well 
 pleased that I once was cheerful. What is the 
 meaning of this?" 
 
 "You much mistake me," said his son; "noth- 
 ing could give me so much satisfaction as to see 
 that cheerfulness renewed; the same cause of 
 sorrow existed at that time, yet you was then 
 cheerful." 
 
 " That I was then cheerful," said La Motte, 
 " you might, without flattery, have attributed to 
 'yourself; your presence revived me, and I was 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 101 
 
 relieved at the same time from a load of appre- 
 hensions." 
 
 " Why, then, as the same cause exists, are you 
 not still cheerful?" 
 
 " And why do you not recollect that it is your 
 father you thus speak to?" 
 
 " I do, Sir, and nothing but anxiety for my 
 father could have urged me thus far: it is 'with 
 inexpressible concern I perceive you have some 
 secret cause of uneasiness; reveal it, Sir, to those 
 who claim a share in all your affliction, and suffer 
 them, by participation, to soften its severity." 
 Louis looked up, and observed the countenance 
 of his father, pale as death; his lips trembled 
 while he spoke. " Your penetration, however, 
 you may rely upon it, has in the present instance 
 deceived you. I have no subject of distress, but 
 what you are already acquainted with; and I 
 desire this conversation may never be renewed." 
 
 " If it is your desire, of course I obey," said 
 Louis; "but pardon me, Sir, if " 
 
 "I will not pardon you, Sir," interrupted La 
 Motte; "let the discourse end here." Saying 
 this, he quickened his steps, and Louis, not da- 
 ring to pursue, walked quietly on till he reached 
 the abbey. 
 
 Adeline passed the greatest part of the day 
 alone in her chamber, where, having examined 
 her conduct, she endeavoured to fortify her heart 
 against the unmerited displeasure of Madame La 
 Motte. This was a task mere difficult than that 
 of -eelf-acquittance. She loved her, and had re- 
 lied on her friendship, which, notwithstanding 
 the conduct of Madame, still appeared valuable. 
 It was time she had not deserved to lose it, but 
 Madame was so averse to explanation, that there 
 was little probability of recovering it, however 
 ill founded might be the cause of her dislike. At 
 length she reasoned, or rather, perhaps, persua- 
 ded herself iuto tolerable coninosure; for to re- 
 7 
 
102 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Bign a real good with contentment, is less an 
 effort of reason than of temper. 
 
 For many hours she busied herself upon a 
 piece of work, which she had undertaken for 
 Madame La Motte; and this she did, without 
 the least intention of conciliating her favour, hut 
 because she felt there was something in thus re- 
 paying unkindness, which was suitable to her 
 own temper, her sentiments, and her pride. 
 Self- love may be the centre, round which the 
 human affections move; for whatever motive 
 conduces to self-gratification may be resolved 
 into self-love; yet some of these affections are in 
 their nature so refined, that though we cannot 
 deny their origin, they almost deserve the name 
 of virtue. Of this species was that of Adeline. 
 
 In this employment, and in reading, Adeline 
 passed as much of the day as possible. From 
 books, indeed, she had constantly derived her 
 chief information and amusement: those belong- 
 ing to La Motte were few, but well chosen; and 
 Adeline could find pleasure in reading them more 
 than once. When her mind was discomposed by 
 the behaviour of Madame La Motte, or by a re- 
 trospection of her early misfortunes, a book was 
 the opiate that lulled it to repose. La Motte 
 had several of the best English poets, a language 
 which Adeline had learned in the convent; their 
 beauties, therefore, she was capable of tasting, 
 and they often inspired her with enthusiastic de- 
 light. 
 
 At the decline of day, she quitted her chamber 
 to enjoy the sweet evening hour; but strayed no 
 farther than an avenue near the abbey, which 
 fronted the west. She read a little, but finding 
 it impossible any longer to abstract her attention 
 from the scene around, she closed the book, and 
 yielded to the sweet complacent melancholy 
 which the hour inspired. The air was still; the 
 sun, sinking below the distant hills, spread a 
 purple glow over the landscape, and touched the 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 103 
 
 forest glades with softer light. A dewy fresh- 
 ness was diffused upon the air. As the sun de- 
 scended, the dusk came silently on, and the scene 
 assumed a solemn grandeur. 
 
 On her return to the abbey she was joined by 
 Louis, who, after some conversation, said, "I am 
 much grieved by the scene to which I was wit- 
 ness this morning, and have longed for an oppor- 
 tunity of telling you so. My mother's behaviour 
 is too mysterious for me to account for; but it is 
 not difficult to perceive she labours under some 
 mistake. What I have to request is, that when- 
 ever I can be of service to you, you will com- 
 mand me." 
 
 Adeline thanked him for his friendly offer, 
 which she felt more sensibl}' than she chose to 
 express. " I am unconscious," said she, " of any 
 offence that may have deserved Madame La 
 Motte's displeasure, and am, therefore, totally 
 unable to account for it. I have repeatedly 
 sought an explanation, which she has as anxious- 
 ly avoided; it is better, therefore, to press the 
 subject no farther. At the same time, Sir, suffer 
 me to assure you, I have a just sense of your 
 goodness." Louis sighed, and was silent. — At 
 length, " I wish you would permit me," resumed 
 he, "to speak with my mother upon this subject. 
 I am sure I could convince her of her error." 
 
 "By no means," replied Adeline; "Madame 
 La Motte's displeasure has given me inexpressi- 
 ble concern; but to compel her to an explana- 
 tion, Would only increase this displeasure, instead 
 of removing it. Let me beg of you not to at- 
 tempt it." 
 
 "I submit to your judgment," said Louis; 
 "but, for once, it is with reluctance; I should 
 esteem myself most happy, if 1 could be of ser- 
 vice to you." He spoke this with an accent so 
 tender, that Adeline, for the first time, perceived 
 the sentiments of his heart. A mind more 
 fraught with vanity than her's, would have 
 
104 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 taught her long ago to regard the attentions of 
 Louis, as the result of something more than well- 
 bred gallantry. She did not appear to notice his 
 last words, but remained silent, and involuntari- 
 ly quickened her pace. Louis said no more, but 
 seemed sunk in thought; and this silence re- 
 mained uninterrupted, till they entered the 
 abbey. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Near a month elapsed without any remarkable 
 occurrence: the melancholy of La Motte suffered 
 little abatement; and the behaviour of Madame 
 to Adeline, though somewhat softened, was still 
 far from kind. Louis, by numberless little atten- 
 tions, testified his growing affection for Adeline, 
 who continued to treat them as passing civilities. 
 
 It happened one stormy night, as they were 
 preparing for rest, that they were alarmed by a 
 trampling of horses near the abbey. The sound 
 of several voices succeeded, and a loud knocking 
 at the great gate of the hall soon after confirmed 
 the alarm. La Motte had little doubt that the 
 officers of justice had at length discovered his re- 
 treat, and the perturbation of fear almost con- 
 founded his senses; he, however, ordered the 
 lights to be extinguished, and a profound silence 
 to be observed, unwilling to neglect even the 
 slightest possibility of security. There was a 
 chance, he thought, that the persons might sup- 
 pose the place uninhabited, and believe they had 
 mistaken the object of their search. His orders 
 were scarcely obeyed, when the knocking was 
 renewed, and with increased violence. La Motte 
 now repaired to a small grated window in the 
 portal of the gate, that he might observe the 
 number and appearance of the strangers. 
 
 The darkness of the night baffled his purpose; 
 he could only perceive a group of men on horse- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 10^ 
 
 back; but listening attentively, he distinguished 
 a part of their discourse. Several of the men 
 contended, that they had mistaken the place; 
 till a person, who, from his authoritative voice, 
 appeared to be then- leader, affirmed, that the 
 lights had issued from this spot, and he was posi- 
 tive there were persons within. Having said 
 this, he again knocked loudly at the gate, and 
 was answered only by hollow echoes. La Motte's 
 heart trembled at the sound, and he was unable 
 to move. 
 
 After waiting some time, the strangers seemed 
 as if in consultation ; but their discourse was con- 
 ducted in such a low tone of voice, that La Motte 
 was unable to distinguish its purport. They with- 
 drew from the grate, as if to depart, but he pre- 
 sently heard them amongst the trees on the other 
 side of the fabric, and soon became convinced 
 they had not left the abbey. A few minutes held 
 La 'Motte in a state of torturing suspense; he 
 quitted the grate, where Louis now stationed 
 himself, for that part of the edifice which over- 
 looked the spot where he supposed them to be 
 waiting. 
 
 The storm was now loud, and the hollow blast, 
 which rushed among the trees, prevented his dis- 
 tinguishing any other sound. Once, in the pauses 
 of the wind, he thought he heard distinct voices; 
 but he was not long left to conjecture, for the re- 
 newed knocking at the gate again appalled him; 
 and regardless of the terrors of Madame La 
 Motte and Adeline, he ran to try his last chance 
 of concealment, by means of the trap-door. 
 
 Soon after, the violence of the assailants seem- 
 ing to increase with every gust of the tempest, 
 the gate, which was old and decayed, burst from, 
 its hinges, and admitted them to the hall. At 
 the moment of their entrance, a scream from 
 Madame La Motte, who stood at the door of an 
 adjoining apartment, confirmed the suspicion of 
 
106 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 the principal stranger, who continued to advance, 
 as fast as the darkness would permit him. 
 
 Adeline had fainted, and Madame La Motto 
 ■was calling loudly for assistance, when Peter en- 
 tered with lights, and discovered the hall filled 
 "with men, and his young mistress senseless upon 
 the floor. A Chevalier now advanced, and soli- 
 citing pardon of Madame for the rudeness of his 
 conduct, was attempting an apology, when per- 
 ceiving Adeline, he hastened to raise her from 
 the ground ; but Louis, who now returned, caught 
 her in his arms, and desired the stranger not to 
 interfere. 
 
 The person to whom he spoke this, wore the 
 star of one of the first orders in France, and had 
 an air of dignity which declared him to he of su- 
 perior rank. He appeared to be about forty; 
 but perhaps the spirit and fire of his countenance 
 made the impression of time upon his features 
 less perceptible. His softened aspect and insi- 
 nuating manners, while, regardless of himself, he 
 seemed attentive only to the condition of Ade- 
 line, gradually dissipated the apprehensions of 
 Madame La Motte, and subdued the sudden re- 
 sentment of Louis. Upon Adeline, who was yet 
 insensible, he gazed with an eager admiration, 
 which seemed to absorb all the faculties of his 
 mind. She was, indeed, an object not to be con- 
 templated with indifference. 
 
 Her beauty, touched with the languid delicacy 
 of illness, gained from sentiment what it lost in 
 bloom. The negligence of her dress, loosened 
 for the purpose of free respiration, discovered 
 those glowing charms, which her auburn tresses, 
 that fell in profusion over her bosom, shaded, but 
 could not conceal. 
 
 There now entered another stranger, a young 
 Chevalier, who, having spoken hastily to the eld- 
 er, joined the general group that surrounded 
 Adeline. He was of a person, in which elegance 
 was happily blended with strength; and had a 
 
THE ROMANCE OT THE FOREST. 107 
 
 countenance animated, but not haughty; rjoble f 
 yet expressive of peculiar sweetness. What ren- 
 dered it at present more interesting, was the 
 compassion he seemed to feel for Adeline, who 
 now revived and saw him, the first object that 
 met her eyes, bending over her in silent anxiety. 
 
 On perceiving him, a blush of quick surprise 
 passed over her cheek, for she knew him to be 
 the stranger she had seen in the forest. Her 
 countenance instantly changed to the paleness of 
 terror, when she observed the room crowded 
 with people. Louis now supported her into ano- 
 ther apartment, where the two Chevaliers, who 
 followed her, again apologised for the alarm they 
 had occasioned. The elder, turning to Madame 
 La Motte, said, " You are, no doubt, Madame, ig- 
 norant that I am the proprietor of this abbey." 
 She started: " Be not alarmed, Madame, you are 
 safe and welcome. This ruinous spot has been 
 long abandoned by me, and if it has afforded you 
 a shelter, I am happy." Madame La Motte ex- 
 pressed her gratitude for this condescension, and 
 Louis declared his sense of the politeness of the 
 Marquis de Montalt; for that was the title of the 
 noble stranger. 
 
 . " My chief residence," said the Marquis, " is in 
 a distant province; but I have a chateau near the 
 borders of the forest, and in returning from an 
 excursion, I have been benighted, and lost my 
 way. A light, which gleamed through the trees, 
 attracted me hither; and such was the darkness 
 without, that I did not know it proceeded from 
 the abbey till I came to the door." The noble 
 deportment of the strangers, the splendour of 
 their apparel, and above all, this speech, dissi- 
 pated every remaining doubt of Madame's, and 
 she was giving orders for refreshments to be set 
 before them, when La Motte, who had listened, 
 and was now convinced he had nothing to fear, 
 entered the apartment. 
 
 He advanced toward the Marquis with a com- 
 
103 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 placent air; but, as lie would have spoke, the 
 words of welcome faltered on his lips, his limbs 
 trembled, and a ghastly paleness overspread his 
 countenance. The Marquis was little less agi- 
 tated, and, in the first moment of surprise, put 
 his hand upon his sword; but recollecting him- 
 self, he withdrew it, and endeavoured to obtain a 
 command of features. A pause of agonising si- 
 lence ensued. La Motte made some motion to- 
 wards the door, but his agitated frame refused to 
 support him, and he sunk into a chair silent and 
 exhausted. The horror of his countenance, to- 
 gether with his whole behaviour, excited the ut- 
 most surprise in Madame, whose eyes inquired of 
 the Marquis more than he thought proper to an- 
 swer: his looks increased, instead of explaining 
 the mystery, and expressed a mixture of emo- 
 tions, which she could not analyse. Meanwhile, 
 she endeavoured to soothe and revive her hus- 
 band, but he repressed her efforts, and, averting 
 his face, covered it with his hands. 
 
 The Marquis seeming to recover his presence 
 of mind, stepped to the door of the hall where his 
 people were assembled, when La Motte, starting 
 from his seat, with a frantic ah', called on him to 
 return. The Marquis looked back and stopped, 
 but still hesitating whether to proceed; the sup- 
 plications of Adeline, who was now retained, 
 added to those of La Motte, determined him, and 
 he sat down. " I request of you, my Lord," said 
 La Motte, " that we may converse for a few mo- 
 ments by ourselves." 
 
 " The request is bold, and the indulgence, per- 
 haps, dangerous," said the Marquis: "it is more 
 also than I will grant. You can have nothing to 
 say, with which your family are not acquainted 
 —speak your purpose, and be brief." La Motte's 
 complexion varied to every sentence of this 
 speech.— "impossible! my Lord," said he; "my 
 lips shall close for ever, ere they pronounce be- 
 fore another human being the words reserved for 
 
T1IE EOMANCE OF THE FOREST. 109 
 
 3 r ou alone. — I entreat — I supplicate of you a few 
 moments' private discourse." As he pronounced 
 these words, tears swelled into his eyes, and the 
 Marquis, softened by his distress, consented, 
 though with evident emotion and reluctance, to 
 his request. 
 
 La Motte took a light and led the Marquis to a 
 small room in a remote part of the edifice, where 
 they remained near an hour. Madame, alarmed 
 by the length of their absence, went in quest of 
 them: as she drew near, a curiosity, in such cir- 
 cumstances, perhaps, not unjustifiable, prompted 
 her to listen. La Motte just then exclaimed — 
 " The phrenzy of despair!" — Some words follow- 
 ed, delivered in a low tone, which she could not 
 understand. — " I have suffered more than I can 
 express," continued he; " the same image has 
 pursued me in my midnight dream, and in my 
 daily wanderings. There is no punishment short 
 of death which I would not have endured, to re- 
 gain the state of mind with which I entered this 
 forest. I again address myself to your compas- 
 sion." 
 
 A loud gust of wind, that burst along the pas- 
 sage where Madame La Motte stood, overpower- 
 ed his voice, and that of the Marquis, who spoke 
 in reply; but she soon after distinguished these 
 words:—" To-morrow, my Lord, if you return to 
 these ruins, I will lead you to the spot." 
 
 " That is scarcely necessary, and may be dan- 
 gerous," said the Marquis. — " From you, my 
 Lord, I can excuse these doubts," resumed La 
 Motte;" but I will swear whatever you shall pro- 
 pose. — Yes," continued he, "whatever may be 
 the consequence, I will swear to submit to your 
 decree." The rising tempest again drowned the 
 sound of their voices, and Madame La Motte 
 vainly endeavoured to hear those words, upon 
 which probably hung the explanation of this 
 mysterious conduct. They now moved towards 
 the door, and she retreated with precipitation to 
 
110 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the apartment where she had left Adeline, with 
 Louis and the young Chevalier. 
 
 Hither the Marquis and La Motte soon follow- 
 ed; the first haughty and cool, the latter some- 
 what more composed than before, though the im- 
 pression of horror was not yet faded from his 
 countenance. The Marquis passed on to the hall, 
 where his retinue awaited: the storm was not 
 yet subsided, but he seemed impatient to be gone, 
 and ordered his people to be in readiness. La 
 Motte observed a sullen silence, frequently pacing 
 the room with hasty steps, and sometimes lost in 
 reverie. — Meanwhile, the Marquis, seating him- 
 self by Adeline, directed to her his whole atten- 
 tion, except when sudden fits of absence came 
 over his mind, and suspended him in silence: at 
 these times the young Chevalier addressed Ade- 
 line, who, with diffidence and some agitation, 
 shrunk from the observance of both. 
 
 The Marquis had been near two hours at the 
 abbey, and the tempest still continuing, Madame 
 La Motte offered him a bed. A look from her 
 husband made her tremble for the consequence. 
 Her offer was, however, politely declined, the 
 Marquis being evidently as impatient to be 
 gone, as his tenant appeared distressed by his 
 presence. He often returned to the hall, and 
 from the gates raised a look of impatience to the 
 clouds. Nothing was to be seen through the dark- 
 ness of night— nothing heard but the howlings of 
 the storm. 
 
 The morning dawned before he departed. As 
 he was preparing to leave the abbey, La Motte 
 again drew him aside, and held him for a few 
 moments in close conversation. His impassioned 
 gestures, which Madame La Motte observed from 
 a remote part of the room, added to her curiosity 
 a degree of wild apprehension, derived from the 
 obscurity of the subject. Her endeavour to dis- 
 tinguish the corresponding words was baffled by 
 the low voice in which they were uttered. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. Ill 
 
 The Marquis and his retinue at length depart- 
 ed, and La Motte, having himself fastened the 
 gates, silently and dejectedly withdrew to his 
 chamber. The moment they were alone, Madame 
 seized the opportunity of entreating her husband 
 to explain the scene she had witnessed. "Ask 
 me no questions," said La Motte, sternly, " for I 
 will answer none. I have already forbade your 
 speaking to me on this subject." 
 
 "What subject?" said his wife. La Motte 
 seemed to recollect himself. — " No matter— I was 
 mistaken— I thought you had repeated these 
 questions before." 
 
 " Ah !" said Madame La Motte, " it is then as 
 I suspected: your former melancholy, and the 
 distress of this night, have the same cause." 
 
 "And why should you either suspect or in- 
 quiie? Am I always to be persecuted with con- 
 jectures?" 
 
 "Pardon me, I meant not to persecute you; 
 but my anxiety for your welfare will not suffer 
 me to rest under this dreadful uncertainty. Let 
 me claim the privilege of a wife, and share the 
 affliction which oppresses you. Deny me not." — 
 La Motte interrupted her. " Whatever may be 
 the cause of the emotions which you have wit- 
 nessed, I swear that I will not now reveal it. A 
 time may come, when I shall no longer judge 
 concealment necessary; till then be silent, and 
 desist from importunity; above all, forbear to re- 
 mark to any one what you may have seen uncom- 
 mon in me. Bury your surmise in your own bo- 
 som, as you would avoid my curse, and my de- 
 struction." The determined air with which ha 
 spoke this, while his countenance was overspread 
 with a livid hue, made his wife shudder; and she 
 forbore all reply. 
 
 Madame La Motte retired to bed, but not to 
 rest. She ruminated on the past occurrence; 
 and her suprise and curiosity, concerning the 
 words and behaviour of her husband, were but 
 
112 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 more strongly stimulated by reflection. One 
 truth, however, appeared; she could not doubt, 
 but the mysterious conduct of La Motte, which 
 had for so mauy months oppressed her with anx- 
 iety, and the late scene with the Marquis, origi- 
 nated from the same cause. This '/belief, which 
 seemed to prove how unjustly she had suspected 
 Adeline, brought with it a pang of self-accusa- 
 tion. She looked forward to the morrow, which 
 would lead the Marquis again to the abbey, with 
 impatience. Wearied nature at length resumed 
 her rights, and yielded a short oblivion of care. 
 
 At a late hour the next day the family assem- 
 bled to breakfast. Each individual of the party 
 appeared silent and abstracted; but very differ- 
 ent was the aspect of their features, and still 
 more the complexion of their thoughts. La 
 Motte seemed agitated by impatient fear, yet the 
 sullenness of despair overspread his countenance. 
 A certain wildness in his eye at times expressed 
 the sudden start of horror, and again his features 
 would sink into the gloom of despondence. 
 
 Madame La Motte seemed harassed with anx- 
 iety; she watched every turn of her husband's 
 countenance, and impatiently waited the arri- 
 val of the Marquis. Louis was composed and 
 thoughtful. Adeline seemed to feel her full share 
 of uneasiness. She had observed the behaviour 
 of La Motte the preceding night with much sur- 
 prise, and the happy confidence she had hitherto 
 reposed in him was shaken. She feared, also, 
 lest the exigency of his circumstances should 
 precipitate him again into the world, and that he 
 would be either unable or unwilling to afford her 
 a shelter beneath his roof. 
 
 During breakfast La Motte frequently rose to 
 the window, from whence he cast many an anx- 
 ious look. His wife understood too' well the 
 cause of his impatience, and endeavoured to re- 
 press her own. In these intervals, Louis attempt- 
 ed by whispers to obtain some information from 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 113 
 
 his father, but La Motte always returned to the 
 table where the presence of Adeline prevented 
 farther discourse. 
 
 After breakfast, as he walked upon the lawn, 
 Louis would have joined him; but La Motte per- 
 emptorily declared he intended to be alone, and 
 soon after, the Marquis having not yet arrived, 
 proceeded to a greater distance from the abbey. 
 
 Adeline retired into their usual working room 
 with Madame La Motte, who affected an air of 
 cheerfulness, and even of kindness. Feeling the 
 necessity of offering some reason for the striking 
 agitation of La Motte, and of preventing the sur- 
 prise, which the unexpected appearance of the 
 Marquis would occasion Adeline, if she was left 
 to connect it with his behaviour of the prece- 
 ding night, she mentioned that the Marquis and 
 La Motte had long been known to each other, 
 and that this unexpected meeting, after an ab- 
 sence of many years, and under circumstances so 
 altered and humiliating on the part of the latter, 
 had occasioned him much painful emotion. This 
 had been heightened by a consciousness that the 
 Marquis had formely misinterpreted some cir- 
 cumstances in his conduct towards him, which 
 had caused a suspension of their intimacy. 
 
 This account did not bring conviction to the 
 mind of Adeline, for it seemed inadequate to the 
 degree of emotion the Marquis and La Motte had 
 mutually betrayed. Her surprise was excited, 
 and her curiosity awakened, by the words which 
 were meant to delude them both; but she for- 
 bore to express her thoughts. 
 
 Madame, proceeding with her plan, said, " The 
 Marquis was now expected, and she hoped 
 whatever differences remained, would be perfect- 
 ly adjusted." Adeline blushed, and endeavour- 
 ing to reply, her lips faltered. Conscious of this 
 agitation, and of the observance of Madame La 
 Mctte, her confusion increased, and her endea- 
 vours to suppress served only to heighten it. 
 
114 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Still she tried to renew the discourse, and still 
 she found it impossible to collect her thoughts. 
 Shocked lest Madame should apprehend the sen- 
 timent, which had till this moment been conceal- 
 ed almost from herself, her colour fled, she fixed 
 her eyes on the ground, and, for some time, found 
 it difficult to respire. Madame La Motte inquir- 
 ed if she was ill, when Adeline, glad of the ex- 
 cuse, withdrew to the indulgence of her own 
 thoughts, which were now wholly engrossed by 
 the expectation of seeing again the young Chev- 
 alier, who had accompanied the Marquis. 
 
 As she looked from her room, she saw the 
 Marquis on horseback, with several attendants 
 advancing at a distance, and she hastened to ap- 
 prise Madame La Motte of his approach. Tn a 
 short time he arrived at the gates, and Madame 
 and Louis went out to receive him, La Motte 
 being not yet returned. He entered the hall, fol- 
 lowed by the young Chevalier, and accosting 
 Madame with a sort of stately politeness, inquired 
 for La Motte, whom Louis now went to seek. 
 
 The Marquis remained for a few minutes si- 
 lent, and then asked of Madame La Motte, "how 
 her fair daughter did?" Madame understood it 
 was Adeline he meant, and having answered bis 
 inquiry, and slightly said that she was not related 
 to her, Adeline, upon some indication of the Mar- 
 quis's wish, was sent for: she entered the room 
 with a modest blush and a timid air, which seem- 
 ed to engage all his attention. His compliments 
 she received with a sweet grace; but when the 
 young Chevalier approached, the warmth of his 
 manner rendered her's involuntarily more reserv- 
 ed, and she scarcely dared to raise her eyes from 
 the ground, lest they should encounter his. 
 
 La Motte now entered, nnd apoligosed for his 
 absence, which the Marquis noticed only by a 
 slight inclination of his head, expressing at the 
 same time by his looks, both distrust and pride. 
 They immediately quitted the abbey together, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 315 
 
 and the Marquis beckoned his attendants to fol- 
 low at a distance. La Motte forbade his son to 
 accompany him, but Louis observed he took the 
 •way into the thickest part of the forest. He was 
 lost in a ehaos of conjecture concerning this 
 affair, but curiosity and anxiety for his father in- 
 duced him to follow at some distance. 
 
 In the mean time the youog stranger, whom 
 the Marquis addressed by the name of Theodore, 
 remained at the abbey with Madame La Motte 
 and Adeline. The former, with all her address, 
 could not conceal her agitation during this inter- 
 \-al. She moved involuntarily to the door when- 
 ever she heard a footstep, and several times she 
 went to the hall door, in order to look into the 
 forest; but as often returned checked by disap- 
 pointment. No person appeared. Theodore 
 seemed to address as much of his attention to 
 Adeline, as politeness would allow him to with- 
 draw from Madame La Motte. His manners so 
 gentle, yet dignified, insensibly subdued her timi- 
 dity, and banished her reserve. Her conversa- 
 tion no longer suffered a painful constraint, but 
 gradually disclosed the beauties of her mind, and 
 seemed to produce a mutual confidence. A simi- 
 larity of sentiment soon appeared, and Theodore, 
 by the impatient pleasure which animated his 
 countenance, seemed frequently to anticipate the 
 thoughts of Adeline. 
 
 To them the absence of the Marquis was 
 short, though long to Madame La Motte, whose 
 countenance brightened when she heard the 
 trampling of horses at the gate. 
 
 The Marquis appeared but for a moment, and 
 passed on with La Motte to a private room, 
 where they remained for some time in confer- 
 ence, immediately after which he departed. 
 Theodore took leave of Adeline, who, as well as 
 La Motte and Madame, attended them to the 
 gates, with an expression of tender regret, and 
 often, as he went, looked back upon the abbey, 
 
116 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 till the intervening branches entirely excluded it 
 from his view. 
 
 The transient glow of pleasure diffused over 
 the cheek of Adeline disappeared with the young 
 stranger, and she sighed as she turned into the 
 hall. The image of Theodore pursued her to her 
 chamber; she recollected with exactness every 
 particular of his late conversation — his sentiments 
 so congenial with her own — his manners so en- 
 gaging — his countenance so animated— so ingenu- 
 ous and so noble, in which manly dignity was 
 blended with the sweetness of benevolence — 
 these, and every other grace she recollected, and 
 a soft melancholy stole upon her heart. " I shall 
 see him no more," said she. A sigh that follow- 
 ed, told her more of her heart than she wished to 
 know. She blushed, and sighed again, and then 
 suddenly recollecting herself, she endeavoured to 
 divert her thoughts to a different subject. La 
 Motte's connexion with the Marquis for some 
 time engaged her attention; but, unable to de- 
 velope the mystery that attended it, she sought 
 a refuge from her own reflections in the more 
 pleasing ones to be derived from books. 
 
 During this time Louis, shocked and surprised 
 at the extreme distress which his father had 
 manifested upon the first appearance of the Mar- 
 quis, addressed him on the subject. He had no 
 doubt that the Marquis was intimately concern- 
 ed in the event which made it necessary for La 
 Motte to leave Paris, and he spoke his thoughts 
 without disguise, lameuting at the same time the 
 unlucky chance which had brought him to seek 
 refuge in a place, of all others, the least capable 
 of affording it — the estate of his enemy. La 
 Motte did not contradict this opinion of his son's, 
 and joined in lamenting the evil fate which had 
 conducted him thither. 
 
 The term of Louis's absence from his regiment 
 was now nearly expired, and he took occasion to 
 express his sorrow, that he must soon be obliged 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 117 
 
 to leave his father in circumstances so dangerous 
 as the present. " I should leave you, Sir, with 
 less pain," continued he, "were I sure I knew the 
 full extent of your misfortunes. At present I 
 am left to conjecture evils, which, perhaps, do 
 not exist. Relieve me, Sir, from this state of 
 painful uncertainty, and suffer me to prove my- 
 self worthy of your confidence." 
 
 " I have already answered you on this sub- 
 ject," said La Motte, " and forbade you to renew 
 it. 1 am now obliged to tell you, I care not how 
 soon you depart, if I am to be persecuted with 
 these inquiries." La Motte walked abruptly 
 away, and left his son to doubt and concern. 
 
 The arrival of the Marquis had dissipated the 
 jealous fears of Madame La Motte, and she awoke 
 to a sense of her cruelty towards Adeline. 'When 
 she considered her orphan state, the uniform af- 
 fection which had appeared in her behaviour, 
 the mildness and patience with which she had 
 borne her injurious treatment, she was shocked, 
 and took an early opportunity of renewing her 
 former kindness. But she could not explain this 
 seeming inconsistency of conduct, without be- 
 traying her late suspicions, which she now blush- 
 ed 'to remember, nor could she apologise for her 
 former behaviour, without giving this explan- 
 ation. 
 
 She contented herself, therefore, with express- 
 ing in her manner the regard which was thus 
 revived. Adeline was at first surprised, but she 
 felt too much pleasure at the change to be scru- 
 pulous in inquiring its cause. 
 
 But notwithstanding the satisfaction which 
 Adeline received from the revival of Madame La 
 Motte's kindness, her thoughts frequently recur- 
 red to the peculiar and forlorn circumstances of 
 her condition. She could not help feeling less 
 confidence than she had formerly done in the 
 friendship of Madame La Motte, whose character 
 
 a 
 
118 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 now appeared less amiable than her imagination 
 had represented it, and seemed strongly tinc- 
 tured with caprice. Her thoughts often dwelt 
 upon the strange introduction of the Marquis at 
 the abbey, and on the mutual emotions and ap- 
 parent dislike of La Motte and himself; and, 
 under these circumstances, it equally excited her 
 surprise that La Motte should choose, and that 
 the Marquis should permit, him to remain in his 
 territory. 
 
 Her mind returned the oftener, perhaps, to 
 this subject, because it was connected with Theo- 
 dore; but it returned unconscious of the idea 
 which attracted it. She attributed the interest 
 she felt in the affair to her anxiety for the wel- 
 fare of La Motte, and for her own future destina- 
 tion, which was now so deeply involved in his. 
 Sometimes, indeed, she caught herself busy in 
 conjecture as to the degree of relationship in 
 which Theodore stood to the Marquis; but she 
 immediately checked her thoughts, and severely 
 blamed herself for having suffered them to stray 
 to an object, which she perceived was too dan- 
 gerous to her peace. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A few days after the occurrence related in the 
 preceding chapter, as Adeline sat alone in her 
 chamber, she was roused from a reverie by a 
 trampling of horses near the gate; and, on look- 
 ing from the casement, she saw the Marquis de 
 Montalt enter the abbey. This circumstance 
 surprised her, and an emotion, whose cause she 
 did not trouble herself to inquire for, made her 
 instantly retreat from the window. The same 
 cause, however, led her thither again as hastily; 
 but the object of her search did not appear, and 
 Bhe was in no haste to retire. 
 
 As she stood musing and disappointed, the 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 1 19 
 
 Marquis came out with La Motte, and immedi- 
 ately looking up, saw Adeline and bowed. She 
 returned his complimen t respectfully, and with- 
 drew from the window, vexed at having been 
 seen there. They went into the forest, but the 
 Marquis's attendants did not, as before, follow 
 them thither. When they returned, which was 
 not till after a considerable time, the Marquis 
 immediately mounted his horse and rode away. 
 
 For the remainder of the day, La Motte ap- 
 peared gloomy and silent, and was frequently lost 
 in thought. Adeline observed him with particu- 
 lar attention and concern; she perceived that he 
 Avas always more melancholy after an interview 
 with the Marquis, and was now surprised to hear 
 that the latter had appointed to dine the next 
 day at the abbey. 
 
 When La Motte mentioned this, he added some 
 high eulogium on the character of the Marquis, 
 and particularly praised his generosity and noble- 
 ness of soul. At this instant, Adeline recollected 
 the anecdotes she had formerly heard concerning 
 the abbeyj and they threw a shadow over the 
 brightness of that excellence which La Motte 
 now celebrated. The account, however, did not 
 appear to deserve much credit ; a part of it, as far 
 as a negative will admit of demonstration, having 
 been already proved false; for it had been report- 
 ed, that the abbey was haunted, and no super- 
 natural appearance had ever been observed by 
 the present inhabitants. 
 
 Adeline, however, ventured to inquire, whether 
 it was the present Marquis of whom those inju- 
 rious reports had been raised. La Motte answer- 
 ed her with a smile of ridicule : " Stories of ghosts 
 and hobgoblins have always been admired and 
 cherished by the vulgar," said he. "I am in- 
 clined to rely upon my own experience, at least 
 as much as upon the accounts of these peasants. 
 If you have seen any thing to corroborate these 
 
120 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOItEST. 
 
 accounts, pray inform me of it, that I may estab- 
 lish my faith." 
 
 "You mistake me, Sir," said she; "it was not 
 concerning supernatural agency that I would in- 
 quire: I alluded to a different part of the report, 
 ■which hinted, that some person had been con- 
 fined here, by order of the Marquis, who was 
 said to have died unfairly. This was alleged as a 
 reason for the Marquis's having abandoned the 
 abbey." 
 
 " All the mere coinage of idleness," said La 
 Motte; " a romantic tale to excite wonder: to see 
 the Marquis is alone sufficient to refute this; and 
 if we credit half the number of those stories that 
 spring from the same source, we prove ourselves 
 little superior to the simpletons who invent 
 them. Your good sense, Adeline, I think, will 
 teach you the merit of disbelief." 
 
 Adeline blushed and was silent; but La Motto's 
 defence of the Marquis appeared much warmer 
 and more diffuse, than was consistent with his 
 own disposition, or required by the occasion. 
 His former conversation with Louis occurred to 
 her, and she was the more surprised at what 
 passed at present. 
 
 She looked forward to the morrow with a mix- 
 ture of pain and pleasure; the expectation of see- 
 ing ae,ain the young chevalier occupying her 
 thoughts, and agitating them with a various 
 emotion: now she feared his presence, and now 
 she doubted whether he would come. At length 
 she observed this, and blushed to find how much 
 he engaged her attention. The morrow arrived 
 — the Marquis came — but he came alone; and the 
 sunshine of Adeline's mind was clouded, though 
 she was able to wear her usual air of cheerful- 
 ness. The Marquis was polite, affable, and at- 
 tentive; to manners the most easy and elegant, 
 was added the last refinement of polished life. 
 His conversation was lively, amusing, sometimes 
 even witty; and discovered great knowledge of 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 121 
 
 the world; or, what is often mistaken for it 3 an 
 
 acquaintance with the higher circles, and with 
 the topics of the day. 
 
 Here La Motte Avas also qualified to converse 
 with him, and they entered into a discussion of 
 the characters and manners of the age with great 
 spirit, and some humour. Madame La Motte 
 had not seen her husband so cheerful since they 
 left Paris, and sometimes she could almost fancy 
 she was there. Adeline listened, till the cheer- 
 fulness, which she had at first only assumed, be- 
 came real. The address of the Marquis was so 
 insinuating and affable, that her reserve insensi- 
 bly gave way before it, and her natural vivacity 
 resumed its long-lost empire. 
 
 At parting, the Marquis told La Motte he re- 
 joiced at having found so agreeable a neighbour. 
 La Motte bowed. " I shall sometimes visit yon," 
 continued he, " and I lament that I cannot at 
 present invite Madame La Motte and her fair 
 friend to my chateau; but it is undergoing some 
 repairs, which make it but an uncomfortable 
 residence/' 
 
 The vivacity of La Motte disappeared with his 
 guest, and he soon relapsed into fits of silence 
 and abstraction. " The Marquis is a very agree- 
 able man, : ' said Madame La Motte. — " Very 
 agreeable," replied he. — " And seems to have an 
 excellent heart," she resumed — " An excellent 
 one," said La Motte. 
 
 " You seem discomposed^ my dear; what has 
 disturbed you?" 
 
 " Not in the least — I was only thinking, that 
 with such agreeable talents, and such an excellent 
 heart, it was a pity the Marquis should — " 
 
 "What! my dear," said Madame with impa- 
 tience: "That the Marquis should— should suf- 
 fer this abbey to fall into ruins," replied La 
 Mctte. 
 
 "Is that all!" said Madame with disappoint- 
 
122 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 ment.— " That is all, upon my honour," said La 
 Motte, and left the room. 
 
 Adeline's spirits, no longer supported by the 
 animated conversation of the Marquis, sunk into 
 languor, and when he departed, she walked pen- 
 sively into the forest. She followed a little ro- 
 mantic path that wound along the margin of the 
 stream, and was overhung with deep shades. 
 The tranquillity of the scene, which autumn now 
 touched with her sweetest tints, softened her 
 mind to a tender kind of melancholy, and she suf- 
 fered a tear, which she knew not wherefore had 
 stolen into her eye, to tremble there unchecked. 
 She came to a little lonely recess, formed by high 
 trees; the wind sighed mournfully among the 
 branches, and as it waved their lofty heads, scat- 
 tered their leaves to the ground. She seated her- 
 self on the bank beneath, and indulged the me- 
 lancholy reflections that pressed on her mind. 
 
 " U! could I dive into futurity, and behold the 
 events which await me!" said she; "I should, 
 perhaps, by constant contemplation, be enabled to 
 meet them with fortitude. An orphan in this wide 
 world— thrown upon the friendship of strangers 
 for comfort, and upon their bounty for the very 
 means of existence, what but evil have I to expect? 
 Alas, my father ! how could you thus abandon your 
 child — how leave her to the storms of life — to sink, 
 perhaps, beneath them? Alas, I have no friend:" 
 
 She was interrupted by a rustling among the 
 fallen leaves; she turned her head, and perceiving 
 the Marquis's young friend, arose to depart. 
 " Pardon this intrusion," said he, "your voice at- 
 tracted me hither, and your words detained me: 
 my offence, however, brings with it its own 
 punishment — having learned your sorrows, how 
 can I help feeling them myself? Would that my 
 sympathy, or my suffering, could rescue you from 
 them!"— He hesitated — " Would that I could de- 
 serve the title of your friend, and be thought 
 worthy of it by yourself!"' 
 
 
THB R0JIANC2 OF THE FOREST. 123 
 
 The confusion of Adeline's thoughts could 
 scarcely permit) her to reply; she trembled, and 
 gently withdrew her hand, which he had taken, 
 while he spoke. "You have perhaps heard, Sir, 
 more than is true: I am, indeed, not happy, but 
 a moment of dejection has made me unjust, and 
 I am less unfortunate than I have represented. 
 When I said I had no friend, I was ungrateful to 
 the kindness of Monsieur and Madame La Motte, 
 who have been more than friends — have been as 
 parents to me." 
 
 " If so, I honour them," cried Theodore with 
 warmth; " and if I did not feel it to be presump- 
 tion, I would ask why you are unhappy?— But" 
 — He paused. Adeline, raisiDg her eyes, saw him 
 gazing upon her with intense and eager anxiety, 
 and her looks were again fixed upon the ground. 
 "I have pained you," said Theodore, " by an im- 
 proper request. Can you forgive me, and also 
 when I add, that it was an interest in your wel- 
 fare which urged my inquiry?" 
 
 " Forgiveness, Sir, it is unnecessary to ask. I 
 am certainly obliged by the compassion you ex- 
 press. But the evening is cold; if you please, we 
 will walk towards the abbey." As they moved 
 on, Theodore was for some time silent. At length, 
 K - It was but lately that I solicited your pardon," 
 said he, " and I shall now, perhaps, have need of 
 it again ; but you will do me the justice to believe, 
 that I have a strong, and indeed a pressing reason 
 to. inquire how nearly you are related to Mon- ' 
 s-ieur La Motte." 
 
 "We are not at all- related," said Adeline; "but 
 the service he has done me I can never repay, 
 and I hope my gratitude will teach me never to 
 forget it." 
 
 • "Indeed!" said Theodore, surprised: "and may 
 I ask how long you have known him?" 
 - " Rather, Sir, let me ask why these questions 
 should be necessary?" 
 . "You are -just," said health an air of self- 
 
12-i THE EOMAKCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 condemnation; "my conduct lias deserved this 
 reproof; I should have been more explicit." He 
 looked as if his mind was labouring with some- 
 thins; which he was unwilling to express. " But 
 you know not how delicately I am circumstanc- 
 ed," continued he, "yet I will aver, that my 
 questions are prompted by the tenderest interest 
 in your happiness — and even by my fears for your 
 safety." Adeline started. "I fear you are de- 
 ceived," said he; "I fear there's danger near 
 you." 
 
 Adeline stopped, and ? looking earnestly at him, 
 begged he would explain himself. She suspected 
 that some mischief threatened La Motte; and 
 Theodore continuing silent, she repeated her re- 
 quest. "If La Motte is concerned in this dan- 
 ger," said she, "let me entreat you to acquaint 
 him with it immediately. He has but too many 
 misfortunes to apprehend." 
 
 "Excellent Adeline!" cried Theodore, "that 
 heart must be adamant that would injure you. 
 How shall I hint what I fear is too true, and how 
 forbear to warn you of your danger, without" — 
 He was interrupted by a step among the trees, 
 and presently after saw La Motte cross into the 
 path the}'' were in. Adeline felt confused at be- 
 ing thus seen with the chevalier, and was has- 
 tening to join La Motte; but Theodore detained 
 her, and entreated a moment's attention. "There 
 is now no time to explain myself," said he; "yet 
 what I would say is of the utmost consequence 
 to yourself. 
 
 " Promise, therefore, to meet me in some part 
 of the forest at about this time to-morrow even- 
 ing; ytfu will then, I hope, be convinced, that 
 my conduct is directed, neither hy common cir- 
 cumstances, nor common regard." Adeline shud- 
 dered at the idea of making an appointment; she 
 hesitated, and at length entreated Theodore not 
 to delay till to-morrow au explanation which ap- 
 peared to be so important, but to follow La 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 125 
 
 Motte and inform him of his danger immediately. 
 " It is not with La Motte I would speak,"' replied 
 Theodore; " I know of no danger that threatens 
 him— hut he approaches; he quick, level y Ade- 
 line, and promise to meet me." 
 
 " I do promise," said Adeline, with a faltering 
 voice; " I will come to the spot where you found 
 me this evening, an hour earlier to-morrow." 
 Saying this, she" withdrew her tremhling hand, 
 which Theodore had pressed to his lips, in token 
 of acknowledgment, and he immediately disap- 
 peared. 
 
 La Motte now approached Adeline, who, fear- 
 ing that he had seen Theodore, was in some con- 
 fusion. "Whither is Louis gone so fast?" said 
 La Motte. She rejoiced to find his mistake, and 
 suffered him to remain in it. They walked pen- 
 sively towards the ahhey, where Adeline, too 
 much occupied by her own thoughts to bear 
 company, retired to her chamber. She rumi- 
 nated upon the words of Theodore, and the more 
 she considered them, the more she was perplex- 
 ed. Sometimes she blamed herself for having 
 made an appointment, doubting whether he had 
 not solicited it for the purpose of pleading a pas- 
 sion; and now delicacy checked this thought, and 
 made her vexed that she had presumed upon 
 having inspired one. She recollected the serious 
 earnestness of his voice and manner, when he 
 entreated her to meet him; and as they con- 
 vinced her of the importance of the subject, she 
 shuddered at a danger, which she could not com- 
 prehend, looking forward to the morrow with 
 anxious impatience. 
 
 Sometimes, too, a remembrance of the tender 
 interest he had expressed for her welfare, and of 
 his correspondent look and air, would steal across 
 her memory, awakening a pleasing emotion, and 
 a latent hope that she was not indifferent to him. 
 From reflections like these she was roused by a 
 summons to supper: the repast was a melancholy 
 
126 - THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 one, it being the last evening of Louis's stay at 
 the abbey. Adeline, who esteemed him, regrets 
 ted his departure, while his eyes were often bent 
 on her, with a look which seemed to express that 
 he was about to leave the object of his affection. 
 She endeavoured, by her cheerfulness, to re-ani- 
 mate the whole party, and especially Madame 
 La Motte, who frequently shed tears. " We shall 
 soon meet again," said Adeline, " I trust in hap- 
 pier circumstances." La Motte sighed. The coun- 
 tenance of Louis brightened at her words. " Do 
 you wish it?" said he, with peculiar emphasis. 
 " Most certainly I do," she replied. " Can you 
 doubt my regard for my best friends?" 
 
 " I cannot doubt anything that is good of you,' 5 
 said he. 
 
 "You forget you have left Paris," said La 
 Motte to his son, while a faint smile crossed his 
 face; " such a compliment would there be in cha- 
 racter with the place — in these solitary woods it 
 is quite out?-e." 
 
 " The language of admiration is not always that 
 of compliment, Sir," said Louis. Adeline, willing 
 to change the discourse, asked to what part of 
 France he was going. He replied, that his regi- 
 ment was now at Peronne, and he should go im- 
 mediately thither. After some mention of'indif- 
 ferent subjects, the family withdrew for the night 
 to their several chambers. 
 
 The approaching departure of her son occupied 
 the thoughts of Madame La Motte, and she ap- 
 peared at breakfast with eyes swoln with weep- 
 ing. The pale countenance of Louis seemed to 
 indicate that he had rested no better than ln> 
 mother. When breakfast was over, Adeline re-, 
 tired for a while, that she might not interrupt, 
 by her presence, their last conversation. As she 
 walked on the lawn before the abbey she return- 
 ed in thought to the occurrence of yesterday 
 evening, and her impatience for the appointed 
 interview increased. She was .soon joined- -by- 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 127 
 
 Louis. " It was unkind of you to leav§ us," said 
 he, " in the last moments of my stay. Could I 
 hope that you would sometimes remember me, 
 when I am far away, I should depart with less 
 sorrow." He then expressed his concern at leav- 
 ing her, and though he had hitherto armed him- 
 self with resolution to forbear a direct avowal of 
 an attachment, which must be fruitless, his heart 
 now yielded to the force of passion, arid he told 
 what Adeline every moment feared to hear. 
 
 " This declaration," said Adeline* endeavouring 
 to overcome the agitation it excited, " gives me 
 inexpressible concern." 
 
 " 0, say not so!" interrupted Louis, "but give 
 me some slender hope to support me in the mise- 
 ries of absence. Say that you do not hate me — 
 say—" 
 
 " That I do most readily say," replied Adeline, 
 in a tremulous voice ; " if it Avill give you pleasure- 
 to be assured of my esteem and friendship— re- 
 ceive this assurance: — as the son of my best be* 
 nefactors, you are entitled to — " 
 
 " Name not benefits," said Louis, " your merits 
 out-run them all: and suffer me to hope for a 
 sentiment less cool than that of friendship, as 
 well as t'o believe that I do not owe your appro- 
 bation of me to the actions of others. I have long 
 borne my passion in silence, because I foresaw 
 the difficulties that would attend it; Day, I have 
 even dared to endeavour to overcome it: I have 
 dared to believe it possible — forgive the supposi- 
 tion — that I could forget you — and " 
 
 "You distress me," interrupted Adeline; "this 
 is a conversation which I ought not to hear. I 
 am above disguise, and therefore assure you, that, 
 though your virtues will always command my 
 esteem, you have nothiug to hope from my love. 
 Were it even otherwise, our circumstances would 
 effectually decide for us. If you are really my 
 friend, you will rejoice that I am spared this 
 struggle between affection and prudence. Let 
 
123 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 me hope also, that time will teach you to reduce 
 love within the limits of friendship." 
 
 " Never!" cried Louis vehemently: "were this 
 possible, my passion would be unworthy of its 
 object." While he spoke, Adeline's favourite 
 fawn came bounding towards her. This circum- 
 stance affected Louis even to tears. " This little 
 animal," said he, after a short pause, "first con- 
 ducted me to you: it was witness to that happy 
 moment when I first saw you, surrounded by at- 
 tractions too powerful for my heart; that moment 
 is now fresh in my memory, and the creature 
 comes even to witness this sad one of my depar- 
 ture." Grief interrupted his utterance. 
 
 When he recovered his voice, he said, "Ade- 
 line! when you look upon your little favourite 
 and caress it, remember the unhappy Louis, who 
 will then be far, far from you. Do not deny me 
 the poor consolation of believing this!" 
 
 " I shall not require such a monitor to remind 
 me of you," said Adeline with a smile; "your ex- 
 cellent parents and your own merits have suffi- 
 cient claim upon my remembrance. Could I see 
 your natural good sense resume its influence over 
 passion, my satisfaction would equal my esteem 
 for you." 
 
 " Do not hope it," said Louis, " nor will I wish 
 it— for passion here is virtue." As he spoke, he 
 saw La Motte turn round an augle of the abbey. 
 " The moments are precious," said he, " I am in- 
 terrupted. 0! Adeline, farewell! and say that 
 you will sometimes think of me." 
 
 " Farewell," said Adeline, who was affected by 
 his distress— "farewell! and peace attend you. 
 I will think of you with the affection of a sister." 
 — He sighed deeply, and pressed her hand; when 
 La Motte, winding round another projection of 
 the ruin, again appeared. Adeline left them to- 
 gether, and withdrew to her chamber, oppressed 
 by the scene. Louis's passion and her esteem 
 were too sincere not to inspire her with a strong 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. ]29 
 
 degree of pity for his linhappy attachment. She 
 remained in her chamber till he had quitted the 
 abbey, unwilling to subject him or herself to the 
 pain of a formal parting. 
 
 As evening and the hour of appointment drew 
 nigh, Adeline's impatience increased; yet, when 
 the time arrived, her resolution failed, and she 
 faltered from her purpose. There was some- 
 thing of indelicacy and dissimulation in an ap- 
 pointed interview, en her part, that shocked her. 
 She recollected the tenderness of Theodore's 
 manner, and several little circumstances which 
 seemed to indicate that his heart was not uncon- 
 cerned in the event. Again she was inclined to 
 doubt, whether he had not obtained her consent 
 to this meeting upon some groundless suspicion ; 
 and she almost determined not to go: yet it was 
 possible Theodore's assertion might be sincere, 
 and her danger real; the chance of this made 
 her delicate scruples appear ridicrdous; she won- 
 dered that she had for a moment suffered them 
 to weigh against so serious an interest, and blam- 
 ing herself for the delay they had occasioned, 
 hastened to the place of appointment. 
 
 The little path which led to this spot was silent 
 and solitary, and when she reached the recess, 
 Theodore had not arrived. A transient pride 
 made her unwilling he should find that- she was 
 more punctual to his appointment than himself; 
 and she turned from the recess into a track which 
 wound among the trees to the right. Having 
 walked some way without seeing any person, or 
 hearing a footstep, she returned; but he was not 
 come, and she again left the place. A second 
 time she came back, and Theodore was still ab- 
 sent. Recollecting the time at which she had 
 quitted the abbey she grew uneasy, and calcula- 
 ted that the hour appointed was now much ex- 
 ceeded. She was offended and perplexed: but 
 she seated herself on the turf, and was resolved 
 to wait the event. After remaining here till the 
 
130 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 fall of twilight, in fruitless expectation, her pride 
 became more alarmed; she feared that he had 
 discovered something of the partiality he had in- 
 spired, and believing that he now treated her 
 ■with purposed neglect, she quitted the place with 
 disgust iindrijelf-accusation. 
 
 When tli,ese emotions subsided, and reason re- 
 sumed its Influence, she blushed for what she 
 termed ••this childish effervescence of self-love. 
 She recollected, as if for the first time, these 
 words of Theodore: " I fear you are deceived, 
 and that some danger is near you." Her judg- 
 ement now acquitted the offender, and she saw 
 fQp$ : the friend, The import of these words, 
 ywJiose truth she no longer doubted, again alarm- 
 ;«J,her. Why did he trouble himself to come 
 'wemthe chateau on purpose to hint her danger, 
 if he did not wish to preserve her? And if he 
 wished to preserve her, what but necessity could 
 have withheld him from the appointment? 
 
 These reflections decided her at once. She re- 
 solved to repair on the following day at the same 
 hour to the recess, whither the interest which 
 she believed him to take in her fate would, no 
 doubt, conduct him in the hope of meeting her. 
 — That some evil hovered over her she could not 
 disbelieve; but what it might be she was unable 
 to guess. Monsieur and Madame La Motte were 
 her friends, aud who else, removed as she now 
 thought herself, beyond the reach of her father, 
 could injure her? But why did Theodore say 
 she was deceived? She found it impossible to 
 extricate herself from the labyrinth of conjec- 
 ture, but endeavoured to command her anxiety 
 till the following evening. In the mean time 
 she engaged herself in efforts to amuse Madame 
 La Motte, who required some relief, after the 
 departure of her son. Thus oppressed by her 
 own cares, and interested by those of Madame 
 La Motte, Adeline retired to rest. She soon lost 
 her recollection, but it was only to fall into 
 
THE R03IANCE OF THE FOREST. 131 
 
 Harassed slumbers, such as but too often haunt 
 the couch of the unhappy. At length her per- 
 turbed fancy suggested the following dream :— 
 
 She thought she was in a large old chamber 
 belonging to the abbey, more ancient and deso- 
 late, though in part furnished, than any she had 
 yet seen. It was strongly barricadoed, yet no 
 person appeared. While she stood musing and 
 surveying the apartment, she heard a low voice 
 call her, and looking towards the place, whence 
 it came, she perceived by the dim light of a 
 lamp, a figure stretched on a bed that lay on the 
 floor. The voice called again, and approaching 
 the bed, she distinctly saw the features of a' man 
 who appeared to be dying, A ghastly paleness 
 overspread his countenance, yet there was an 
 expression of mildness and dignity in it, which 
 strongly interested her. 
 
 While she looked on him his features changed, 
 and seemed convulsed in the agonies of death. 
 The spectacle shocked her, and she started If&cjkj 
 but he suddenly stretched forth his hand, and 
 seizing hers, grasped it with violence: she strug- 
 gled in terror to disengage herself, and again, 
 looking on his face, saw a man, who appeared to 
 be about thirty, with the- same features, but in - 
 full health, and of a most benign countenance. 
 He smiled tenderly upon her, and moved his lips, 
 as if to speak, when the floor of the chamber 
 suddenly opened, and he sunk from her view. 
 The effort she made to save herself from follow- 
 ing, awoke her. — This dream had so strongly im- 
 pressed her fancy, that it was some time before 
 she could overcome the terror it occasioned, or 
 even be perfectly convinced she was in her own 
 apartment. At length, however, she composed 
 herself to sleep; again she fell into a dream. 
 
 She thought she was bewildered in some wind- 
 ing passages of the abbey; that it was almost 
 dark, and that she wandered about a considera- 
 ble time, without being able to find a door. Sud- 
 
]32 TIIE ROMANCE 0? THE TOREST. 
 
 denly she heard a bell toll from above, and soon 
 after a confusion of distant voices. She redou- 
 bled her efforts to extricate herself. Presently all 
 ■was still, and at length, wearied with the search, 
 she sat down on a step that crossed the passage. 
 She had not been long here when she saw a light 
 glimmer at a distance on the walls; but a turn in 
 the passage, which was very long, prevented her 
 seeing from what it proceeded. It continued to 
 glimmer faintly for some time, and then grew 
 stronger, when she saw a man enter the passage, 
 habited in a long black cloak, like those usually 
 worn by attendants at funerals, and bearing a 
 torch. He called to her to follow him, and led her 
 through a long passage, to the foot of a stair case. 
 Here she feared to proceed, and was running 
 back, when the man suddenly turned to pursue 
 her, and with the terror which this occasioned, 
 she awoke. 
 
 Shocked by these visions, and more so by their 
 seeming connexion, which now struck her, she 
 endeavoured to continue awake, lest their terrific 
 images should again haunt her mind: after some 
 time, however, her harassed spirits again sunk 
 into slumber, though not to repose. 
 
 She now thought' herself in a large old gallery, 
 and saw at one "end of it a chamber door stand- 
 ing a little open, and a light within: she went 
 towards it, and perceived the man she had before 
 seen, standing at the door, and beckoning her to- 
 wards him. With the inconsistency so common 
 in dreams, she no longer endeavoured to avoid 
 him, but advancing followed him into a suite of 
 very ancient apartments, hung with black, and 
 lighted up as if for a funeral. Still he led her on, 
 till she found herself in the same chamber she 
 remembered to have seen in her former dream: 
 a coffin covered with a pall, stood at the farther 
 end of the room; some lights, and several per- 
 sons surrounded it, who appeared to be in great 
 3 istress. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 133 
 
 Suddenly she thought these persons were all 
 gone, and that she was left alone; that she went 
 up to the coffin, and while she gazed upon it, she 
 heard a voice speak as if from within, but saw 
 nobody. The man she had before seen, soon 
 after stood by the coffin, and lifting the pall, she 
 saw beneath it a dead person, whom she thought 
 to be the dying chevalier she had seen in her 
 former dream: his features were sunk in death, 
 but they were yet serene. While she looked at 
 him a stream of blood gushed from his side, and 
 descending to the floor, the whole chamber was 
 overflowed; at the same time some words were 
 uttered in the voice she heard before; but the 
 horror of the scene so entirely overcame her, 
 that she started and awoke. 
 
 When she had recovered her recollection, she 
 raised herself in the bed, to be convinced it was 
 a dream she had witnessed; and the agitation of 
 her spirits was so great that she feared to be 
 alone, and almost determined to call Annette. 
 The features of the deceased person, and the 
 chamber where he lay, were strongly impressed 
 upon her memory, and she still thought she 
 heard the voice, and saw the countenance which 
 her dream represented. The longer she consid- 
 ered these dreams, the more she was surprised: 
 they were so very terrible, returned so often, and 
 seemed to be so connected with each other, that 
 she could scarcely think them accidental; yet, 
 why they should be supernatural, she could not 
 tell. She slept no more that night. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When Adeline appeared at breakfast, her har- 
 assed and languid countenance struck Madame 
 La Motte, who inquired if ,she was ill. Adeline, 
 forcing a smile upon her features, said she had 
 9 
 
134 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 not rested well, for that she had had very disturb- 
 ed dreams: she was about to describe them, but 
 a strong involuntary impulse prevented her. At 
 the same time La Motte ridiculed her concern so 
 unmercifully, that she was almost ashamed to 
 have mentioned it, and tried to overcome the re- 
 membrance of its cause. 
 
 After breakfast she endeavoured to employ her 
 thoughts by conversing with Madame La Motte; 
 but they were really engaged by the incidents 
 of the last two days; the circumstance of her 
 dreams, and her conjectures concerning the in- 
 formation to be communicated to her by Theo- 
 dore. They had thus sat for some time, when a 
 sound of voices arose from the great gate of the 
 abbey; and, on going to the casement, Adeline 
 saw the Marquis and his attendants on the lawn 
 below. The portal of the abbey concealed seve- 
 ral people from her view, and among these it was 
 possible might be Theodore, who had not yet ap- 
 peared: she continued to look for him with great 
 anxiety, till the Marquis entered the hall with 
 La Motte and some other persons, soon after 
 which Madame La Motte went to receive him, 
 and Adeline retired to her own apartment. 
 
 A message from La Motte, however, soon 
 called her to join the party, where she vainly 
 hoped to find Theodore. The Marquis arose as 
 she approached, and, having paid her some gen- 
 eral compliments, the conversation took a very 
 lively turn. Adeline, finding it impossible to 
 counterfeit cheerfulness while her heart was 
 sinking with anxiety and disappointment, took 
 little part in it: Theodore was not once named. 
 She would have asked concerning him, had it 
 been possible to inquire with propriety; but she 
 was obliged to content herself with hoping, first, 
 that he would arrive before dinner, and then, be- 
 fore the departure of the Marquis. 
 
 Thus the day passed in expectation and dis- 
 appointment- The evening was now approaching, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 135 
 
 and she was condemned to remain in the pre- 
 sence of the Marquis, apparently listening to a 
 conversation, which, in truth, she scarcely heard, 
 •while the. opportunity was, perhaps, escaping, 
 that would decide her fate. She was suddenly 
 relieved from this state of torture, and thrown 
 into one, if possible, still more distressing. 
 
 The Marquis inquired for Louis, and being in- 
 formed of his departure, mentioned that Theo- 
 dore Peyrou had that morning set out for his 
 regiment in a distant province. He lamented 
 the loss he should sustain by his absence; and 
 expressed some very flattering praise of his 
 talents. The shock of this intelligence overpow- 
 ered the long-agitated spirits of Adeline; the 
 blood forsook her cheeks, and a sudden faintness 
 came over her, from which she recovered only to 
 a consciousness of having betrayed her emotion, 
 and the danger of relapsing into a second fit. 
 
 She retired to her chamber, where, being once 
 more alone, her oppressed heart found relief 
 from tears, in which she freely indulged. Ideas 
 crowded so fast upon her mind, that it was long 
 ere she could arrange them so as to produce any 
 thing like reasoning. She endeavomed to ac- 
 count for the abrupt departure of Theodore. 
 "Is it possible," said she, "that he should take 
 an interest in iny welfare, and yet leave me ex- 
 posed to the full force of a danger which he him- 
 self foresaw! Or am I to believe that he has tri- 
 fled with my simplicity for an idle frolic, and has 
 now left me to the wondering apprehension he 
 has raised? Impossible! a countenance so noble, 
 and manners so amiable, could never disguise a 
 heart capable of forming so despicable a design. 
 No! — whatever is reserved for me, let me not re- 
 linquish the pleasure of believing that he is wor^ 
 thy of my esteem." 
 
 She was awakened from thoughts like these bj 
 a peal of distant thunder; and now perceivee 
 that the gloominess of evening was deepened bj 
 
136 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the coming storm: it rolled onward, and soon 
 after the lightning began to flash along the cham- 
 ber. Adeline was superior to the affectation of 
 fear, and was not apt to be terrified; but she now 
 felt it unpleasant to be alone, and, hoping that 
 the Marquis might have left the abbey, she went 
 down to the sitting-room; but the threatening 
 aspect of the heavens had hitherto detained him, 
 and now the evening tempest made him rejoice 
 that he had not quitted a shelter. The storm 
 continued, and night came on. La Motte pressed 
 his guest to take a bed at the abbey, and he at 
 length consented; a circumstance which threw 
 Madame La Motte into some perplexity, as to 
 the accommodation to be afforded him. After 
 some time she arranged the affair to her satisfac- 
 tion, resigning her own apartment to the Marquis, 
 and that of Louis to two of his superior atten- 
 dants: Adeline, it was farther settled, should 
 give up her room to Monsieur and Madame La 
 Motte, and remove to an inner chamber, where a 
 small bed. usually occupied by Annette, was 
 placed for her. 
 
 At supper the Marquis was less gay than usual ; 
 he frequently addressed Adeline, and his look 
 and manner seemed to express the tender inter- 
 est which her indisposition (for she still appeared 
 pale and languid) had excited. Adeline, as 
 usual, made an effort to forget her anxiety, and 
 appear happy; but the veil of assumed cheerful- 
 ness was too thin to conceal the feature* of sor- 
 row, and her feeble smiles only added a peculiar 
 softness to her air. The Marquis convei'sed with 
 her on a variety of subjects, and displayed an 
 elegant mind. The observations of Adeline, 
 which, when called upon, she gave with modest 
 reluctance, in words at once simple and forcible, 
 seemed to excite his admiration, which he some- 
 times betrayed by an apparently inadvertent 
 expression. 
 
 Adeline retired early to her room, which ad- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. }37 
 
 joined on one side to Madame La Motte's, and on 
 the other to the closet formerly mentioned. It 
 -was spacious and lofty, and what little furniture 
 it contained was falling to decay; but perhaps 
 the present tone of her spirits might contribute 
 more than these circumstances to give that ah' of 
 melancholy which seemed to reign in it. She 
 was unwilling to go to bed, lest the dreams that 
 had lately pursued her should return; and de- 
 termined to sit up till she found herself oppressed 
 by sleep, when it was probable her rest would be 
 profound. She placed the light on a small table, 
 and, taking a book, continued to read for above 
 an hour, till her mind refused any longer to ab- 
 stract itself from its own cares, and she sat for 
 some time leaning pensively on her arm. 
 
 The wind was high, and as it whistled through 
 the desolate apartment, and shook the feeble 
 doors, she often started, and sometimes even 
 thought she heard sighs in the pauses of the 
 gust ; but she checked these illusions, which the 
 horn- of the night, and her own melancholy ima- 
 gination, conspired to raise. As she sat musing, 
 her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, she perceived 
 the arras, with which the room was hung, wave 
 backwards and forwards; she continued to ob- 
 serve it for some minutes, and then rose to exa- 
 mine it farther. It was moved by the wind, and 
 she blushed at the momentary fear it had ex- 
 cited: but she observed that the tapestry was 
 more strongly agitated in one particular place 
 than elsewhere, and a noise that seeniedj. some- 
 thing more than that of the wind, issued thence. 
 The old bedstead which La Motte had found in 
 this apartment, had been removed to accommo- 
 date Adeline, and it was behind the place where 
 this had stood, that the wind seemed to rush with 
 particular force; curiosity prompted her to ex- 
 amine still farther: she felt about the tapestry, 
 and perceiving the wall behind shake under her 
 hand, she lifted the arras, and discovered a small 
 
133 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 door, whose loosened hinges admitted the wind, 
 and occasioned the noise she had heard. 
 
 The door was held only by a bolt, having un- 
 drawn which, and brought the light, she descend- 
 ed by a few steps into another chamber: she in- 
 stantly remembered her dreams. The chamber 
 was not much like that in which she had seen 
 the dying chevalier, and afterwards the bier; 
 but it gave her a confused remembrance of one 
 through which she had passed. Holding up the 
 light to examine it more fully, she was convinced, 
 by its structure, that it was part of the ancient 
 foundation. A shattered casement, placed high 
 from the floor, seemed to be the only opening to 
 admit light. She observed a door on the oppo- 
 site side of the apartment; and after some mo- 
 ments of hesitation, gained courage, and deter- 
 mined to pursue the inquiry. " A mystery seems 
 to hang over these chambers," said she, " which 
 it is, perhaps, my lot to develope; I will at least 
 see to what that door leads." 
 
 She stepped forward, and having unclosed it, 
 proceeded with faltering steps along a suite of 
 apartments, resembling the first in style and con- 
 dition, and terminating in one exactly like that 
 where her dream had represented the dying per- 
 son. The remembrance struck so forcibly upon 
 her imagination, that she was in danger of faint- 
 ing; and looking round the room, almost expect- 
 ed to see the phantom of her dream. 
 
 Unable to quit the place, she sat down on some 
 old lumber, to recover herself, while her spirits 
 were nearly overcome by a superstitious dread, 
 such as she had never felt before. She wondered 
 to what part of the abbey these chambers be- 
 longed, and that they had so long escaped detec- 
 tion. The casements were all too high to afford 
 any information from without. When she was 
 sufficiently composed to consider the direction of 
 the rooms, and the situation of the abbey, there 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 139 
 
 appeared not a doubt that they formed an inte- 
 rior part of the original building. 
 
 As these reflections passed over her mind, a 
 sudden gleam of moonlight fell upon some object 
 without the casement. Being now sufficiently 
 composed to wish to pursue the inquiry, and be- 
 lieving this object might afford her some means 
 of learning the situation of these rooms, she com- 
 bated her remaining terrors, and, in order to dis- 
 tinguish it more clearly, removed the light to an 
 outer chamber; but before she could return, a 
 heavy cloud was driven over the face of tha 
 moon, and all without was perfectly dark: she 
 stood for some moments waiting a returning 
 gleam, but the obscurity continued. As she 
 went softly back for the light, her foot stumbled 
 over something on the floor, and while she stoop- 
 ed to examine it, the moon again shone, so that 
 she could distinguish through the casement the 
 eastern towers of the abbey. This discovery 
 confirmed her former conjectures concerning the 
 interior situation of these apartments. The ob- 
 scurity of the place prevented her discovering 
 what it was that had impeded her steps; but 
 having brought the light forward, she perceived 
 on the floor an old dagger: with a trembling 
 hand she took it up, and upon a closer view per- 
 ceived that it was spotted and stained with rust. 
 
 Shocked and surprised, she looked round the 
 room for some object that might confirm or de- 
 stroy the dreadful suspicion which now rushed 
 upon her mind; but she saw only a great chair, 
 with broken arms, that stood in one corner of 
 the room, and a table in a condition equally shat- 
 tered, except that in another part lay a confused 
 heap of things, which appeared to be old lumber. 
 She went up to it, and perceived a broken bed- 
 stead, with some decayed remnants of furniture, 
 covered with dust and cobwebs, and which seem- 
 ed, iudeed, as if they had not been moved for 
 many years. Desirous, however, of examining 
 
140 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 farther, she attempted to raise what appeared to 
 have been part of the bedstead, but it slipped 
 from her hand, and, rolling on the floor, brought 
 with it some of the remaining lumber. Adeline 
 started aside, and saved herself; and when the 
 noise it made had ceased, she heard a low rust- 
 ling sound, and as she was about to leave the 
 chamber, saw something falling gently among 
 tho lumber. 
 
 It was a small roll of paper, tied with a string 
 and covered with dust. Adeline took it up, and 
 on opening it perceived an hand-writing. She 
 attempted to read it, but the part of the manu- 
 script she looked at was so much obliterated that 
 she found this difficult, though what few words 
 were legible impressed her with curiosity and 
 terror, and induced her to return with it imme- 
 diately to her chamber. 
 
 Having reached her own room, she fastened 
 the private door, and let the arras fall over it as 
 before. It was now midnight. The stillness of 
 the hour, interrupted only at intervals by the 
 hollow sighings of the blast, heightened the solem- 
 nity of Adeline's feelings. She wished she was 
 not alone, and before she proceeded to look into 
 the manuscript, listened whether Madame La 
 Motte was yet in her chamber: not the least 
 sound was heard, and she gently opened the 
 door. The profound silence within almost con- 
 vinced her that no person was there; but willing 
 to be farther satisfied, she brought the light and 
 found the room empty. The lateness of the 
 hour made her wonder that Madame La Motte 
 was not in her chamber, and she proceeded to 
 the top of the tower stairs, to hearken if any per- 
 son was stirring. 
 
 She heard the sound of voices from below, and, 
 amongst the rest, that of La Motte speaking in 
 his usual tone. — Being now satisfied that all was 
 well, she turned towards her room, when she 
 heard the Marquis pronounce her name with 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 141 
 
 very unusual emphasis. She paused. " I adore 
 her," pursued he, "and by heaven" — He was in- 
 terrupted by La Motte: "My Lord, remember 
 your promise." 
 
 "I do," replied the Marquis, "and I will 
 abide by it. But we trifle. To-morrow I will 
 declare myself, and I shall then know both what 
 to hope and how to act. " Adeline trembled so 
 excessively, that she could scarcely support her- 
 self. She wished to return to her chamber; yet 
 she was too much interested in the words she had 
 heard, not to be anxious to have them more fully 
 explained. There was an interval of silence, 
 after which they conversed in a lower tone. 
 Adeline remembered the hints of Theodore, and 
 determined, if possible, to be relieved from the 
 terrible suspense she now suffered. She stole 
 softly down a few steps, that she might catch the 
 accents of the speakers; but they were so low, 
 that she could only now and then distinguish a 
 few words. "Her father, say you?" said the 
 Marquis. "Yes, my Lord, her father. I am 
 well informed of what I say." — Adeline shudder- 
 ed at the mention of her father; a new terror 
 seized her, and with increasing eagerness she 
 endeavoured to distinguish their words, but for 
 some time found this to be impossible. "Here 
 is no time to be lost," said the Marquis; "to- 
 morrow then." She heard La Motte rise, and, 
 believing it was to leave the room, she hurried 
 up the steps, and having reached her chamber, 
 sunk almost lifeless in a chair. 
 
 It was her father only of whom she thought. 
 She doubted not that he had pursued and discover- 
 ed her retreat, and, though this conduct appeared 
 very inconsistent with his former behaviour in 
 abandoning her to strangers, her fears suggested 
 that it Avould terminate in some new cruelty. 
 She did not hesitate to pronounce this the danger 
 of which Theodore had warned her; but it was 
 impossible to surmise how he had gained hia 
 
142 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 knowledge of it, or how he had become suffi- 
 ciently acquainted with her story, except through 
 La Motte, her apparent friend and protector, 
 whom she was thus, though unwillingly, led to 
 Suspect of treachery. Why, indeed, should La 
 Motte conceal from her only his knowledge of 
 her father's intention, unless he designed to de- 
 liver her into his hands? Yet it was long ere she 
 could bring herself to believe this conclusion pos- 
 sible. To discover depravity in those whom we 
 have loved, is one of the most exquisite tortures 
 to a virtuous mind, and the conviction is often 
 rejected before it is finally admitted. 
 
 The words of Theodore, which told her he 
 was fearful she was deceived, confirmed this 
 most painful apprehension of La Motte, with 
 another yet more distressing — that Madame La 
 Motte was also united against her. This thought 
 for a moment subdued terror, and left her only 
 grief; she wept bitterly. " Is this human na- 
 ture? " cried she. " Am I doomed to find every 
 body deceitful?" An unexpected discovery of 
 vice, in those whom we have admired, inclines 
 us to extend our censure of the individual to the 
 species; we henceforth contemn appearances, 
 and too hastily conclude that no person is to be 
 trusted. 
 
 Adeline determined to throw herself at the 
 feet of La Motte on the following morning, and 
 implore his pity and protection. Her mind was 
 now too much agitated by her own interests, to 
 permit her to examine the manuscript, and she 
 sat musing in her chair till she heai-d the steps of 
 Madame La Motte, when she retired to bed. 
 La Motte soon after came up to his chamber, and 
 Adeline, the mild, persecuted Adeline, who had 
 now passed two days of torturing anxiety, and 
 one night of terrific visions, endeavoured to com- 
 pose her mind to sleep. In the present state of 
 her spirits she quickly caught alarm, and she had 
 scarcely fallen into a slumber, when she was 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 143 
 
 roused by a loud and uncommon noise. She lis- 
 tened, and thought the sound came from the 
 apartments below; but in a few minutes there 
 was a hasty knocking at the door of La Motte's 
 chamber. 
 
 La Motte, who had just fallen asleep, was not 
 easily to be roused; but the knocking increased 
 with such violence, that Adeline, extremely ter- 
 rified, arose and went to the door that opened 
 from her chamber into his, with a design to call 
 him. She was stopped by the voice of the Mar- 
 quis, which she now clearly distinguished at the 
 outer door. He called to La Motte to arise im- 
 mediately, and Madame La Motte endeavoured 
 at the same time to rouse her husband, who at 
 length awoke in much alarm, and soon after join- 
 ing the Marquis, they went down stairs together. 
 Adeline now dressed herself, as well as her trem- 
 bling hands would permit, and went into the ad- 
 joining chamber, where she found Madame La 
 Motte extremely surprised and terrified. 
 
 The Marquis, in the meantime, told La Motte, 
 with great agitation, that he recollected having 
 appointed some persons to meet him upon busi- 
 ness of importance early in the morning, and it 
 was therefore necessary for him to set off for his 
 chateau immediately. As he said this, and de- 
 sired that his servants might be called, La Motte 
 could not help observing the ashy paleness of his 
 countenance, on expressing some apprehension 
 that his Lordship was ill. The Marquis assured 
 him he was perfectly well, but desired that he 
 might set cut immediately. Peter was now or- 
 dered to call the other servants; and the Marquis, 
 having refused to take any refreshment, bade La 
 Motte a hasty adieu, and as soon as his people 
 were ready, left the abbey. 
 
 La Motte returned to his chamber, musing on 
 the abrupt departure of his guest, whose emotion 
 appeared much too strong to proceed from the 
 cause assigned. He appeased the anxiety of Ma- 
 
144 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 dame La Motte, and at the same time excited her 
 surprise, by acquainting her with the occasion of 
 the late disturbance. Adeline, who had retired 
 from the chamber on the approach of La Motte, 
 looked out from her window on hearing the tram- 
 pling of horses. It was the Marquis and his peo- 
 ple who just then passed at a little distance. Un- 
 able to distinguish who the persons were, she was 
 alarmed by observing such a party about the ab- 
 bey at that hour, and, calling to inform La Motte 
 of the circumstance, was made acquainted with 
 what had passed. 
 
 At length, she retired to her bed, and her slum- 
 bers were this night undisturbed by dreams. 
 
 When she arose in the morning, she observed 
 La Motte walking alone in the avenue below, and 
 she hastened to seize the opportunity which now 
 offered of pleading her cause. She approached 
 him with faltering steps, while the paleness and 
 timidity of her countenance discovered the disor- 
 der of her mind. Her first words, without enter- 
 ing upon any explanation, implored his compas- 
 sion. La Motte stopped, and looking earnestly 
 in her face, inquired whether any part of his con- 
 duct towards her merited the suspicion which her 
 request implied. Adeline for a aioment blushed 
 that she had doubted his integrity; but the words 
 she had overheard returned to her memory. 
 
 " Your behaviour, Sir," said she, " I acknow- 
 ledge to have been kind and generous, beyond 
 what I had a right to expect; but," — and she 
 paused. She knew not how to mention what she 
 blushed to believe. La Motte continued to gaze 
 on her in silent expectation, and at length desired 
 her to proceed and explain her meaning. She 
 entreated that he would protect her from her 
 father. La Motte looked surprised and confused. 
 " Your father !" said he.—" Yes, Sir," replied Ade- 
 line; " I am not ignorant that he has discovered 
 my retreat. I have every thing to dread from a 
 arent who has treated me with such cruelty as 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 145 
 
 you was witness of; and I again implore that yon 
 will save me from his hands." 
 
 La Motte stood fixed in thought, and Adeline 
 continued her endeavours to interest his pity. 
 " What reason have you to suppose, or rather, 
 how have you learned, that your father pursues 
 you?" The question confused Adeline, who blush- 
 ed to acknowledge that she had overheard his 
 discourse, and disdained to invent, or utter a fal- 
 sity: at length she confessed the truth. The 
 countenance of La Motte instantly changed to a 
 savage fierceness, and, sharply rebuking her for a 
 conduct, to which she had been rather tempted 
 by chance than prompted by design, he inquired 
 what she had overheard, that could so much alarm 
 her. She faithfully repeated the substance of the 
 incoherent sentences that had met her ear: while 
 she spoke, he regarded her with a fixed attention. 
 "And was this all you heard? Is it from these 
 few words that you' draw such a positive conclu- 
 sion? Examine'them, and you will find they do 
 not justify it." 
 
 She now perceived, what the fervour of her 
 fears had not permitted her to observe before, 
 that the words, unconnectedly as she heard them^ 
 imported little, and that her imagination had fill- 
 ed up the void in the sentences, so as to suggest 
 the evil apprehended. Notwithstanding this, her 
 fears were little abated. " Your apprehensions 
 are, doubtless, now removed," resumed La Motte ; 
 "but to give you a proof of the sincerity which 
 you have ventured to question, i will tell you 
 they were just. You seem alarmed, and with 
 reason. Your father has discovered your resi- 
 dence, and has already demanded you. It is 
 true, that, from a motive of compassion, I "have 
 refused to resign you, but I have neither autho- 
 rity to withhold, or means to defend you. When 
 he comes to enforce his demand, you will per- 
 ceive this. Prepare yourself, therefore, for the 
 evil, which you see is inevitable." 
 
US THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 Adeline for some time could speak only by her 
 tears. At length, with a fortitude which despair 
 had roused, she said, " I resign myself to the will 
 of Heaven!" La Motte gazed on her in silence, 
 and a strong emotion appeared on his counte- 
 nance. He forbore, however, to renew the dis- 
 course, and withdrew to the abbey, leaving Ade- 
 line in the avenue, absorbed in grief. 
 
 A summons to breakfast hastened her to the 
 parlour, where she passed the morning in conver- 
 sation with Madame La Motte, to whom she told 
 all her apprehensions, and expressed all her sor- 
 row. Pity and superficial consolation were all 
 that Madame La Motte could offer, though appa- 
 rently much affected by Adeline's discourse. 
 Thus the hours passed heavily away, while the 
 anxiety of Adeline continued to increase, and 
 the moment of her fate seemed fast approaching. 
 Dinner was scarcely over, when Adeline was sur- 
 prised to see the Marquis arrive. He entered 
 the room with his usual ease, and apologising for 
 the disturbance he had occasioned on the pre- 
 ceding night, repeated what he had before told 
 La Motte. 
 
 The remembrance of the conversation she had 
 overheard, at first gave Adeline some confusion, 
 and withdrew her mind from a sense of the evils 
 to be apprehended from her father. The Mar- 
 quis, who was, as usual, attentive to Adeline, 
 seemed affected by her apparent indisposition, 
 and expressed much concern for that dejection 
 of spirits, which, notwithstanding every effort, 
 her manner betrayed. When Madame La Motte 
 withdrew, Adeline would have followed her; but 
 the Marquis entreated a few moments' attention, 
 and led her back to her seat. La Motte imme- 
 diately disappeared. 
 
 Adeline knew too well what would be the pur- 
 port of the Marquis's discourse, and his words 
 soon increased the confusion which her fears had 
 occasioned.— While he was declaring the ardour 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 147 
 
 of his passion, in such terms as but too often 
 make vehemence pass for sincerity, Adeline, to 
 ■whom this declaration, if honourable, was dis- 
 tressing, and if dishonourable, was shocking;, in- 
 terrupted him, and thanked him for the offer of 
 a distinction, which, with a modest but deter- 
 mined air, she said she must refuse. She rose to 
 ■withdraw. "Stay, too lovely Adeline!" said he, 
 " and if compassion for my sufferings will not in- 
 terest you in my favour, allow a consideration of 
 your own dangers to do so. Monsieur La Motte 
 has informed me of your misfortunes, aud of the 
 evil that now threatens you; accept from me the 
 protection which he cannot afford."' 
 
 Adeline continued to move towards the door, 
 when the Marquis threw himself at her feet, and 
 seizing her hand, impressed it with kisses. She 
 struggled to disengage herself. " Hear me, charm- 
 ing Adeline! hear me," cried the Marquis: "i 
 exist but for you. Listen to my entreaties, and 
 my fortune shall be your's. Do not drive me to 
 despair by ill-judged rigour, or, because — " 
 
 " My Lord," interrupted Adeline, with an air 
 of ineffable dignity, and still affecting to believe 
 his proposal honourable, " I am sensible of the 
 generosity of your conduct, and also flattered by 
 the distinction you offer me. I will, therefore, 
 say something more than is necessary to a bare 
 expression of the denial which I must continue 
 to give. I cannot bestow my heart. You cannot 
 obtain more than my esteem, to which, indeed, 
 nothing can so much contribute as a forbearance 
 from any similar offers in future." 
 
 She again attempted to go, but the Marquis 
 prevented her, and, after some hesitation, again 
 urged his suit, though in terms that would no 
 longer allow her to misunderstand hiin. Tears 
 swelled into her eyes, but she endeavoured to 
 check them, and with a look, in which grief and 
 indignation seemed to struggle for pre-eminence, 
 
148 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 she said, "My Lord, this is unworthy of reply; 
 let me pass.' 5 
 
 For a moment he was awed by the dignity of 
 her manner, and he threw himself at her feet, to 
 implore forgiveness. But she waved her hand in 
 silence, and hurried from the room. When she 
 reached her chamber, she locked the door, and, 
 sinking into a chair, yielded to the sorrow that 
 preyed at her heart. And it was not the least 
 of her sorrow to suspect that La Motte was un- 
 worthy of her confidence; for it was almost im- 
 possible that he could be ignorant of the real de- 
 signs of the Marquis. Madame La Motte, she 
 believed, was imposed upon by a specious pre- 
 tence of honourable attachment; and thus was 
 she spared the pang which a doubt of her integ- 
 rity would have added. 
 
 She threw a trembling glance upon the prospect 
 around her. On one side was her father, whose 
 cruelty had already been too plainly manifested; 
 and on the other, the Marquis pursuing her with 
 insult and vicious passion. She resolved to ac- 
 quaint Madame La Motte with the purport of the 
 late conversation, and, in the hope of her protec- 
 tion and sympathy, she wiped away her tears, 
 and was leaving the room just as Madame La 
 Motte entered it. While Adeline related what 
 had passed, her friend wept, and appeared to suf- 
 fer great agitation. She endeavoured to comfort 
 her, and promised to use her influence in per- 
 suading La Motte to prohibit the addresses of 
 the Marquis. " You know, my dear," added 
 Madame, " that our present circumstances oblige 
 us to preserve terms with the Marquis, and you 
 will, therefore, suffer as little resentment to'ap- 
 pear in your manner towards him as possible; 
 conduct yourself with your usual ease in his pre- 
 sence, and I doubt not this affair will pass over, 
 without subjecting you to farther solicitation." 
 
 "Ah, Madame!" said Adeline, " how hard is the 
 task -you assign me! I entreat you that I may 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 149 
 
 never move be subjected to the humiliation of 
 
 being in his presence; that, whenever he visits 
 the abbey, I may be suffered to remain in my 
 chamber." 
 
 " This," said Madame La Motte, " I would 
 most readily consent to, would our situation per- 
 mit it. But you well know our asylum in this 
 abbey depends upon the good will of the Mar- 
 quis, which we must not wantonly lose; and 
 surely such a conduct as you propose would en- 
 danger this. Let us use milder measures, and 
 we shall preserve his friendship, without subject- 
 ing you to any serious evil. Appear with your 
 usual complaisance; the task is not so difiictilt 
 as you imagine." 
 
 Adeline sighed. " I obey you, Madame," said 
 she; "it is my duty to do so; but I may be par- 
 doned for saying — it is with extreme reluctance." 
 Madame La Motte promised to go immediately 
 to her husband, and Adeline departed, though 
 not convinced of her safety, yet somewhat more 
 at ease. 
 
 She soon after saw the Marquis depart; and, 
 as there now appeared to be no obstacle to the 
 return of Madame La Motte, she expected her 
 with extreme impatience. After thus waiting 
 near an hour in her chamber, she was at length 
 summoned to the parlour, and there found Mon- 
 sieur La Motte alone. He arose upon her en- 
 trance, and for some minutes paced the room in, 
 silence. He then seated himself, and addressed 
 her. " What you have mentioned to Madame 
 La Motte," said he, " would give me much con- 
 cern, did I consider the behaviour of the Marquis 
 in a light so serious as she does. I know that 
 young ladies are apt to misconstrue the unmean- 
 ing gallantry of fashionable manners; and you, 
 Adeline, can never be too cautious in distinguish- 
 ing between a levity of this kind, and a more se- 
 rious address." 
 
 10 
 
150 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Adeline was surprised and offended that La 
 Motte should think so lightly both of her under- 
 standing and disposition as his speech implied. 
 " Is it possible, Sir," said she, " that you have 
 been apprised of the Marquis's conduct?" 
 
 " It is very possible, and very certain," replied 
 La Motte, with some asperity; "and very possible, 
 also, that I may see this affair with a judgment 
 less discoloured by prejudice than you do. But, 
 however, I shall not dispute this point. I shall 
 only request, that, since you are acquainted with 
 the emergency of my circumstances, you will 
 conform to them, and not, by an ill-timed resent- 
 ment, expose me to the enmity of the Marquis. 
 He is now my friend, and it is necessary to my 
 safety that he should continue such ; but if I suf- 
 fer any part of my family to treat him with mde- 
 ness, I must expect to see him my enemy. You 
 may surely treat him with complaisance." A de- 
 line thought the term rudeness a harsh one, as La 
 Motte applied it; but she forbore from any ex- 
 pression of displeasure. " I coidd have wished, 
 Sir," said she, "for the privilege of retiring 
 whenever the Marquis appeared; but since you 
 believe this conduct would affect your interest, I 
 ought to submit." 
 
 " This prudence and good-will delight me," 
 Raid La Motte; " and since you wish to serve me, 
 know that you cannot more effectually do it, than 
 by treating the Marquis as a friend." The word 
 friend, as it stood connected with the Marquis, 
 sounded dissonantly to Adeline's ear; she hesi- 
 tated, and looked at La Motte. " As your friend, 
 Sir," said she, " I will endeavour to" — treat him 
 as mine, she would have added, but she found it 
 impossible to finish the sentence. She entreated 
 his protection from the power of her father. 
 
 " What protection I can afford is your's," said 
 
 I La Motte; "but you know how destitute I am 
 
 ' both of the right and the means of resisting him, 
 
 and also how much I require protection myself. 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 151 
 
 Since he has discovered your retreat, lie is proba- 
 bly not ignorant of the circumstances which de- 
 tain me here; and if I oppose him, he maj' be- 
 tray me to the officers of the law, as the surest 
 method of obtaining possession of you. We are 
 encompassed with dangers," continued La Motte; 
 "would I could see any method of extricating 
 ourselves!" 
 
 " Quit this abbey," said Adeline, "and seek aa 
 asylum in Switzerland or Germany; you will 
 then be freed from farther obligation'to the Mar- 
 quis, and from the persecution you dread. Par- 
 don me for thus offering advice, which, is certain- 
 ly, in some degree, prompted by a sense of my 
 own safety, but which, at the same time, seems 
 to afford the only means of insuring yours." 
 
 " Your plan is reasonable," said La Motte, 
 " had I money to execute it. As it is, I must be 
 contented to remain here, as little known as pos- 
 sible, and defending myself by making those who 
 know me my friends. Chiefly I must endeavour 
 to preserve the favour of the Marquis. He may 
 do much, should your father even adopt despe- 
 rate measures. But why do I talk thus? Your 
 father may ere this have commenced these mea- 
 sures, and the effects of his vengeance may now 
 be hanging over my head. My regard for you, 
 Adeline, has exposed me to this; had I resigned 
 you to his will, I should have remained secure." 
 
 Adeline was so much affected by this instance 
 of La Motte's kindness, which she could not 
 doubt, that she was unable to express her sense 
 of it. When she could speak, she uttered her 
 gratitude in the most lively terms. " Are you 
 sincere in these expressions?" said La Motte. 
 
 " Is it possible I can be less than sincere?" re- 
 plied Adeline, weeping at the suggestion of in- 
 gratitude.—" Sentiments are easily pronounced," 
 said La Motte, " though they may have no con- 
 nexion with the heart; I believe them to be sin- 
 cere so far only as they influence our actions." 
 
152 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 " What mean you, Shi" said Adeline with sur< 
 prise. 
 
 " I mean to inquire, whether, if an opportunity 
 should ever offer of thus proving your gratitude, 
 you would adhere to your sentiments?" 
 
 " Name one that I shall refuse," said Adeline, 
 with energy. 
 
 " If, for instance, the Marquiss should hereaf- 
 ter avow a serious passion for you, and offer you 
 his hand, would no petty resentment, no lurking 
 prepossession for some more happy lover, prompt 
 you to refuse it?" 
 
 Adeline blushed, and fixed her eyes on the 
 ground. " You have, indeed, Sir, named the only 
 means I should reject of evincing my sincerity. 
 The Marquis I can never love, nor, to speak sin- 
 cerely, ever esteem. I confess the peace of one's 
 whole life is too much to sacrifice, even to grati- 
 tude." — La Motte looked displeased. " 'Tis as I 
 thought," said he; "these delicate sentiments 
 make a fine appearance in speech, and render the 
 person who utters them infinitely amiable: but 
 .bring them to the test of action, and they dis- 
 solve into air, leaving only the wreck of vanity 
 behind." 
 
 This unjust sarcasm brought tears to her eyes. 
 " Since your safety, Sir, depends upon my con- 
 duct," said she, " resign me to my father. I am 
 willing to return to him, since my stay here 
 must involve you in new misfortunes. Let me 
 not prove myself unworthy of the protection I 
 have hitherto experienced, by preferring my own 
 welfare to yours. When I am gone you will 
 have no reason to apprehend the Marquis's dis- 
 pleasure, which you may probably incur if I stay 
 here: for I feel it impossible that I could ever 
 consent to receive his addresses, however hon- 
 ourable were his views." 
 
 La Motte seemed hurt and alarmed. "This 
 must not be," said he; "let us not harass our- 
 selves by stating possible evils, and then, to avoid 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 153 
 
 them, fly to those which are certain. No, Ade- 
 line, though you are ready to sacrifice yourself to 
 my safety, I will not suffer you to do so. I will 
 not yield you to your father, but upon compul- 
 sion. Be satisfied, therefore, upon this point. 
 The only return I ask, is a civil deportment to- 
 wards the Marquis." 
 
 " I will endeavour to obey you, Sir," said Ade- 
 line. — Madame La Motte now entered the room, 
 and this conversation ceased. Adeline passed 
 that evening in melancholy thoughts, and retired 
 as soon as possible to her chamber, eager to seek 
 in sleep a refuge for sorrow. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The MS. found by Adeline the preceding night 
 had several times occurred to her recollection in 
 the course of the day, but she had then been 
 either too much interested by the events of the 
 moment, or too apprehensive of interruption, to 
 attempt a perusal of it. She now took it from 
 the drawer in which it had been deposited, and 
 intending only to look cursorily over the few first 
 pages, sat down with it by her bed-side. 
 
 She opened it with an eagerness of inquiry, 
 which the discoloured and almost obliterated ink- 
 but slowly gratified. The first words on the page 
 were entirely lost; but those that appeared to 
 commence the narrative were as follow. 
 
 " Oh! ye, whoever ye are, whom chance or 
 misfortune may hereafter conduct to this spot- 
 to ye I speak— to ye reveal the story of my 
 wrongs, and ask you to avenge them. Vain 
 hope! yet it imparts some comfort to believe it 
 possible, that what I now write may one day 
 meet the eye of a fellow creature; that the 
 
154 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 words, which tell my sufferings, may on© day 
 draw pity from the feeling heart. 
 
 "Yet stay your tears— your pity now is use- 
 less: long since have the pangs of misery ceased; 
 the voice of complaining is passed away. It is 
 weakness to wish for compassion which cannot 
 be excited till I shall sink in the repose of death; 
 and taste, I hope, the happiness of eternity. 
 
 " Know then, that on the night of the twelfth 
 of October, in the year 1642, I was arrested on 
 the road to Caux, and on the very spot where a 
 column is erected to the memory of the immortal 
 Henry, by four ruffians, who, after disabling my 
 servant, bore me through wilds and woods to 
 this abbey. Their demeanour was not that of 
 common banditti, and I soon perceived they were 
 employed by a superior power to perpetrate some 
 dreadful purpose. Entreaties and bribes were 
 vainly offered them to discover their employ- 
 er, and abandon their design: they would not 
 reveal even the least circumstance of then- inten- 
 tions. 
 
 " But when, after a long journey, they arrived 
 at this edifice, their base employer was at once 
 revealed, and his horrid scheme but too well un- 
 derstood. What a moment Avas that! All the 
 thunders of Heaven seemed launched at this de- 
 fenceless head! Fortitude! nerve my heart 
 to—" 
 
 Adeline's light was now expiring in the socket, 
 and the paleness of the ink so feebly shone upon, 
 baffled her efforts to discriminate the letters ; it 
 was impossible to procure a light from below, 
 without discovering that she was yet up, a cir- 
 cumstance which would excite surprise, and 
 lead to explanations such as she did not wish 
 to enter upon. Thus compelled to suspend the 
 inquiry, which so many attendant circumstances 
 had rendered awfully interesting, she retired to 
 her humble bed. 
 
 What she had read of the MS. awakened a 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 155 
 
 dreadful interest in the fate of the writer, and 
 called up terrific images to her mind. " In these 
 apartments!" — said she, and she shuddered and 
 closed her eyes. At length she heard Madame 
 La Mo:te enter her chamber, and the phantoms 
 of fear beginning to dissipate, left her to repose. 
 
 In the morning she was awakened by Madame 
 La Motte, and found, to her disappointment, that 
 she had slept so much beyond her usual time, as 
 to be unable to renew the perusal of the MS.— ^ 
 La Motte appeared uncommonly gloomy, and 
 Madame wore an air of melancholy, which Ade- 
 line attributed to the concern she felt for her. 
 Breakfast was scarcely over, when the sound of 
 horses' feet announced the arrival of a stranger ; 
 and Adeline, from the oriel recess of the hall, 
 saw the Marquis alight. She retreated with pre- 
 cipitation, and forgetting the request of La Motte, 
 was hastening to her chamber; but the Marquis 
 was already in the hall, and seeing her leaving it, 
 turned to La Motte with a look of inquiry. La 
 Motte called her back, and by a frown too intel- 
 ligent, reminded her of her promise. She sum- 
 moned all her spirits to her aid, but advanced, 
 notwithstanding, in visible emotion, while the 
 Marquis addressed her as usual, the same easy 
 gaiety playing upon his countenance, and direct- 
 ing his manner. 
 
 Adeline was surprised and shocked at this care- 
 less confidence, which, however, by awakening 
 her pride, communicated to her an air of dignity 
 that abashed him. He spoke with hesitation, and 
 frequently appeared abstracted from the subject 
 of discourse. At length arising, he begged Ade- 
 line would favour him with a few moments' con- 
 versation. Monsieur and Madame La Motte were 
 now leaving the room, when Adeline, turning to 
 the Marquis, told him, '''she would not hear any 
 conversation, except in the presence of her 
 friends." But she said this in vain, for they 
 were gone; and La Motte, as he withdrew, ex- 
 
156 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 pressed by his looks how much an attempt to 
 follow would displease him. 
 
 She sat for some time in silence, and trembling 
 expectation. " I am sensible," said the Marquis 
 at length, " that the conduct to which the ardour 
 of my passion lately betrayed me, has injured me 
 in your opinion, and that you will not easily re- 
 store me to your esteem; but I trust the offer 
 which I now make you, both of my title and for- 
 tune, will sufficiently prove the sincerity of my 
 attachment, and atone for the transgression which 
 love only occasioned." 
 
 After this specimen of common-place verbosity, 
 which the Marquis seemed to consider as a pre- 
 lude to triumph, he attempted to impress a kiss 
 upon the hand of Adeline, who, withdrawing it 
 hastily, said, "You are already, my Lord, ac- 
 quainted with my sentiments upon this subject, 
 and it is almost unnecessary for ine now to re- 
 peat, that I cannot accept the honour you offer 
 me." 
 
 "Explain yourself, lovely Adeline! I am ig- 
 norant that till now 1 ever made you this offer." 
 
 "Most true, Sir," said Adeline, "and you do 
 well to remind me of this, since, after having 
 heard your former proposal, I cannot listen for a 
 moment to any other." She rose to quit the 
 room. " Stay, Madame," said the Marquis, with 
 a look in which offended pride struggled to con- 
 ceal itself; " do not suffer an extravagant resent- 
 ment to operate against your true interests; re- 
 collect the dangers that surround you, and consi- 
 der the value of an offer which may afford you at 
 least an honourable asylum." 
 
 " My misfortunes, my Lord, whatever they are, 
 I have never obtruded upon you; you will there- 
 fore excuse my observing, that your present men- 
 tion of them conveys a much greater appearance 
 of insult than compassion." The Marquis, though 
 with evident confusion, was going to reply; but 
 Adeline would not be detaiued, and retired to 
 
THE ROMANCE OF TIIE FOREST. 157 
 
 her chamber. Destitute as she was, her heart 
 revolted from the proposal of the Marquis, and 
 she determined never to accept it. To her dis- 
 like of his general disposition, and the aversion 
 excited by his late offer, were added, indeed, the 
 influence of a prior attachment, and of a remem- 
 brance which she found it impossible to erase 
 from her heart. 
 
 The Marquis stayed to dine, and, in considera- 
 tion of La Motte, Adeline appeared at table; 
 where the former gazed upon her with such fre- 
 quent and silent earnestness, that her distress 
 became insupportable, and when the cloth was 
 drawn, she instantly retired. Madame La Motte 
 soon followed, and it was not till evening that she 
 had an opportunity of returning to the MS. When 
 Monsieur and Madame La Motte were in their 
 chamber, and ali was still, she drew forth the 
 narrative, and, trimming her lamp, sat down to 
 read as follows: 
 
 " The ruffians unbound me from my horse, and 
 led me through the hall up the spiral staircase of 
 the abbey: resistance was useless, but r looked 
 around in the hope of seeing some person less ob- 
 durate than the men who brought me hither; 
 some one who might be sensible to pity, or capa- 
 ble at least of civil treatment. I looked in vain: 
 no person appeared: and this circumstance con- 
 firmed my worst apprehensions. The secresy of 
 the beginning foretold a horrible conclusion. 
 Having passed some chambers, they stopped in 
 one hung with old tapestry. 1 inquired why we 
 did not go on, and was told, I should soon know. 
 
 "At that moment I expected to see the instru- 
 ment of death uplifted, and I silently recom- 
 mended myself to God. But death Avas not then 
 designed for me; they raised the arras, and dis- 
 covered a door, which they then opened. Seiz- 
 ing my arms, they led me through a suite of 
 dismal chambers beyond. Having reached the 
 farthest of these, they again stopped: the horrid 
 
153 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 gloom of the place seemed congenial to murder, 
 and inspired deadly thoughts. Again I looked 
 round for the instrument of destruction, and 
 again I was respited. I supplicated to know 
 what was designed me; it was now unnecessary 
 to ask who was the author of the design. They 
 were silent to the question, but at length told me 
 this chamber was my prison. Having said this, 
 and set down a jug of water, they left the room, 
 and I heard the door barred upon me. 
 
 "0 sound of despair! O moment of unutter- 
 able anguish ! The pang of death itself is, surely, 
 not superior to that I then suffered. Shut out 
 from day, from friends, from life— /or such I must 
 foretell it — in the prime of my years, in the height 
 of my transgressions, and left to imagine horrors 
 more terrible than any, perhaps, which certainty 
 could give — I sink beneath the — " 
 
 Here several pages of the manuscript were de- 
 cayed with damp, and totally illegible. With 
 much difficulty Adeline made out the following 
 lines: 
 
 " Three days have now passed in solitude and 
 silence: the horrors of death are ever before my 
 eyes; let me endeavour to prepare for the dread- 
 ful change! When I awake in the morning, I 
 think I shall not live to see another night; and, 
 when night returns, that I must never unclose 
 my eyes on morning. Why am I brought hither 
 — why confined thus rigorously — but for death! 
 Yet what action of my life has deserved this at 
 the hand of a fellow-creature!— Of— 
 
 "0 my children! friends far distant! I shall 
 never' see you more— never more receive the 
 parting look of kindness — never bestow a parting 
 blessing! — Ye know not my wretched state— alas! 
 ye cannot know it by human means. Ye believe 
 me happy, or you would fly to my relief. I know 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. ]59 
 
 that what I now write cannot avail me, yet there 
 is comfort in pouring forth my griefs; and I bless 
 that man, less savage than his fellows, who has 
 supplied me these means of recording them. 
 Alas! he knows full well, that from this indul- 
 gence he has nothing to fear. My pen can call 
 no friends to succour me, nor reveal my danger 
 ere it is too late. O ! ye, who may hereafter read 
 what I now write, give a tear to my sufferings: 
 I have Avept often for the distresses of my fellow- 
 creatures!" 
 
 Adeline paused. Here the wretched writer ap- 
 pealed directly to her heart; he spoke in the en- 
 ergy of truth, and, by a strong illusion of fancy, 
 it seemed as if his past sufferings were at this 
 moment present. She was for some time unable 
 to proceed, and sat in musing sorrow. " In these 
 very apartments," said she, "this poor sufferer 
 was confined — here he — " Adeline started, and 
 thought she heard a sound; but the stillness of 
 night was undisturbed. — " In these very cham- 
 bers," said she, " these lines were written — these 
 lines, from which he then derived a comfort in 
 believing they would hereafter be read by some 
 pitying eye: this time is now come. Your mise- 
 ries, injured being! are lamented where they 
 were endured. Here, where you suffered, I weep 
 for your sufferings!" 
 
 Her imagination was now strongly impressed, 
 and to her distempered senses the suggestions of 
 a bewildered mind appeared with the force of 
 reality. Again she started and listened, and 
 thought she heard "Here" distinctly repeated by 
 a whisper immediately behind her. The terror 
 of the thought, however, was but momentary; 
 she knew it could not be: convinced that her 
 fancy had deceived her, she took up the MS. and 
 again began to read. 
 
 "For what am I reserved? Why this delay? 
 If I am to die — why not quickly? Three weeks 
 have I now passed within these walls, during 
 
160 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 which time no look of pity has softened my af- 
 flictions; no voice, save my own, has met my ear! 
 The countenance of the ruffians who attend me, 
 are stern and inflexible, and their silence is obsti- 
 nate. This stillness is dreadful! 0, ye who have 
 known what it is to live in the depths of solitude, 
 who have passed your dreary days without one 
 sound to cheer you; ye, and ye only, can tell 
 what I feel now; and ye may know how much I 
 would endure to hear the accents of a human 
 voice ! 
 
 "0 dire extremity! O state of living death! 
 What dreadful stillness! All around me is dead; 
 and I do really exist— or am I but a statue? Is 
 this a vision? Are these things real? Alas, I 
 am bewildered! — this death-like and perpetual 
 silence — this dismal chamber — the dread of far- 
 ther sufferings — have disturbed my fancy. O for 
 some friendly breast to lay my weary head on! 
 some cordial accents to revive my soul! 
 
 " I write by stealth. He who furnished me with 
 the means, I fear has suffered for some symp- 
 toms of pity he may have discovered for me; I 
 have not seen him for several daj r s: perhaps he 
 is inclined to help me, and for that reason is foi'- 
 bid to come. that hope! but how vain! Never 
 more must I quit these walls while life remains. 
 Another day is gone, and yet I. live! At this 
 time to-morrow night my sufferings may be seal- 
 ed in death! I will contimie my journal nightly, 
 till the hand that writes shall be stopped by 
 death: when the journal ceases, the reader will 
 know I am no more. Perhaps these are the last 
 lines I shall ever write!—" 
 
 Adeline paused, while her tears fell fast. "Un- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 161 
 
 happy man !" she exclaimed, " and was there no 
 pitying soul to save thee? Great God! thy ways 
 are wonderful!" While she sat musing, her 
 fancy, which now wandered in the regions of 
 terror, gradually subdued reason. There was a 
 glass before her upon the table, and she feared to 
 raise her looks towards it, lest some other face 
 than her own should meet her eyes; other dread- 
 ful ideas and strange images of fantastic thought 
 now crossed her mind. 
 
 A hollow sigh seemed to pass near her. "Holy 
 Virgin, protect me!" cried she, and threw a fear- 
 ful glance round the room; "this is surely some- 
 thing more than fancy." Her fears so far over- 
 came her, that she was several times upon the 
 point of calling up part of the family; but unwill- 
 ingness to disturb them, and a dread of ridicule, 
 withheld her. She was also afraid to move, and 
 almost to breathe. As she listened to the wind, 
 that murmured at the casements of her lonely 
 chamber, she again thought she heard a sigh. 
 Her imagination refused any longer the control 
 of reason, and, turning her eyes, a figure, whose 
 exact form she could not distinguish, appeared 
 to pass along an obscure part of the chamber: a 
 dreadful dullness came over her, and she sat 
 fixed in her chair. At length a deep sigh some- 
 what relieved her oppressed spirits, and her 
 senses seemed to return. 
 
 All remaining quiet, after some time she began 
 to question whether her fancy had not deceived 
 her; and she so far conquered her terror as to 
 desist from calling Madame La Motte: her mind 
 was, however, so much disturbed, that she did 
 not venture to trust herself that night again with 
 the MS. ; but, having spent some time in prayer, 
 and in endeavouring to compose her spirits, she 
 retired to bed. 
 
 When she awoke in the morning, the cheerful 
 sun-beams played upon the casements, and dis- 
 pelled the illusions of darkness: her mind, sooth- 
 
162 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 ed and invigorated by sleep, rejected the mystic 
 and turbulent promptings of imagination. She 
 arose refreshed and thankful; but, upon going 
 down to breakfast, this transient gleam of peace 
 fled upon the appearance of the Marquis, whose 
 frequent visits at the abbey, after what had pass- 
 ed, not only displeased, but alarmed her. She 
 saw that he was determined to persevere in ad- 
 dressing her, and the boldness and insensibility 
 of this conduct, while it excited her indignation, 
 increased her disgust. In pity to La Motte, she 
 endeavoured to conceal these emotions, though 
 she now thought that he required too much from 
 her complaisance, and began seriously to consider 
 how she might avoid the necessity of continuing 
 it. The Marquis behaved to her with the most 
 respectful attention; but Adeline was silent and 
 reserved, and seized the first opportunity of with- 
 drawing. 
 
 As she passed up the spiral staircase, Peter en- 
 tered the hall below, and seeing Adeline, he 
 stopped and looked earnestly at her: she did not 
 observe him, but he called her softly, and she 
 then saw him make a signal as if he had some- 
 thing to communicate. In the next instant La 
 Motte opened the door of the vaulted room, and 
 Peter hastily disappeared. She proceeded to her 
 chamber, ruminating upon this signal, and the 
 cautious manner in which Peter had given it. 
 
 But her thoughts soon returned to their wonted 
 subjects. Three days were now passed, and she 
 heard no intelligence of her father; she began to 
 hope that he had relented from the violent mea- 
 sures hinted at by La Motte, and that he meant 
 to pursue a milder plan ; but when she consider- 
 ed his character, this appeared improbable, and 
 she relapsed into her former fears. Her resi- 
 dence at the abbey was now become painful, from 
 the perseverance of the Marquis, and the conduct 
 ■which La Motte obliged her te adopt; yet she 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 163 
 
 could not think, without dread, of quitting it to 
 return to her father. 
 
 The image of Theodore often intruded upon 
 her busy thoughts, and brought with it a pang, 
 which his strange departure occasioned. She had 
 a confused notion, that his fate was somehow 
 connected with her own; and her struggles to 
 prevent the remembrance of him, served only to 
 show how much her heart was his. 
 
 To divert her thoughts from these subjects, and 
 gratify the curiosity so strongly excited on the 
 preceding night, she now took up the MS., but 
 was hindered from opening it by the entrance of 
 Madame La Motte, who came to tell her the 
 Marquis was gone. They passed their morning 
 together in work and general conversation; La 
 Motte not appearing till dinner, when he said 
 little, and Adeline less. She asked him, however, 
 if he had heard from her father. " I have not 
 heard from him," said La Motte, " but there is 
 good reason, as I am informed by the Marquis, 
 to believe he is not far off." 
 
 Adeline was shocked, yet she was able to reply 
 with becoming firmness. " I have already, Sir 
 involved you too much in my distress, an^g^ow 
 see that resistance will destroy you, without 
 serving me; I am therefore contented to return 
 to my father, and thus spare you farther calam- 
 ity." 
 
 " This is a rash determination," replied La 
 Motte, "and if you pursue it, I fear you will se- 
 verely repent. I speak to you as a friend, Ade- 
 line, and desire you will endeavour to listen to 
 me without prejudice. The Marquis, I find, has 
 offered you his hand. I know not which circum- 
 stance most excites my surprise, that a man of 
 his rank and consequence should solicit a mar- 
 riage with a person without fortune, or ostensible 
 connexions; or that a person so circumstanced 
 should, even for a moment, reject the advantages 
 thus offered her. You weep, Adeline; let me 
 
164 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 hope that you are convinced of the absurdity of 
 this conduct, and will no longer trifle with your 
 good fortune. The kindness I have shown you 
 must convince you of my regard, and that I have 
 no motive for offering you this advice but your 
 advantage. It is, necessary, however, to say, 
 that, should your father not insist upon your re- 
 moval, I know not how long my circumstances 
 may enable me to afford even the humble pit- 
 tance you receive here. Still you are silent!" 
 
 The anguish which this speech excited sup- 
 pressed her utterance, and she continued to 
 weep. At length she said. " Suffer me, Sir, to go 
 back to my father; I should indeed make an ill 
 return for the kindness you mention, could I 
 wish to stay after what you now tell me; and to 
 accept, the Marquis I feel to be impossible." The 
 remembrance of Theodore arose to her mind, 
 and she wept aloud. 
 
 La Motte sat for some time musing. " Strange 
 infatuation!" said he; "is it possible that you 
 can persist in this heroism of romance, and pre- 
 fer a father so inhuman as yours to the Marquis 
 Tie Montalt? A destiny so full of danger, to a 
 life^af splendour and delight!" 
 
 "Pardon me," said Adeline; " a marriage Avith 
 the Marquis would be splendid, but never happy. 
 His character excites my aversion, and I entreat, 
 Sir, that he may now no more be mentioned." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The conversation related in the last chapter 
 was interrupted by the entrance of Peter, who, 
 as he left the room, looked significantly at Ade- 
 line, and almost beckoned. She was anxious to 
 know what he meant, and soon after went into 
 the hall, where she found him loitering. The 
 moment he saw her, he made a sign of silence, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 165 
 
 and beckoned her into the recess. " Well, Pe- 
 ter, what is it you would say?" said Adeline. 
 
 "Hush, Ma'amselle; for Heaven's sake speak 
 lower: if we should be overheard, we are all 
 blown up." — Adeline begged him to explain what 
 he meant. " Yes, Ma'amselle, that is what I 
 have wanted all day long. I have watched and 
 watched for an opportunity, and looked and 
 looked, till I was afraid my master himself would 
 see me: but all would not do; you would not 
 understand." 
 
 Adeline entreated he would be quick. " Yes, 
 Ma'am, but I am so afraid we shall be seen: but 
 I would do much to serve such a good young- 
 lady, for I could not bear to think of what 
 threatened you, without telling you of it." 
 
 " For God's sake," said Adeline, "speak quick- 
 ly, or we shall be interrupted." 
 
 "Well, then; but you must first promise by 
 the Holy Virgin never to say it was I that told 
 you. My master would — " 
 
 " I do, I do!" said Adeline. 
 
 "Well, then— on Monday evening as I— hark! 
 did not I hear a step? Do, Ma'amselle, just step 
 this Avay to the cloisters. I would not for the 
 world we should be seen. I'll go out at the.hall 
 door, and you can go through the passage. I 
 would not for the world we should be seen." — 
 Adeline was much alarmed by Peter's words, 
 and hurried to the cloisters. He quickly appear- 
 ed, and, looking cautiously round, resumed his 
 discourse. " As I was saying, Ma'amselle, Mon- 
 day night, when the Marquis slept here, you 
 know he sat up very late, and I can guess, per- 
 haps, the reason of that. Strange things came 
 out, but it is not my business to tell all I think." 
 
 " Pray do speak to the purpose," said Adeline 
 impatiently; "what is this danger which you 
 say threatens me? Be quick, or we shall be ob- 
 served." 
 
 11 
 
166 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 " Danger enough, Ma'amselle," replied Peter, 
 "if you knew all; and when you do, what will 
 it signify; for you can't help yourself. But 
 that's neither here nor there: I was resolved to 
 tell you, though I may repent it." 
 
 " Or lather you are resolved not to tell me," 
 said Adeline, " for you have made no progress 
 towards an explanation yet. — But what do you 
 mean? You were speaking of the Marquis." 
 
 " Hush, Ma'am ; not so loud. The Marquis, as I 
 said, sat up very late, and my master sat up with 
 him! One of his men went to bed in the oak- 
 room, and the other stayed to undress his Lord. 
 So as Ave were sitting together — Lord have 
 mercy! it made my hair stand an end! I trem- 
 ble yet. So as we were sitting together— but as 
 sure as I live, yonder is my master: I caught a 
 glimpse of him between the trees; if he sees me 
 it is all over with us. I'll tell you another 
 time." So saying, he hurried into the abbey, 
 leaving Adeline in a state of alai'm, curiosity, 
 and vexation. She walked out into the forest, 
 ruminating upon Peter's words, and endeavour- 
 ing to guess to what they alluded; there 
 Madame La Motte joined her, and they convers- 
 ed on various topics till they reached the abbey. 
 
 Adeline watched in vain through that day for 
 an opportunity of speaking with Peter. While 
 he waited at supper, she occasionally observed 
 his countenance with great anxiety, hoping it 
 might afford her some degree of intelligence on 
 the subject of her fears. When she retired, 
 Madame La Motte accompanied her to her cham- 
 ber, and continued to converse with her for a 
 considerable time, so that she had no means of 
 obtaining an interview with Peter. Madame La 
 Motte appeared to labour under some great af- 
 fliction; and when Adeline, noticing this, en- 
 treated to know the cause of her dejection, tears 
 started into her eyes, and she abruptly left the 
 room. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THj 
 
 This behaviour of Madame La M 
 
 with Peter's discourse to alarm a* 
 sat pensively upon her bed, given up to reflec- 
 tion, till she was roused by the sound of a clock 
 which stood in the room below, and which now- 
 struck twelve. She was preparing for rest, when 
 she recollected the MS. and was unable to con- 
 clude the night without reading it. The first 
 words she could distinguish were the follow- 
 ing: — 
 
 " Again I return to this poor consolation — 
 again I have been permitted to see another day. 
 It is now midnight! My solitary lamp burns be- 
 side me; the time is awful, but to me the silence 
 of noon is as the silence of midnight: a deeper 
 eloom is all hi which they differ. The still, un- 
 varying hours are numbered only by my suffer- 
 ings! Great God! when shall I be released! 
 
 "But whence this strange confinement? I 
 have never injured him. If death is designed 
 me, why this delay? and for what but death am 
 I brought hither? This abbey— alas!"— Here 
 the MS. was again illegible, and for several pages 
 Adeline could only make out disjointed sen- 
 tences! 
 
 "0 bitter draught! when, when shall I have 
 rest ! O my friends ! will none of ye fly to aid 
 me? will none of ye avenge my sufferings? Ah! 
 when it is too late— when I am gone for ever, 
 ye will endeavour to avenge them! 
 
 " Once more is night returned to me. Another 
 clay has passed in solitude and misery. I have 
 climbed to the casement, thinking the view of 
 nature would refresh my soul, and somewhat en- 
 able me to support the&o afflictions. Alas! even 
 
xANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 ufort is denied me; the windows 
 - as inner parts of this abbey, and ad- 
 mit only a portion of that day which I must 
 never more fully behold. Last night! last night! 
 O scene of horror!" * * * 
 
 Adeline shuddered. She feared to read the 
 coming sentence, yet curiosity prompted her to 
 proceed. Still she paused: an unaccountable 
 dread came over her. " Some horrid deed has 
 been done here," said she; "the reports of the 
 peasants are true. Murder has been commit- 
 ted!" The idea thrilled her with horror. She 
 recollected the dagger which had impeded her 
 steps in the secret chamber, and this circum- 
 stance served to confirm her most terrible con- 
 jectures. She wished to examine it, but it lay in 
 one of these chambers, and she feared to go in 
 -quest of it. 
 
 " Wretched, wretched victim!" she exclaimed, 
 "could no friend rescue thee from destruction! 
 that I had been near! yet what could. I have 
 done to save thee \ Alas! nothing. I forget that 
 even now, perhaps, I am like thee, abandoned to 
 dangers, from which I have no friend to succour 
 me. Too surely I guess the author of thy mise- 
 ries!" She stopped, for she thought, she heard a 
 sigh, such as on the preceding night had passed 
 along the chamber. Her blood was chilled, and 
 she sat motionless. The lonely situation of her 
 room, remote from the rest of the famiry (she was 
 now in her own apartment, from which Madame 
 La Motte had removed), who were almost beyond 
 call, struck so forcibly upon her imagination, 
 that she with difficulty preserved herself from 
 fainting. She sat for a considerable time, but all 
 was still. When she was somewhat recovered, 
 her first design was to alarm the family; but far- 
 ther reflection withheld her. 
 
 She endeavoured to compose her spirits, and 
 addressed a short prayer to that Being who had 
 hitherto protected her in every danger. While 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 169 
 
 she was thus employed, her mind gradually 
 became elevated aud re-assured; a sublime com- 
 placency filled her heart, and she sat down once 
 more to pursue the narrative. 
 
 Several: lines that immediately followed were 
 obliterated.— 
 
 " He had told me I should not be permitted to 
 live long, nor more than three days, and bade 
 me choose whether I would die by poison, or the 
 swOrd, the agonies of that moment! Great 
 God! thou seest my sufferings ! I often viewed, 
 with a momentary hope of escaping, the high- 
 grated wirdows of my prison — all things within 
 the compass of possibility I was resolved to try, 
 and with an eager desperation I climbed towards 
 the casements; but, my foot slipped, and falling 
 back to the floor, I was stunned by the blow. 
 On recovering, the first sounds I heard were the 
 steps of a person entering my prison. A recol- 
 lection of the past returned, and deplorable was 
 my condition. I shuddered at what was to come. 
 The same man approached; he looked at me first 
 with pity, but his countenance soon recovered 
 its natural ferocity. Yet he did not then come 
 to execute the purpose of his employer; I am 
 reserved to another day— Great God, thy will be 
 done!" 
 
 Adeline could not go on. All the circumstances 
 that seemed to corroborate the fate of this un- 
 happy man crowded upon her mind; the reports 
 concerning the abbey — the dreams which had 
 forerun her discovery of the private apartments 
 — the singular manner in which she had found 
 the MS. and the apparition, which she now be- 
 lieved she had really seen. She blamed herself 
 for having not yet mentioned the discovery ot 
 the manuscript, and chambers to La Motte, and 
 resolved to delay the disclosure no longer than 
 
170 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the following morning. The immediate cares 
 that had occupied her mind, and her fear of lo- 
 sing the manuscript before she had read it, had 
 hitherto kept her silent. 
 
 Such a combination of circumstances she be- 
 lieved could only be produced by some superna- 
 tural power, operating for the retribution of the 
 guilty. This reflection filled her mind with a de- 
 gree of awe, which the loneliness of the large old 
 chamber in which she sat, and the hour of the 
 night, soon heightened into terror. She had ne- 
 ver been superstitious, but circumstances so un- 
 common Inid hitherto conspired in this affair, 
 that she could not believe them accidental. Her 
 imagination, wrought upon by these reflections, 
 again became sensible to every impression ; she 
 feared to look round, lest she should again see 
 some dreadful phantom, and she almost fancied 
 she heard voices swell in the storm which now 
 shook the fabric. 
 
 Still she tried to command her feelings so as to 
 avoid disturbing the family; but they became so 
 painful, that even the dread of La Motte's ridi- 
 cule had hardly power to prevent her quitting 
 the chamber. Her mind was now in such a, state, 
 that she found it impossible to pursue the story 
 in the MS., though, to avoid the tortures of sus- 
 pense, she had attempted it. She laid it down 
 again, and tried to sooth herself to composure. — 
 " What have I to feaii" said she; " I am at least 
 innocent, and I shall not be punished for the 
 crime of another." 
 
 A violent gust of wind, that now rushed through 
 the whole suite of apartments, shook the door 
 that led from her late bed-chamber to the private 
 rooms so forcibly, that Adeline, unable to remain 
 longer in doubt, ran to see from whence the noise 
 issued. The arras, which concealed the door, was 
 violently agitated, and she stood for a moment 
 observing it in indescribable terror, till, believing 
 it was swayed by the wind, she made a sudden 
 
TEE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 171 
 
 effort to overcome her feelings, and stooped to 
 
 raise it. At that instant she thought she heard a 
 voice She stopped and listened, but every thing 
 was still: yet apprehension so far overcame her, 
 that she had no power, either to examine, or to 
 leave the chamber. 
 
 In a few moments the voice returned; she was 
 now convinced she had not been deceived; for 
 though low, she heard it distinctly, and was al- 
 most sure it repeated her own name. So much 
 was her fancy affected, that she even thought it 
 was the same voice she had heard in her dreams. 
 This conviction entirely subdued the small re- 
 mains of her courage, and sinking into a chair, 
 she lost all recollection. 
 
 How long she remained in this state she knew 
 not ; but when she recovered, she exerted all her 
 strength, and reached the winding stair-case, 
 where she called aloud. No one heard her, and 
 she hastened, as fast as her feebleness would per- 
 mit, to the chamber of Madame La Motte. bhe 
 tapped gently at the door, and was answered by 
 Madame, who was alarmed at being awakened at 
 so unusual an hour, and believed that some dan- 
 ger threatened her husband. When she under- 
 wood that it was Adeline, and that she was un- 
 well, she quicklv came to her relief. The terror 
 that was yet visible in Adeline's countenance ex- 
 cited her inquiries, and the occasion of it was ex- 
 plained to her. , , ,, 
 
 Madame was so much discomposed by the re- 
 lation, that she called La Motte from his oed, 
 who, more angry at being disturbed than inte- 
 rested for the agitation he witnessed, reproved 
 Adeline for suffering her fancies to overcome her 
 reason. She now mentioned the discovery she 
 had made of the inner chambers, and the manu- 
 script, circumstances which roused the attention 
 of La Motte so much, that he desired to see the 
 MS., and resolved to go immediately to the apart- 
 ments described by Adeline. 
 
172 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Madame La Motte endeavoured to dissuade 
 Mm from his purpose; but La Motte, with whom 
 opposition had always an effect contrary to the 
 one designed, and who wished to throw farther 
 ridicule upon the terrors of Adeline, persisted in 
 his intention. He called to Peter to attend with 
 a light, and insisted that Madame La Motte and 
 Adeline should accompany him. Madame de- 
 sired to be excused, and Adeline at first declared 
 she would not go; but he would be obeyed. 
 
 They ascended the tower, and entered the first 
 chamber together; for each of the party was re- 
 luctant to be the last: in the second chamber all 
 was quiet and in order. Adeline presented the 
 MS., and pointed to the arras which concealed 
 the door. La Motte lifted the arras, and opened 
 the door; but Madame La Motte and Adeline en- 
 treated to go no farther — again he called to them 
 to follow. All was quiet in the first chamber: 
 he expressed his surprise that the rooms should 
 so long have remained undiscovered, and was 
 proceeding to the second, but suddenly stopped. 
 '•' We will defer our examination till tomorrow," 
 said he; " the damps of these apartments are un- 
 wholesome at any time; but they strike one more 
 sensibly at night. I am chilled. Peter, remem- 
 ber to throAv open the windows early in the 
 morning, that the air may circulate." 
 
 "Lord bless your honour," said Peter, "don't 
 you see I can't reach them? Besides, I don't be- 
 lieve they are made to open: see what strong iron 
 bars there are; the room looks for all the world 
 like a prison : I suppose this is the place the peo- 
 ple meant, when they said, nobody that had been 
 in ever came out." La Motte, who, during his 
 speech, had been looking attentively at the high 
 windows, which, if he had seen them at first, he 
 had certainly not observed, now interrupted the 
 eloquence of Peter, and bade him carry the light 
 before them. They all willingly quitted these 
 chambers, and returned to the room below, where 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 173 
 
 a fire was lighted, and the party remained toge- 
 ther for some time. 
 
 La Motte, for reasons best known to himself, 
 attempted to ridicule the discovery and fears of 
 Adeline, till she, with a seriousness that checked 
 him, entreated he would desist. He was silent, 
 and soon after, Adeline, encouraged by the return 
 of day -light, ventured to her chamber, and for 
 some hours experienced the blessing of undis- 
 turbed repose. 
 
 On the following day, Adeline's first care was 
 to obtain an interview with Peter, whom she had 
 some hopes of seeing as she went down stairs: 
 he, however, did not appear, and she proceeded 
 to the sitting-room, where she found La Motte 
 apparently much disturbed. Adeline asked him 
 if he had looked at the MS. " I have run my eye 
 over it," said he, " but it is so much obscured by 
 time that it can scarcely be decyphered. It ap- 
 pears to exhibit a strange romantic story; and I 
 do not wonder, that after you had suffered its 
 terrors to impress your imagination, you fancied 
 you saw spectres, and heard wonderous noises." 
 
 Adeline thought La Motte did not choose to be 
 convinced, and she therefore forbore reply. Du- 
 ring breakfast, she often looked at Peter (who 
 waited) with anxious inquiry; and, from his 
 countenance, was still more assured that he had 
 something of importance to communicate. In 
 the hope of some conversation with him, she left 
 the room as soon as possible, and repaired to her 
 favourite avenue, where she had not long remain- 
 ed when he appeared. " God bless you, Ma'am- 
 selle," said he; "I am sorry I frightened you so 
 last night." 
 
 "Frighted me," said Adeline, "how was you 
 concerned in that?" 
 
 He then informed her, that when he thought 
 Monsieur and Madame La Motte were asleep, he 
 had stole to her chamber door, with an intention 
 of giving her the sequel of what he had begun in 
 
174 TIIE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the morning; that he had called several times as 
 loud as he dared, but receiving no answer, he be- 
 lieved she was asleep, or did not choose to speak 
 with him, and he had therefore left the door. 
 This account of the voice she had heard relieved 
 Adeline's spirits: she -was even surprised that she 
 did not know it; till remembering the perturba- 
 tion of her mind for some time preceding, this 
 surprise disappeared. 
 
 She entreated Peter to be brief in explaining 
 the danger with which she was threatened. " If 
 you'll let me go on my own way, Ma'am, you'll 
 soon know it; but if you hurry me, and ask me 
 questions here and there, out of their places, I 
 don't know what I am saying." 
 
 K Be it so," said Adeline; " only remember 
 that we may be observed." 
 
 " Yes,' Ma'amselle, I am as much afraid of that 
 as you are, for I believe I should be almost as ill 
 off: however, that is neither here nor there; but 
 I'm sure if you stay in this old abbey another 
 night, it will be worse for yon; for, as I said be- 
 fore, I know all about it." 
 "What mean you, Peter?" 
 "Why, about this scheme that's going on." 
 
 " What, then, is my father!" " Your father," 
 
 interrupted Peter. " Lord bless you, that is all 
 fudge, to frighten you-, your father, nor nobody 
 else, has ever sent after you. I dare say he 
 knows no more of you than the Pope does— not 
 he." Adeline looked displeased. " You trifle," 
 said she; "if you have any thing to tell, say it 
 quickly; I am in haste." 
 
 " Bless you, young Lady, I meant no harm; I 
 hope you're not angry; but I'm sure you can't 
 deny that your father is cruel. But, as I was 
 saying, the Marquis de Montalt likes you; and 
 he and my master " (Peter looked round) " have 
 been laying their heads together about you." 
 Adeline' turned pale— she comprehended a part 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 175 
 
 of (lie truth, and eagerly entreated him to pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 " They have been laying their heads together 
 about you. This is "what Jacques, the Marquis's 
 man, tells ine: says he, ' Peter, you little know 
 what is going on — 1 could tell all if I chose it, 
 but it is not for those -who are trusted to tell 
 again. I warrant now your master is close 
 enough with you.' Upon which I was piqued, 
 and resolved to make him believe I could be 
 trusted as well as he. Perhaps not, says I; per- 
 haps I know as much as you, though I do not 
 choose to brag on't; and I winked. — Do you so? 
 says he, then you are closer than I thought for. 
 She is a fine girl, says he, meaning you, Ma'am- 
 selle; but she is nothing but a poor foundling 
 after all— so it does not much signify — I had a 
 mind to know farther what he meant— so I did 
 not knock him down. By seeming to know as 
 much as he, I at last made him discover all; and 
 he told me — but you look pale, Ma'amselle; are 
 you ill?" 
 
 "No," said Adeline, in a tremulous accent, and 
 scarcely able to support herself ; "pray proceed." 
 
 "And he told me, that the Marquis had been 
 courting you a good while, but you would not 
 listen to him; and had even pretended he would 
 marry you; and all would not do. As for mar- 
 riage, says I, I suppose she knows the Mar- 
 chioness is alive; and I'm sure she is not one for 
 his turn upon other terms." 
 
 "The Marchioness is really living, then," said 
 Adeline. 
 
 "0 yes, Ma'amselle, we all know that, and I 
 
 thought you had known it too. We shall see 
 
 that, replies Jacques; at least, I believe that our 
 master will outwit her. — I staved; I could not 
 help it. — Aye, says he, you know your master has 
 agreed to give her up to my Lord." 
 
 "Good God! what will become of ine!" ex- 
 claimed Adeline. 
 
176 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 "Aye, Ma'amselle, I am sorry for you; but 
 hear me out. When Jacques said this, I quite 
 forgot myself. I'll never believe it, said I; I'll 
 never believe my master would be guilty of such 
 a base action: he'll not give her up, or I'm no 
 Christian.— Oh ! said Jaques, for that matter, I 
 thought you'd known all, else I should not have 
 said a word about it. However, you may soon 
 satisfy yourself by going to the parlour door, as 
 I have done; they're in consultation about it 
 now, I dare say." 
 
 " You need not repeat an.v more of this conver- 
 sation," said Adeline; but tell me the result of 
 what you heard from the parlour." 
 
 "Why, Ma'amselle, when he said this, I took 
 him at his word, and went to the door, where, 
 sure enough, I heard my master and the Marquis 
 talking about you. They said a great deal, which 
 I could make nothing of: but at last I heard the 
 Marquis say, You know the terms: on these 
 terms only will I consent to bury the past in 
 ob—ob— oblivion that was the word. Mon- 
 sieur La Motte then told the Marquis, if he would 
 return to the abbey upon such a night, meaning 
 this very night, Ma'amselle, every thing should 
 be prepared according to his wishes; Adeline 
 shall then be your's, my Lord, said he — you are 
 already acquainted with her chamber." 
 
 At these words Adeline clasped her hands, and 
 raised her eyes to Heaven in silent despair.— 
 Peter went on: " When I heard this, I could not 
 doubt what Jacques had said. — Well, said he, 
 what do you think of it now? Why, that my 
 master's a rascal, says I. — It's well you don't 
 think mine one too, says he. — Wiry, as for that 
 
 matter, says I" Adeline, interrupting him, 
 
 inquired if he had heard any thing farther. 
 "Just then," said Peter, "we heard Madame La 
 Motte come out from another room, and so we 
 made haste back to the kitchen." ' 
 
 "She was not present at this conversation 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 1/7 
 
 then?" said Adeline,— " No, Ma'amselle, but my 
 master lias told her of it, I warrant." Adeline 
 was almost as much shocked hy this apparent 
 perfidy of Madame La Motte, as by a knowledge 
 of the destruction that threatened her. After 
 musing a few moments in extreme agitation, 
 "Peter," said she, you have a good heart, and 
 feel a just indignation at your master's trea- 
 chery — will you assist me to escape?" 
 
 "Ah, Ma'amselie!" said he, "how can I assist 
 you? Besides, where can we go? I have no 
 friends about here, no more than yourself." 
 
 "0!" replied Adeline, in extreme emotion, 
 "we fly from enemies! strangers may prove 
 friends: assist me but to escape from this forest, 
 and you will claim my eternal gratitude: I have 
 no fears beyond it." 
 
 " Why, as for this forest," replied Peter, "I 
 am weary of it myself; though, when we first 
 came, I thought it would be fine living here; at 
 least I tli ought it was very different from any 
 life I had ever lived before. But these ghosts 
 that haunt the abbey— I am no more a coward 
 than other men, but I don't like them; and then 
 there is so many strange reports abroad ; and my 
 master — I thought I could have served him to 
 the end of the world; but now I care not how 
 soon I leave him, for his behaviour to you, 
 Ma'amselle." 
 
 "You consent then to assist me in escaping?" 
 said Adeline with eagerness. 
 
 "Why, as to that, Ma'amselle, I would willing- 
 ly, if I knew where to go. To be sure I have a 
 sister lives in Savoy, but that is a great way off; 
 and I have saved a little money out of my wages; 
 but that won't carry us such a long journey." 
 
 "Regard not that," said Adeline; "if I was 
 once beyond this forest, I would then endeavour 
 to take care of myself, and repay you for your 
 kindness." 
 
 "0! as for that, Madame"— "Well, well. 
 
173 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Peter, let us consider how we may escape. This 
 night, say you — this night — the Marquis is to 
 return?" 
 
 "Yes, Ma'amselle, to-night about dark. I 
 have just thought of a scheme. My master's 
 horses are grazing in the forest; we may take one 
 of them, and send it back from the first stage: 
 but how shall we avoid being seen? Besides, if 
 we go off in the day-light, he will soon pursue 
 and overtake us; and if you stay till night, the 
 Marquis will be come, and then there is no 
 chance. If they miss us both at the same time, 
 too, they'll guess how it is, and set off directly. 
 Could you not contrive to go first, and wait for 
 me till the hurly-burly's over? Then, while 
 they're searching in the place under ground for 
 you, I can slip away, and we shall be out of their 
 reach before they think of pursuing us." 
 
 Adeline agreed to the truth of all this, and was 
 somewhat surprised at Peter's sagacity. She in- 
 quired if he knew of any place in the neighbour- 
 hood of the abbey, where she could remain con- 
 cealed till he came with a horse. " Why yes, 
 Madame, there is a place, now I think of it, 
 where you may be safe enough, for nobody goes 
 near: but they say it's haunted, and perhaps you 
 would not like to go there." Adeline, rem in- 
 hering the last night, was somewhat startled at 
 this intelligence; but a sense of her present dan- 
 ger pressed again upon her mind, and overcame 
 every other apprehension. "Where is this place?" 
 said she; "if it will conceal me, I shall not hesi- 
 tate to go." 
 
 " It is an old tomb that stands in the thickest 
 part of the forest, about a quarter of a mile oh', 
 the nearest way, and almost a mile the other. 
 When my master used to hide himself so much 
 in the forest, I have followed him somewhere 
 i hereabouts, but I did not find out the tomb till 
 t'other day. However, that's neither here nor 
 (here; if you dare venture to it, Ma'amselle, I'll 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 179 
 
 show you the nearest way." So saying, he point- 
 ed to a winding path on the right. Adeline hav- 
 ing looked round, without perceiving any person 
 near, directed Peter to lead her to the tomb. 
 They pursued the path, till turning into a gloomy 
 romantic part of the forest, almost impervious to 
 the rays of the sun, they came to the spot whither 
 Louis had formerly traced his father. 
 
 The stillness and solemnity of the scene struck 
 awe upon the heart of Adeline, who paused, and 
 surveyed it for some time in silence. At length, 
 Peter led her into the interior part of the ruin, 
 to which they descended by several steps. " Some 
 old abbot," said he, " was formerly buried here, 
 as the Marquis's people say; and it's like enough 
 that he belonged to the abbey yonder. But I 
 don't see why he should take it in his head to 
 walk; he was not murdered, surely!" 
 
 ' : I hope not," said Adeline. 
 
 " That's more than can be said for all that lies 
 buried at the abbey though, and — " Adeline in- 
 terrupted him; "Hark! surely I hear a noise!" 
 said she: "Heaven protect us from discovery!" 
 They listened, but all was still, and they went on. 
 Peter opened a low door, and they entered upon 
 a dark passage, frequently obstructed by loose 
 fragments of stone, and along which they moved 
 with caution. " Whither are we going?" said 
 Adeline. — " I scarcely know myself," said Peter, 
 "for I never was so far before; but the place 
 seems quiet enough." Something obstructed his 
 way; it was a door, which yielded to his hand, 
 and discovered a kind of cell, obscurely seen by 
 the twilight admitted through a grate above. A 
 partial gleam shot athwart the place, leaving the 
 greater part of it in shadow. 
 
 Adeline sighed as she surveyed it. — Ci This is a 
 frightful spot," said she; " but if it will afford me 
 a shelter, it is a palace. Remember, Peter, that 
 my peace and honour depend upon your faithful- 
 ness] be both discreet and resolute. In the dusk 
 
J 80 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 of the evening I can pass from the abbey with 
 least danger of being observed, and in this cell I 
 will -wait your arrival. As soon as Monsieur and 
 Madame La Motte are engaged in searching the 
 vaults, you will bring here a horse; three knocks 
 upon the tomb shall inform me of your arrival. 
 For Heaven's sake be cautious, and be punctual!" 
 " I will, Ma'amselle, let come what may." 
 They re- ascended to the forest, and Adeline, 
 fearful of observation, directed Peter to run first 
 to the abbey, and invent some excuse for his ab- 
 sence, if he had been missed. When she was 
 again alone, she yielded to a flood of tears, and 
 indulged the excess of her distress. She saw 
 herself without friends, without relations, for- 
 lorn, destitute, and abandoned to the worst of 
 evils — betrayed by the very persons to whose 
 comfort she 'had so long administered, whom she 
 had loved as her protectors, and revered as her 
 parents! These reflections touched her heart 
 with the most afflicting sensations, and the sense 
 of her immediate danger was for a while absorb- 
 ed iu the grief occasioned by a discovery of such 
 guilt in others. 
 
 At length, she roused all her fortitude, and 
 turning towards the abbej', endeavoured to await 
 with patience the hour of evening, and to sustain 
 an appearance of composure in the presence of 
 Monsieur and Madame La Motte. For the pre- 
 sent she wished to avoid seeing either of them, 
 doubting her ability to disguise her emotions: 
 having reached the abbey, she therefore passed 
 ou to her chamber. Here she endeavoured to 
 direct her attention to indifferent subjects, but 
 in vain; the danger of her situation, and the se- 
 vere disappointment she had received, in the 
 character of those whom she had so much es- 
 teemed, and even loved, pressed hard upon her 
 thoughts. To a generous mind few circumstances 
 are more afflicting than a discovery of perfidy in 
 those whom we have trusted, even though it may 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 181 
 
 fail of any absolute in convenience to ourselves. 
 The behaviour of Madame La Motte in thus, by 
 concealment, conspiring to her destruction, par- 
 ticularly shocked her. 
 
 " Hoav has my imagination deceived me!" said 
 she; " what a picture did it draw of the goodness 
 of the world! And must I then believe that 
 every body is cruel and deceitful? No— let me 
 still be deceived, and still suffer, rather than be 
 condemned to a state of such wretched suspi- 
 cion!" She now endeavoured to extenuate the 
 conduct of Madame La Motte, by attributing it 
 to a fear of her husband. " She dare not oppose 
 his will," said she, " else she would warn me of 
 my danger, and assist me to escape from it. No — 
 I will never believe her capable of conspiring my 
 ruin. Terror alone keeps her silent." 
 
 Adeline was somewhat comforted by this 
 thought. The benevolence of her heart taught 
 her, in this instance, to sophisticate. She per- 
 ceived not, that by ascribing the conduct of Ma- 
 dame La Motte to terror, she_ only softened the 
 degree of her guilt, imputing it to a motive less 
 depraved, but not less selfish. She remained iu 
 her chamber till summoned to dinner, when, dry- 
 ing her tears, she descended with faltering steps 
 and a palpitating heart to the parlour. When 
 she saw La Motte, in spite of all her efforts, she 
 trembled and grew pale: she could not behold, 
 even with apparent indifference, the man who 
 she knew had destined her to destruction. He 
 observed her emotion, and inquiring if she wag 
 ill, she saw the danger to which her agitation ex- 
 posed her. Fearful lest La Motte should suspect 
 its true cause, she rallied all her spirits, and, with 
 a look of complacency, answered she was well. 
 
 During dinner she preserved a degree of com- 
 posure, that effectually concealed the varied an- 
 guish of her heart. When she looked at La 
 Motte, terror and indignation were her predo- 
 '12 
 
182 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 minant feelings; but when she regarded Madame 
 La Motte, it was otherwise; gratitude for her for- 
 mer tenderness had long been confirmed into af- 
 fection, and her heart now swelled with the bit- 
 terness of grief and disappointment. Madame La 
 Motte appeared depiessed, aud said little. La 
 Motte seemed anxious to prevent thought by 
 assuming a fictitious and unnatural gaiety: he 
 laughed and talked, and threw off frequent bum- 
 pers of wine: it was the mirth of desperation. 
 Madame became alarmed, and would have re- 
 strained him ; but he persisted in his libations to 
 Bacchus, till reflection seemed to be almost over- 
 come. 
 
 Madame La Motte, fearful that in the careless- 
 ness of the present moment he might betray him- 
 self, withdrew with Adeline to another room. 
 Adeline recollected the happy hours she once 
 passed with her, when confidence banished re- 
 serve, and sympathy and esteem dictated the 
 sentiments of friendship: now those hours were 
 gone for ever; she could no longer unbosom her 
 griefs to Madame La Motte; no longer even es- 
 teem her. Yet, notwithstanding all the danger 
 to which she was exposed by the criminal silence 
 of the latter, she could not converse with her, 
 consciously for the last time, without feeling a 
 degree of sorrow, which wisdom may call weak- 
 ness, but to which benevolence will allow a softer 
 name. 
 
 Madame La Motte, in her conversation, appear- 
 ed to labour under an almost equal oppression 
 with Adeline: her thoughts were abstracted from 
 the subject of discourse, and there were long and 
 frequent intervals of silence. Adeline more than 
 once caught her gazing Avith a look of tenderness 
 upon her, and saw her eyes filled with tears. By 
 this circumstance she was so much affected, that 
 she was several times upon the point of throwing 
 herself at her feet, and imploring her pity and 
 protection. Cooler reflection showed her the ex- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 183 
 
 travagauce and danger of this conduct: she sup- 
 pressed her emotions, hut they at length com- 
 pelled her to withdraw from the presence of Ma- 
 dame La Motte. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Adeline anxiously watched from her cham- 
 ber window the sun set behind the distant hills, 
 and the time of her departure draw nigh: it set 
 with uncommon splendour, and threw a fiery 
 gleam athwart the woods, and upon some scatter- 
 ed fragments of the ruins, which she could not 
 gaze upon with indifference. " Never, probably, 
 again shall I see the sun sink below these hills," 
 said she, "or illumine this scene! Where shall I- 
 be when next it sets — where this time to-mor- 
 row? sunk, perhaps, in misery!" She wept at 
 the thought. "A few hours," resumed Adeline, 
 "and tbe Marquis will arrive — a few hours, and 
 this abbey will be a scene of confusion and 
 tumult: every eye will be in search of me, every 
 recess will be explored." These reflections in- 
 spired her with new terror, and increased her 
 impatience to be gone. 
 
 Twilight gradually came on, and she now 
 thought it sufncientlj'- dark to venture forth; 
 but, "before she went, she kneeled down and 
 addressed herself to Heaven. She implored 
 support and protection, and committed herself to 
 the care of the God of Mercies. Having done 
 this, she quitted her chamber, and passed with 
 cautious steps down the winding stair-case. No 
 person appeared, and she proceeded through the 
 door of the tower into the forest. She looked 
 around; the gloom of evening obscured every 
 object. 
 
 With a trembling heart she sought the path 
 pointed out by Peter, which led to the tomb; 
 having found it, she passed along forlorn and 
 
184 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 terrified. Often did she start as the breeze 
 shook the light leaves of the trees, or as the bat 
 flitted by, gamboling in the twilight; and often, 
 as she looked back towards the abbey, thought 
 she distinguished, amid the deepening gloom, the 
 figures of men. Having proceeded some way, 
 she suddenly heard the feet of horses, and soon 
 after a sound of voices, among which she distin- 
 guished that of the Marquis: they seemed to 
 come from the quarter she was approaching, and 
 evidently advanced. Terror for some minutes 
 arrested her steps; she stood in a state of dread- 
 ful hesitation: to proceed was to run into the 
 hands of the Marquis; to return was to fall into 
 the power of La Motte. 
 
 After remaining for some time uncertain whi- 
 ther to fly, the sounds suddenly took a different 
 direction, and the party wheeled towards the 
 abbey. Adeline had a short cessation of terror. 
 She now understood that the Marquis had passed 
 this spot only on his way to the abbey, and she 
 hastened to secrete herself In the ruin. At 
 length, after much difficulty, she reached it, the 
 deep shades almost concealing it from her search. 
 She paused at the entrance, awed by the so- 
 lemnity that reigned within, and the utter dark- 
 ness of the place; at length, she determined to 
 watch without till Peter should arrive. "If any 
 person approaches," said she, " I can hear them 
 before they can see me, and I can then secrete 
 myself in the cell." 
 
 . She leaned against a fragment of the tomb in 
 trembling expectation, and, as she listened, no 
 sound broke the silence of the hour. The state of 
 her mind can only be imagined, by considering 
 that upon the present time turned the crisis of 
 her fate. " They have now," thought she, " dis- 
 covered my flight ; even now they are seeking me 
 in every part of the abbey. I hear their dread- 
 ful voices call me; I see their eager looks." The 
 power of imagination almost overcame her. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 185 
 
 While she yet looked around, she saw lights 
 moving at a distance; sometimes they glimmered 
 between the trees, and sometimes they totally 
 disappeared. 
 
 They seemed to be in a direction with the 
 abbey; and she now remembered, that in the 
 morning she had seen a part of the fabric 
 through an opening in the forest. She had, 
 therefore, no doubt that the lights she saw pro- 
 ceeded from people in search of her; who, she 
 feared, not finding her at the abbey, might di- 
 rect their steps towards the tomb. Her place of 
 refuge now seemed too near her enemies to be 
 safe, and she would have fled to a more distant 
 part of the forest, but recollected that Peter 
 would not know where to find her. 
 
 While these thoughts passed over her mind, 
 she heard distant voices in the wind, and was 
 hastening to conceal herself in the cell, when she 
 observed the lights suddenly disappear. All was 
 soon after hushed in silence and darkness; yet she 
 endeavoured to find the way to the cell. She re- 
 membered the situation of the outer door and of 
 the passage, and, having passed these, she unclo- 
 sed the door of the cell. Within it was utterly 
 dark. She trembled violently, but entered; 
 and, having felt about the Avails, at length seated 
 herself on a projection of stone. 
 
 She here again addressed herself to Heaven, 
 and endeavoured to re-animate her spirits till 
 Peter should arrive. Above half an hour elapsed 
 in this gloomy recess, and no sound foretold Ins 
 approach. Her spirits sunk; she feared some 
 part of their plan was discovered, or interrupted, 
 and that he was detained by La Motte. This 
 conviction operated sometimes so strongly upon 
 her fears, as to urge her to quit the cell alone, 
 and seek in flight her only chance of escape. 
 
 While this design was fluctuating in her mind, 
 she distinguished through the grate above a clat- 
 tering of hoofs. The noise approached, and at 
 
186 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 length stopped at the tomb. In the succeeding 
 moment she heard three strokes of a -whip ; her 
 heart beat, and for some moments her agitation 
 was such, that she made no effort to quit the 
 cell. The strokes were repeated ; she now roused 
 her spirits, and, stepping forward, ascended to 
 the forest. She called, "Peter!" for the deep 
 gloom would not permit her to distinguish either 
 man or horse. She was quickly answered, 
 "Hush! Ma'amselle, our voices will betray us." 
 
 They mounted and rode off as fast as the dark- 
 ness would permit. Adeline's heart revived at 
 every step they took. She inquired what had 
 passed at the abbey, and how he had contrived 
 to get away. " Speak softly, Ma'amselle ; you'll 
 know all by and by, but I can't tell you now." 
 He had scarcely spoke ere they saw lights move 
 along at a distance; and coming now to a more 
 open part of the forest, he set off on a full gallop, 
 and continued the pace till the horse could hold 
 it no longer. They looked back, and no lights 
 appearing, Adeline's terror subsided. She in- 
 quired again what had passed at the abbey, when 
 her flight was discovered. " You may speak 
 without fear of being heard," said she; " we are 
 gone beyond their readi, I hope." 
 
 " Why, Ma'amselle," said he, " you had not 
 been gone long before the Marquis arrived, and 
 Monsieur La Motte then found out you were 
 fled. Upon this a great rout there was, and he 
 talked a great deal with the Marquis." 
 
 "Speak louder," said Adeline; " I cannot hear* 
 you." 
 
 " I will, Ma'amselle."— 
 
 "Oh Heavens!" interrupted Adeline, " what 
 voice is this? It is not Peter's. For God's sake 
 tell me who you are, and whither I am going?" 
 
 " You'll know that soon enough, young lady," 
 answered the stranger, for it was indeed not 
 Peter; " I am taking you where my master order- 
 ed." Adeline, not doubting he was the Mar- 
 
THE EOMANCE OP THE FOREST. 187 
 
 quis's servant, attempted to leap to the ground, 
 but the man, dismounting, bound her to the 
 horse. One feeble ray of hope at length beamed 
 upon her mind: she endeavoured to soften the 
 man to pity, and pleaded with all the genuine 
 eloquence of distress; but he understood his in- 
 terests too well to yield even for a moment to the 
 compassion, which, in spite of himself, her art- 
 less supplication inspired. She now resigned 
 herself to despair, and in passive silence sub- 
 mitted to her fate. They continued thus to tra- 
 vel, till a storm of rain, accompanied by thunder 
 and lightning, drove them to the covert of a 
 thick grove. The man bebeved this a safe situa- 
 tion, and Adeline was now too careless of life to 
 attempt convincing him of his error. The storm 
 was violent and long; but as soon as it abated, 
 they set off on a full gallop; and having conti- 
 nued to travel for about two hours, came to the 
 borders of the forest, and, soon after, to a high 
 lonely wall, which Adeline could just distinguish 
 by the moon-light, which now streamed through 
 the parting clouds. 
 
 Here they stopped; the man dismounted, and 
 having opened a small door in the wail, he un- 
 bound Adeline, who shrieked, though involunta- 
 rily and in vain, as he took her from the horse. 
 The door opened upon a narrow passage, dimly 
 lighted by a lamp that hung at the farther end. 
 He led her on till they came to another door, 
 which opened and disclosed a magnificent saloon, 
 splendidly illuminated, and fitted up in the most 
 airy and elegant taste. 
 
 The walls were painted in fresco, representing 
 scenes from Ovid, and hung above with silk 
 drawn up in festoons, and richly fringed. The 
 sofas were of a silk to suit the hangings. From 
 the centre of the ceiling, which exhibited a scene 
 from the Armida of Tasso, descended a silver 
 lamp of Etruscan form; it diffused a blaze of 
 light, that, reflected from large pier glasses, com- 
 
188 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 pletely illuminated the salGon. Busts of Horace, 
 Ovid, Anacreon, Tibullus, aud Petronius Arbiter, 
 adorned the recesses, and stands of flowers, 
 placed in Etruscan vases, breathed the most de- 
 licious perfume. In the middle of the apartment 
 stood a small table, spread with a collation of 
 fruits, ices, and liqueurs. No person appeared. 
 The whole seemed the work of enchantment, and 
 rather resembled the palace of a fairy than any 
 thing of human conformation. 
 
 Adeline was astonished, and inquired where 
 She was; but the man refused to answer her 
 questions, and, having desired her to take some 
 refreshment, left her. She then walked to the 
 windows, from which a gleam of moon-light dis- 
 covered to her an extensive garden, where groves 
 and lawns, and water glittering in the moon- 
 beam, composed a scenery of varied and roman- 
 tic beauty. " What can this mean!" said she: 
 "Is this a charm to lure me to destruction?" 
 She endeavoured, with a hope of escaping, to 
 open the windows, but they were all fastened: 
 she next attempted several doors, and found 
 them also secured. 
 
 Perceiving all chance of escape was removed, 
 she remained for some time given up to sorrow 
 and reflection; but was at length drawn from her 
 reverie by the notes of soft music, breathing 
 such dulcet and entrancing sounds, as suspended 
 grief, and waked the soul to tenderness and pen- 
 sive pleasure. Adeline listened in surprise, and 
 insensibly became soothed and interested. A 
 tender melancholy stole upon her heart, and sub- 
 dued every harsher feeling: but the moment the 
 strain ceased, the enchantment dissolved, and 
 she returned to a sense of her situation. 
 
 Again the music sounded— 
 
 " Music such as charm eth sleep — 
 and again she gradually yielded to its sweet ma- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 189 
 
 gic. A female voice, accompanied by a lute, a 
 hautboy, and a few other instruments, now gradu- 
 ally swelled into a tone so exquisite, as raised 
 attention into ecstasy. It sunk by degrees, and 
 touched a few simple notes with pathetic soft- 
 ness, when the measure Avas suddenly changed, 
 and in a gay and airy melody Adeline distin- 
 guished the following words: 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Life's a varied, bright illusion, 
 
 Joy and sorrow — light and shade; 
 Turn from sorrow's dark suffusion, 
 
 Catch the pleasures ere they fade. 
 
 Fancy paints with lines unreal, 
 Smile of bliss, and sorrow's mood; 
 
 If they both are but ideal, 
 Why reject the seeming good? 
 
 Hence.' no more! 'tis Wisdom calls ye, 
 
 Bids ye court Time's present aid : 
 The future trust not— hope enthrals ye, 
 
 " Catch the pleasures ere they fade." 
 
 The music ceased, but the sounds still vibrated 
 on her imagination, and she was sunk in the 
 pleasing languor they had inspired, when the 
 door opened, and the Marquis de Montalt ap- 
 peared. He approached the sofa where Adeline 
 sat, and addressed her, but she heard not his 
 voice — she had fainted. He endeavoured to re- 
 cover her, and at length succeeded; but when 
 she unclosed her eyes, and again beheld him, she 
 relapsed into a state of insensibility, and having 
 in vain tried various methods to restore her, he 
 was obliged to call assistance. Two young wo- 
 men entered, and, when she began to revive, he 
 left them to prepare her for his re-appearance. 
 When Adeline perceived that the Marquis was 
 gone, and that she was in the care of women, her 
 spirits gradually returned ; she looked at her at- 
 
190 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 tendants, and was surprised to see so much ele- 
 gance and beauty. 
 
 Some endeavour she made to interest their 
 pity; but they seemed wholly insensible to her 
 distress, and began to talk of the Marquis in 
 terms of the highest admiration. They assured 
 her it would be her own fault if she was not hap- 
 py, and advised her to appear so in his presence. 
 It was with the utmost difficulty that Adeline 
 forbore to express the disdain which was rising 
 to her lips, and that she listened to their dis- 
 course in silence. But she saw the inconvenience 
 and fruitlessness of opposition, and she command- 
 ed her feelings. 
 
 They were thus proceeding in their praises of 
 the Marquis, when he himself appeared, and 
 waving his hand, they immediately quitted the 
 apartment. Adeline beheld him with a kind of 
 mute despair, while he approached and took her 
 hand, which she hastily withdrew, and turning 
 from him with a look of unutterable distress, 
 burst into tears. He was for some time silent, 
 and appeared softened by her anguish. But again 
 approaching, and addressing her in a gentle voice, 
 he entreated her pardon for the step, which de- 
 spair, and, as he called it, love had prompted. 
 She was too much absorbed in grief to reply, till 
 he solicited a return of his love, when sorrow 
 yielded to indignation, and she reproached him 
 with his conduct. He pleaded that he had long 
 loved and sought her upon honourable terms; 
 and his offer of those terms he began to repeat; 
 but, raising his ej r es towards Adeline, he saw in 
 her looks the contempt, which he was conscious 
 he deserved. 
 
 For a moment he was confused, and seemed to 
 understand both that his plan was discovered, 
 and his person despised; but soon resuming his 
 usual command of feature, he again pressed his 
 suit, and solicited her love. A little reflection 
 showed Adeline the danger of exasperating his 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 191 
 
 pride, by an avowal of the contempt which his 
 pretended offer of marriage excited; and she 
 thought it not improper, upon an occasion in 
 which the honour and peace of her life was con- 
 cerned, to yield somewhat to the policy of dissi- 
 mulation. She saw that her only chance of es- 
 caping his designs depended upon delaying them, 
 and she now wished him to believe her ignorant 
 that the Marchioness was living, and that his 
 offers were delusive. 
 
 He observed her pause, and, in the eagerness 
 to turn her hesitation to his advantage, renewed 
 his proposal with increased vehemence. — " To- 
 morrow shall unite us, lovely Adeline; to-mor- 
 row you shall consent to become the Marchioness 
 de Montalt. You will then return my love, 
 and—" 
 
 "You must first deserve my esteem, my Lord." 
 
 " I will — I do deserve it. Are you not now in 
 my power, and do I not forbear to take advantage 
 of your situation] Do I not make you the most 
 honourable proposals?" Adeline shuddered: — 
 " If you wish I should esteem you, my Lord, en- 
 deavour, if possible, to make me forget by what 
 means I came into your power; if your views are 
 indeed honourable, prove them so, by releasing 
 me from my confinement." 
 
 " Can you then wish, lovely Adeline, to fly from 
 him who adores you?" replied the Marquis, with 
 a studied air of tenderness. " Why will you exact 
 so severe a proof of my disinterestedness, a disin- 
 terestedness which is not consistent with love? 
 No, charming Adeline, let me at least have the 
 pleasure of "beholding you, till the bonds of the 
 church shall remove every obstacle to my love. 
 To-morrow " 
 
 Adeline saw the danger to which she was now 
 exposed, and interrupted liim. " Deserve my es- 
 teem, Sir, and then you will obtain it: as a first 
 step towards which, liberate me from a confine- 
 ment that obliges me to look on you only with 
 
192 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 terror and aversion. How can I believe ycur 
 professions of love, while yon show that you have 
 no interest in my happiness?" Thus did Adeline, 
 to whom the arts and the practice of dissimula- 
 tion were hitherto equally unknown, condescend 
 to make use of them in disguising her indignation 
 and contempt. But though these arts were adopt- 
 ed only for the purpose of self-preservation, she 
 used them with reluctance, and almost with ab- 
 horrence; for her mind was habitually impreg- 
 nated with the love of virtue, in thought, word, 
 aud action; and while her end in using them was 
 certainly good, she scarcely believed that end 
 could justify the means. 
 
 The Marquis persisted in his sophistry. "Can 
 you doubt the reality of that love, which, to ob- 
 tain you, has urged me to risk your displeasure? 
 But have I not consulted your happiness, even 
 in the very conduct which you condemn? 1 have 
 removed you from a solitary and desolate ruin, 
 to a gay and splendid villa, where every luxury 
 is at your command, and where every person 
 shall be obedient to your wishes." 
 
 "My first wish is to go hence," said Adeline; 
 B I entreat, I conjure you, my Lord, no 1 anger to 
 detain me. I am a friendless and wretched or- 
 phan, exposed to many evils, and, I fear, aban- 
 doned to misfortune: I do not wish to be rude; 
 but allow me to say, that no misery can exceed 
 that I shall feel in remaining here, or, indeed, in 
 being any where pursued by the offers you make 
 me." Adeline had now forgot her policy: tears 
 prevented her from proceeding, and she turned 
 away her face to hide her emotion. 
 
 " By Heaven! Adeline, you do me wrong," said 
 the Marquis, rising from his seat, and seizing her 
 hand; "I love, i adore you; yet you doubt my 
 passion, and are insensible to my vows. Every 
 pleasure possible to be enjoyed within these 
 walls, you shall partake, but beyond them you 
 shall not go." She disengaged her hand, and in 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. .193 
 
 silent anguish walked to a distant part of the sa- 
 loon ; deep sighs burst from her heart, and, almost 
 fainting, she leaned on a window frame for sup- 
 port. 
 
 The Marquis followed her: " Why tiras obsti- 
 nately persist in refusing to be happy?" said he; 
 "recollect the proposal I have made you, and 
 accept it, while it is yet in your power. To- 
 morrow a priest shall join our hands. — Surely, 
 being as you are, in my power, it must be your 
 interest to consent to this." Adeline could an- 
 swer only by tears; she despaired of softening 
 his heart to pity, and feared to exasperate his 
 pride by disdain. He now led her, and she suf- 
 fered him, to a seat near the banquet, at which 
 he pressed her to partake of a variety of confec- 
 tionaries, particularly of some liqueurs, of which 
 he himself drank freely: Adeline accepted only 
 of a peach. 
 
 And now the Marquis, who interpreted her si- 
 lence into a secret compliance with bis proposal, 
 resumed all his gaiety and spirit, while the long 
 and ardent regards he bestowed on Adeline, over- 
 came her with confusion and indignation. In 
 the midst of the banquet, soft music again sound- 
 ed the most tender and impassioned airs; but its 
 effect on Adeline was now lost, her mind being 
 too much embarrassed and distressed by the 
 presence of the Marquis, to admit even the 
 soothings of harmony. A song was now heard, 
 written with that sort of impotent art, by which 
 some voluptuous poets believe they can at once 
 conceal and recommend the principles of vice. 
 Adeline received it with contempt and displea- 
 sure; and the Marquis, perceiving its effect, pre- 
 sently made a sign for another composition, which, 
 adding the force of poetiy to the charms of music, 
 might withdraw her mind from the present scene, 
 and enchant it in sweet delirium. 
 
194 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 SONG OF A SPIRIT. 
 
 In the sightless air I dwell, 
 
 On the sloping sun-beams play; 
 Delve the cavern's inmost cell, 
 
 Where never yet did day. light stray. 
 
 Dive beneath the green sea waves, 
 
 And gambol in the briny deeps ; 
 Skim every shore that Neptune laves, 
 
 From Lapland's plains to India's steeps- 
 
 Oft' I mount, with rapid force, 
 Above the wide earth's shadowy zone; 
 
 Follow the day-star's flaming course, 
 Through realms of space to thought unknown, 
 
 And listen to celestial sounds 
 That swell the air, unheard of men, 
 
 As I watch my nightly rounds 
 O'er woody steep, and silent glen. 
 
 Under the shade of waving trees, 
 On the green bank of fountain clear, 
 
 At pensive eve I sit at ease, 
 While dying music murmurs near. 
 
 And oft, on point of airy clift, 
 
 That hangs upon the western main, 
 
 I watch the gay tints passing swift, 
 And twilight veil the liquid plain. 
 
 Then, when the breeze has sunk away, 
 
 And ocean scarce is heard to lave, 
 For me the sea-nymphs softly play 
 
 Their dulcet shells beneath the wave. 
 
 Their dulcet shells .' I hear them now ; 
 
 Slow swells the strain upon mine ear; 
 Now faintly falls— now warbles low, 
 
 Till rapture melts into a tear! 
 
 The ray that silvers o'er the dew, 
 
 And trembles through the leafy shade, 
 
 And tints the scene with softer hue, 
 Calls me to rove the lonely glade ; 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 195 
 
 Or hie me to some ruirfd tower, 
 
 Faintly shown by moon-light gleam, 
 Where the lone wanderer owns my power 
 
 In shadows dire that substance seem ; 
 
 In thrilling sounds that murmur woe, 
 And pausing silence makes more dread ; 
 
 In music breathing from below 
 Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. 
 
 Unseen I move— unknown am feared ! 
 
 Fancy's wildest dreams I weave ; 
 And oft by bards my voice is heard 
 
 To die along the gales of eve. 
 
 When the voice ceased, a mournful strain 
 played with exquisite expression, sounded from 
 a distant, horn; sometimes the notes floated on 
 the air, in soft undulations— now they swelled 
 into full and sweeping melody, and now died 
 faintly into silence: when again they rose and 
 trembled in sounds so sweetly tender, as d^ew 
 tears from Adeline, and exclamations of rapture 
 from the Marquis. He threw his arm round her, 
 and would have pressed her towards him; but 
 she liberated herself from his embrace, and with 
 a look, on which was impressed the firm dignity 
 of virtue, yet touched with sorrow, she awed 
 him to forbearance. Conscious of a superiority, 
 which he was ashamed to acknowledge, and en- 
 deavouring to despise the influence which lie 
 could not resist, he stood for a moment the slave 
 of virtue, though the votary of vice. Soon, how- 
 ever, he recovered his confidence, and began to 
 plead his love; when Adeline, no longer anima- 
 ted by the spirit she had lately shown, and sink 
 ing beneath the languor and fatigue which the 
 various and violent agitations of her mind pro- 
 duced, entreated he would leave her to repose. 
 
 The paleness of her countenance, and the tre- 
 mulous tone of her voice, were too expressive to 
 be misunderstood; and the Marquis bidding her 
 
196 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 remember to-morrow, with some hesitation, with- 
 drew. The moment she was alone she yielded 
 to the bursting anguish of her heart, and was so 
 absorbed in grief, that it was some time before 
 she perceived she was in the presence of the 
 young women who had lately attended her, and 
 had entered the saloon soon after the Marquis 
 quitted it: they came to conduct her to her 
 apartment. She followed them for some time in 
 silence, till, prompted by desperation, she again 
 endeavoured to awaken their compassion: but 
 again the praises of the Marquis were repeated, 
 and perceiving that all attempts to interest them 
 in her favour were in vain, she dismissed them. 
 She secured the door through which they had de- 
 parted, and then, in the languid hope of discover- 
 ing some means of escape, she surveyed her cham- 
 ber. — The airy elegance with which it was fitted 
 up, and the luxurious accommodations with 
 which it abounded, seemed designed to fascinate 
 the imagination, and to seduce the heart. The 
 hangings were of straw-coloured silk, adorned 
 with a variety of landscapes and historical paint- 
 ings, the subjects of which partook of the volup- 
 tuous character of the owner: the chimney-piece, 
 of Parian marble, was ornamented with several 
 reposing figures from the antique. The bed was 
 of silk, the colour of the hangings, richly fringed 
 with purple and silver, and the head made in 
 form of a canopy. The steps, which were placed 
 near the bed, to assist in ascending it, were 
 supported by Cupids, apparently of silver.. Chi- 
 na vases, filled with perfume, stood in several of 
 the recesses, upon stands of the same structure 
 as the toilet, which was magnificent, and orna- 
 mented with a variety of trinkets. 
 
 Adeline threw a transient look upon these va- 
 rious objects, and proceeded to examine the win- 
 dows, which descended to the floor, and opened 
 into balconies towards the garden she had seen 
 from the saloon. They were now fastened, and 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 197 
 
 her efforts to move them were ineffectual; afc 
 length she gave up the attempt. A door next 
 attracted her notice, which she found was not 
 fastened; it opened upon a dressing-closet, to 
 which she descended by a few steps: two win- 
 dows appeared, she hastened towards them; one 
 refused to yield, hut her heart heat with sudden 
 joy when the other opened to her touch. 
 
 Iu the transport of the moment, she forgot 
 that its distance from the ground might yet deny 
 the escape she meditated. She returned to lock 
 the door of the closet, to prevent a surprise, 
 which, however, was unnecessary, that of the 
 bed-room being already secured. She now look- 
 ed out from the window ; the garden lay before 
 her, and she perceived that the window, which 
 descended to the floor, was so near the ground, 
 that she might jump from it with ease: almost 
 in the moment she perceived this, she sprang 
 forward, and alighted safely in an extensive gar- 
 den, resembling more an English pleasure- 
 ground, than a series of French parterres. 
 
 Thence she had little doubt of escaping, either 
 by some broken fence, or low part of the wall; 
 she tripped lightly along, for hope played around 
 her heart. The clouds of the late storm were 
 now dispersed, and the moon-light, which slept 
 on the lawns and spangled the flowers, yet heavy 
 with rain-drops, afforded her a distinct view 
 of the surrounding scenery. She followed the 
 direction of the high wail that adjoined the 
 chateau, till it was concealed from her sight by a 
 thick wilderness, so entangled with boughs, and 
 obscured by darkness, that she feared to enter, 
 and turned aside into a walk on the right; it con- 
 ducted her to the margin of a lake overhung 
 with lofty trees. 
 
 The moon-beams dancing upon the waters, 
 that with gentle undulation played along the 
 shore, exhibited a scene of tranquil beauty, 
 13 
 
198 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 ■which would have soothed a heart less agitated 
 than was that of Adeline: she sighed as she 
 transiently surveyed it, and passed nastily on in 
 search of the garden wall, from which she had 
 now strayed a considerable way. After wandering 
 for some time through alleys and over lawns, 
 without meeting with any thing like a boundary 
 to the grounds, she again found herself at the 
 lake, and now traversed its borders with the foot- 
 steps of despair: tears roiled down her cheeks. 
 The scene around exhibited only images of peace 
 and delight; every object seemed to repose; not 
 a breath waved the foliage, not a sound stole 
 through the air; it was in her bosom only that 
 tumult and distress prevailed. She still pursued 
 the windings of the shore, till an opening in the 
 woods conducted her up a gentle ascent: the 
 path now wound along the side of a hill, where the 
 gloom was so deep, that it was with some diffi- 
 culty she found her way: suddenly, however, the 
 avenue opened to a lofty grove, and she perceiv- 
 ed a light issue from a recess at some distance. 
 
 She paused, and her first impulse was to re- 
 treat; but listening, and hearing no sound, a faint 
 hope beamed upon her mind, that the person to 
 whom the light belonged, might be won to favour 
 her escape. She advanced, with trembling and 
 hmtious steps, towards the recess, that sue 
 luight secretly observe the person, before she 
 ventured to enter it. Her emotion increased as 
 she approached, and having reached the bower, 
 she beheld, through an open window, the Mar- 
 quis, reclining on a sofa, near which stood a 
 table, covered with fruit and wine. He was 
 alone, and his coimtenance was flushed with 
 drinking. 
 
 While she gazed, fixed to the spot by terror, 
 he looked up towards the casement: the light 
 gleamed full upon her face, but she stayed not 
 to learn whether he had observed her, for, with 
 the swiftness of sound, she left the place and 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 199 
 
 ran, without knowing whether she was pursued. 
 Having gone a considerable way, fatigue at 
 length compelled her to stop, and she threw 
 herself upon the turf, almost fainting with fear 
 and languor. She knew if the Marquis detected 
 her in an attempt to escape, he would probably 
 burst the bounds which he had hitherto prescrib- 
 ed to himself, and that she had the most dreadful 
 evils to expect. The palpitations of terror were 
 so strong, that she could with difficulty breathe. 
 
 She watched and listened, in trembling expec- 
 tation, but no human form met her eye, no sound 
 her ear; in this state she remained a consider- 
 able time. She wept, and the tears she shed re- 
 lieved her oppressed heart. "0 my father! " said 
 she, "why did you abandon your child? If you 
 knew the dangers to which you have exposed 
 her, you would, surely, pity and relieve her. — 
 Alas! shall I never find a friend? am I destined 
 still to trust and be deceived? — Peter too, could 
 he be treacherous?" She wept again, and then 
 returned to a sense of her present danger, and to a 
 consideration of the means of escaping it — but no 
 means appeared. 
 
 To her imagination the grounds were bound- 
 less; she had wandered from lawn to lawn, and 
 from grove to grove, without perceiving any ter- 
 mination to the place; the garden wall she could 
 not find; but she resolved neither to return to 
 the chateau, or to relinquish her search. As she 
 was rising to depart, she perceived a shadow 
 move along the ground at some distance: she 
 stood still to observe it. it slowly advanced, 
 and then disappeared; but presently she saw a 
 person emerge from the gloom, and approach the 
 spot where she stood. She had no doubt that 
 the Marquis had observed her, and she ran with 
 all possible speed to the shade of some woods on 
 the left. Footsteps pursued her, and she heard 
 her name repeated, while she in vain endeavour- 
 ed to quicken her pace. 
 
200 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Suddenly the sound of pursuit turned, and 
 sunk away in a different direction ; she paused to 
 take breath; she looked around, and no person 
 appeared. She now proceeded slowly along the 
 avenue, and had almost reached its termination, 
 when she saw the same figure emerge from the 
 woods, and dart across the avenue; it instantly 
 pursued her, and approached. A voice called 
 her, but she was gone beyond its reach, for she 
 had sunk senseless u>on she ground: it was long 
 before she revived; when she did, she found her- 
 self in the arms of a stranger, and made an effort 
 to disengage herself. 
 
 "Fear nothing, lovely Adeline," said he, "fear 
 nothing: you are in the arms of a friend, who 
 will encounter any hazard for your sake! who 
 will protect you with his life!" He pressed her 
 gently to his heart. " Have you then forgot me? " 
 continued he. She looked earnestly at him, and 
 was now convinced that it was Theodore who 
 spoke. Joy was her first emotion ; but, recol- 
 lecting his former abrupt departure, at a time 
 so critical to her safety, and that he was the 
 friend of the Marquis, a thousand mingled sensa- 
 tions struggled in her breast, and overwhelmed 
 her with mistrust, apprehension, and disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 Theodore raised her from the ground, and 
 while he yet supported her, " Let us immediate- 
 ly fly from this place," said he; "a carriage waits 
 to receive us: it shall go wherever you direct, 
 and convey you to your friends." This last 
 sentence touched her heart: "Alas, I have no 
 friends! " said she, "nor do I know whither to go." 
 Theodore gently pressed her hand between his, 
 and in a voice of the softest compassion, said, "My 
 friends then shall be your's; suffer me to lead 
 you to them. But I am hi agony while you 
 remain in this place; let us hasten to quit 'it." 
 Adeline was going to reply, when voices wera 
 heard among the trees, and Theodore, support- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 201 
 
 ing her with his arm, hurried her along the 
 avenue: they continued their flight till Adeline, 
 panting for breath, could go no farther. 
 
 Having paused awhile, and heard no footsteps 
 in pursuit, they renewed their course: Theodore 
 knew that they were now not far from the garden 
 wall; but he was also aware, that in the interme- 
 diate space several paths wound from remote 
 parts of the grounds into the walk he was to 
 pass, from whence the Marquis's people might 
 issue, and intercept him. He, however, conceal- 
 ed his apprehensions from Adeline, and endea- 
 voured to soothe and support her spirits. 
 
 At length they reached the wall, and Theo- 
 dore was leading her towards a low part of it, near 
 Which stood the carriage, when again they heard 
 voices in the air. Adeline's spirits and strength 
 were nearly exhausted, but she made a last ef- 
 fort to proceed, and she now saw the ladder at 
 some distance, by which Theodore had descended 
 to the garden. "Exert yourself yet a little long- 
 er," said he, "and you will be in safety." He 
 held the ladder while she ascended: the top of 
 the wall was broad and level, and Adeline, 
 having reached it, remained there till Theodore 
 followed, and drew the ladder to the other side. 
 
 When they had descended, the carriage appear- 
 ed in waiting, but without the driver. Theodore 
 feared to call, lest his voice should betray him; 
 he therefore put Adeline into the carriage, and 
 went himself in search of the postilion, whom 
 he found asleep under a tree at some distance; 
 having awakened him, they returned to the ve- 
 hicle, which soon drove furiously away. Adeline 
 did not yet dare to believe herself safe; but after 
 proceeding a considerable time without interrup- 
 tion, joy burst upon her heart, and she thanked 
 her deliverer in terms of the warmest gratitude. 
 The sympathy expressed in the tone of his voice 
 and manner, proved that his happiness, on this 
 occasion, almost equalled her own. 
 
202 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 As reflection gradually stole upon her mind, 
 anxiety superseded joy; in the tumult of the late 
 moments, she thought only of escape; but the 
 circumstances of her present situation now ap- 
 peared to her, and she became silent and pen- 
 sive: she had no friends to whom she could fly, 
 and was going with a young chevalier, almost a 
 stranger to her, she knew not whither. She re- 
 membered how often she had been deceived and 
 betrayed where she trusted most, and her spirits 
 gunk: she remembered also the former attention 
 which Theodore had shown her, and dreaded 
 lest his. conduct might be prompted by a selfish 
 passion. She saw this to be possible, but she 
 disdained to believe it probable, and felt that 
 nothing could give her greater pain than to 
 doubt the integrity of Theodore. 
 
 He interrupted her reverie, by recurring to 
 her late situation at the abbey. " You would be 
 much surprised," said he, " and, I fear, offended, 
 that I did not attend my appointment at the 
 abbey, after the alarming hints I had given you 
 at our last interview. That circumstance has, 
 perhaps, injured me in your esteem, if indeed I 
 was ever so happy as to possess it : but my de- 
 signs were overruled by those of the Marquis de 
 Montalt; and I think I may venture to assert, 
 that my distress upon that occasion was at least 
 equal to your apprehensions." 
 
 Adeline said, she had been much alarmed by 
 the hints he had given her, and by his failing 
 to afford farther information concerning the sub- 
 ject of her danger; and — She checked the 
 sentence that hung upon her lips, for she per- 
 ceived that she was unwarily disclosing the in- 
 terest he held in her heart. There were a few 
 moments of silence, and neither party seemed 
 perfectly at ease. Theodore at length renewed 
 the conversation: "Suffer me to acquaint you," 
 said he, " Avith the circumstances that withheld 
 me from the interview I solicited; I am anxious 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 203 
 
 to exculpate myself." Without waiting hor re- 
 ply, lie proceeded to inform her, that the Mar- 
 quis had, by some inexplicable means, learned, 
 or suspected the subject of their last conversa- 
 tion; and, perceiving his designs were in danger 
 of being counteracted, had taken effectual means 
 to prevent her obtaining farther intelligence of 
 them. Adeline immediately recollected that 
 Theodore and herself had been seen in the forest 
 by La Motte, who had, no doubt, suspected their 
 growing intimacy, and had taken care to inform 
 the Marquis how likely he was to find a rival in 
 his friend. 
 
 '* On the day following that on which I last 
 saw you,'"said Theodore, " the Marquis, who is 
 my colonel, commanded me to prepare to attend 
 my regiment, and appointed the following morn- 
 ing for my journey. This sudden order gave me 
 some surprise; but I was not long in donbt con- 
 cerning the motive of it: a servant of the Mar- 
 quis, who was attached to me, entered my room 
 soon after I had left his Lord, and expressing 
 concern at my abrupt departure, dropped some 
 hints respecting it, which excited my surprise. 
 I inquired farther, and was confirmed in the sus- 
 picions I had for some time entertained of the 
 Marquis's designs upon you. 
 
 " Jacques farther informed me, that our late 
 interview had been noticed and mentioned to the 
 Marquis. His information had been obtained 
 from a fellow-servant, and it alarmed me so 
 much, that I engaged him to send me intelli- 
 gence from time to time, concerning the pro- 
 ceedings of the Marquis. I now looked forward 
 to the evening which would bring me again to 
 your presence with increased impatience: but 
 the ingenuity of the Marquis effectually counter- 
 acted my endeavours and wishes. He had made 
 an engagement to pass the day at the villa of a 
 nobleman some leagues distant, and notwith- 
 standing all the excuses I could offer, I was 
 
204 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 obliged to attend him. Thus compelled to obey, 
 I passed a day of more agitation and anxiety 
 than I had ever before experienced. It was 
 midnight before ire returned to the Marquis's 
 chateau. I arose early in the morning to com- 
 mence my journey, and resolved to seek an in- 
 terview with you before I left the province. 
 
 " When I entered the breakfast room I was 
 much surprised to find the Marquis there al- 
 ready, who, commending the beauty of the morn- 
 ing, declared his intention of accompanying me as 
 far as Chineau. Thus unexpectedly deprived of 
 my last hope, my countenance, I believe, ex- 
 pressed what I felt, for the scrutinizing eye of 
 the Marquis instantly changed from seeming 
 carelessness to displeasure. The distance from 
 Chineau to the abbey was at least twelve leagues; 
 yet I had once some intention of returning from 
 thence, when the Marquis should leave me, till I 
 recollected the very remote chance there would 
 even then be of seeing you alone; and also, that 
 if I was observed by La Motte, it would awaken 
 all his suspicions, and caution him against any 
 future plan I might see it expedient to attempt. 
 I therefore proceeded to join my regiment. 
 
 " Jacques sent me frequent accounts of the 
 operations of the Marquis; but • his manner of 
 relating them was so very confused, that they 
 only served to perplex and distress me. His last- 
 letter, however, alarmed me so much, that my 
 residence in quarters became intolerable; and 
 as I found it impossible to obtain leave of ab- 
 sence, I secretly left the regiment, and conceal- 
 ed myself in a cottage about a mile from the 
 chateau, that I might obtain the earliest intelli- 
 gence of the Marquis's plans. Jacques brought 
 me daily information, and at last an account of 
 the horrible plot which was laid for the follow- 
 ing night. 
 
 " I saw little probability of warning you of 
 your danger. If I ventured near the abbey, La 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 205 
 
 Motte might discover me, and frustrate every 
 attempt on my part to serve you: yet I deter- 
 mined to encounter this risk for the chance of 
 seeing you, and towards evening I -was preparing 
 to set out for the forest, when Jacques -.arrived 
 and informed me, that you were to be brought 
 to the chateau. My plan was thus rendered less 
 difficult. I learned, also, that the Marquis, by 
 means of those refinements in luxury, with 
 which he is but too well acquainted, designed, 
 now that his apprehension of losing you was no 
 more, to seduce you to his wishes, and impose 
 upon you by a fictitious marriage. Having ob- 
 tained information concerning the situation of 
 the room allotted you, I ordered a chaise to be 
 in waiting, and with a design of scaling your 
 window, and conducting you thence, I entered 
 the garden at midnight." 
 
 Theodore having ceased to speak, " I know 
 not how words can express my sense of the obli- 
 gations I owe you," said Adeline, " or my grati- 
 tude for your generosity." 
 
 "Ah! call it not generosity," he replied, " it 
 was love." He paused. Adeline was silent. Af- 
 ter some moments of expressive emotion, he 
 resumed: "But pardon this abrupt declaration: 
 yet why do I call it abrupt, since my actions 
 have already disclosed what my lips have never, 
 till this instant, ventured to acknowledge." He 
 paused again. Adeline was still silent. "Yet 
 do me the justice to believe, that I am sensible 
 of the impropriety of pleading my love at pre- 
 sent, and have been surprised into this confes- 
 sion. I promise also to forbear from a renewal 
 of the subject, till you are placed in a situation, 
 where you may freely accept or refuse the sin- 
 cere regards I offer you. If I could, however, 
 now be certain that I possess your esteem, it 
 would relieve me from much anxiety." 
 • Adeline felt surprised that he should doubt 
 her esteem for him after the signal and generous 
 
20S THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 service he had rendered her; hut she was not yet 
 acquainted -with the timidity of love. " Do you 
 then," said she, in a tremulous voice, " helieve 
 me ungrateful ? Is it possihle I can consider 
 your friendly interference in my behalf without 
 cstee-ining you ? " Theodore immediately took 
 her hand, and pressed it to his lips in silence. 
 They were both too much agitated to converse, 
 and continued to travel for some miles without 
 exchanging a word. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The dawn of morning now trembled through 
 the cloxids, when the travellers stopped at a 
 small town, to change horses. Theodore entreat- 
 ed Adeline to alight and take some refreshment, 
 and to this she at length consented. But the 
 people of the inn were not yet up, and it was 
 some time before the knocking and roaring of 
 the postilion could rouse them. 
 
 Having taken some slight refreshment, Theo- 
 dore and Adeline returned to the carriage. The 
 only subject upon which Theodore could have 
 spoke with interest, delicacy forbade him at this 
 time to renew; and after pointing out some beau- 
 tiful scenery on the road, and making other 
 efforts to support a conversation, he relapsed 
 into silence. His mind, though still anxious, was 
 now relieved from the apprehension that had 
 long oppressed it. When he first saw Adeline, 
 her loveliness made a deep impression on his 
 heart; there "was a sentiment in her beauty, 
 which his mind immediately acknowledged, and 
 the effect of which her manners and conversa- 
 tion had afterwards confirmed. 
 
 A knowledge of her destitute condition, and of 
 the dangers with which she was environed, had 
 awakened in his heart the tenderest touch of 
 pity, and assisted the change of admiration into 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 207 
 
 love. The distress lie suffered, when compelled 
 to leave her exposed to these dangers, without 
 being able to wain her of them, can only be ima- 
 gined. During his residence with his regiment, 
 his mind was the constant prey of terrors, which 
 he saw no means of combating, but by returning 
 to the neighbourhood of the abbey, where he 
 might, obtain earl3 T intelligence of the Marquis's 
 schemes, and be ready to give assistance to Ade- 
 line. 
 
 Leave of absence he could not request, without 
 betraying his design where most he dreaded it 
 should be known; and at length, with a generous 
 rashness, which though it defied law, was impel- 
 led by virtue, he secretly quitted his regiment. 
 The progress of the Marquis's plan he had ob- 
 served with trembling anxietj', till the night that 
 was to decide the fate of Adeline and himself 
 roused all his mind to action, and involved him 
 in a tumult of hope and fear — horror and expec- 
 tation. 
 
 Never, till the present hour, had lie ventured 
 to believe she was in safety. — Now the distance 
 they had gained from the chateau without per- 
 ceiving any pursuit, increased his best hopes. It 
 was impossible he could sit by the side of his be- 
 loved Adeline, and receive assurances of her gra- 
 titude and esteem, without venturing to hope for 
 her love. He congratulated himself as her pre- 
 server, and anticipated scenes of happiness when 
 she should be under the protection of his family. 
 The clouds of misery and apprehension disap- 
 peared from his mind, and left it to the sun-shine 
 of joy. When a shadow of fear would sometimes 
 return, or when he recollected, with compunc« 
 tion, the circumstances under which he had left 
 his regiment, stationed as it was, upon the fron- 
 tiers, and in a time of war, he looked at Adeline, 
 and her countenance, with instantaneous magic, 
 beamed peace upon his heart. 
 
 But Adeline had a subject of anxiety from which 
 
208 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 Theodore was exempt ; the prospect of her future 
 days was involved in darkness and incertitude. 
 Again she was going to claim the bounty of stran- 
 gers—again going to encounter the uncertainty 
 of their kindness; exposed to the hardships of 
 dependence, or to the difficulty of earning a pre- 
 carious livelihood. These anticipations obscured 
 the joy occasioned by her escape, and by the af- 
 fection which the conduct and avowal of Theo- 
 dore had exhibited. The delicacy of his beha- 
 viour, in forbearing to take advantage of her pre- 
 sent situation to plead his love, increased her es- 
 teem, and flattered her pride. 
 
 Adeline was lost in meditation upon subjects 
 like these, when the postilion stopped the car- 
 riage ; and pointing to part of a road, which wound 
 down the side of a hill they had passed, said, there 
 were several horsemen in pursuit! Theodore im- 
 mediately ordered him to proceed with all possi- 
 ble speed, and to strike out of the great road into 
 the first obscure way that offered. The postilion 
 cracked his whip in the air, and set off as if he 
 was flying for life. In the meanwhile Theodore 
 endeavoured to re-animate Adeline, who was 
 sinking with terror, and who now thought, if she 
 could only escape from the Marquis, she could 
 defy the future. 
 
 Presently they struck into a bye lane, screened 
 and overshadowed by thick trees: Theodore again 
 looked from the window, but the closing boughs 
 prevented his seeing far enough to determine 
 whether the pursuit continued. For his sake 
 Adeline endeavoured to disguise her emotions. 
 " This lane," said Theodore,"" will certainly lead 
 to a town or village, and then we have nothing 
 to apprehend; for though my single arm could 
 not defend you against the number of our pur- 
 suers, I have no doubt of being able to interest 
 some of the inhabitants in our behalf." 
 
 Adeline appeared to be comforted by the hope 
 this reflection suggested, and Theodore again 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 209 
 
 looked back; but the windings of tbe road closed 
 his view, and the rattling of the wheels overcame 
 every other sound. At length he called to the 
 postilion to stop, and having listened attentively, 
 without perceiving any sound of horses, he began 
 to hope they were now in safety. " Do you know 
 where this road leads*" said he. The postilion 
 answered, that he did not; but he saw some 
 houses between the trees at a distance, and be- 
 lieved it led to them. This was most Avelcome 
 intelligence to Theodore, who looked forward and 
 perceived the houses. The postilion set off. 
 *' Fear nothing, my adored Adeline,'"' said he, 
 " you are now safe; I will part with you but with 
 life." Adeline sighed, not for herself only, but 
 for the danger to which Theodore might be ex- 
 posed. 
 " They had continued to travel in this manner 
 for near half an hour, when they arrived at a 
 small village, and soon after stopped at an inn, 
 the best the place afforded. As Theodore lifted 
 Adeline from the chaise, he again entreated her 
 to dismiss her apprehensions, and spoke with a 
 tenderness, to which she could reply only by a 
 smile, that ill concealed her anxiety. After or- 
 dering refreshments, he went out to speak with 
 the landlord; but had scarcely left the room, 
 Avhen Adeline observed a party of horsemen en- 
 ter the inn yard, and she had no doubt these were 
 the persons from whom they fled. The faces of 
 two of them only were turned towards her, but 
 she thought the figure of one of the others not 
 unlike that of the Marquis. 
 
 Her heart was chilled, and for some moments 
 the powers of reason forsook her. Her first de- 
 sign was to seek concealment; but while she con- 
 sidered the means, one of the horsemen looked 
 up to the window near which she stood, and 
 speaking to Ms companions, they entered the 
 inn. _ To quit the room without being observed, 
 was impossible; to remain there, alone and un- 
 
210 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 protected as she was, would be almost equally 
 dangerous. She paced the room in an agony of 
 terror, often secretly calling on Theodore, and 
 often wondering he did not return. These were 
 moments of indescribable suffering. A loud and 
 tumultuous sound of voices now arose from a dis- 
 tant part of the house, and she soon distinguished 
 the words of the disputants. " I arrest you in 
 the King's name," said one; "and bid you, at 
 your peril, attempt to go from hence, except un- 
 der a guard/"' 
 
 The next minute Adeline heard the voice of 
 Theodore in reply. " I do not mean to dispute 
 the King's orders," said he, "and give you my 
 word of honour not to go without you; but first 
 unhand me, that I may return to that room; I 
 have a friend there whom I wish to speak with." 
 To this proposal they at first objected, consider- 
 ing it merely as an excuse to obtain an opportu- 
 nity of escaping; but, after much altercation and 
 entreaty, his request was granted. He sprang 
 forwards towards the room where Adeline re- 
 mained, while a sergeant and corporal followed 
 him to the door; the two soldiers went out into 
 the yard of the inn, to watch the windows of the 
 apartment. 
 
 With an eager hand he unclosed the door, but 
 Adeline hastened not to meet him, for she had 
 fainted almost at the beginning of the dispute. 
 Theodore called loudly for assistance, and the 
 mistress of the inn soon appeared with her stock 
 of remedies, which were administered in vain to 
 Adeline, who remained insensible, and by breath- 
 ing alone gave signs of her existence. The dis- 
 tress of Theodore was in the meantime height- 
 ened by the appearance of the officers, who, 
 laughing at the discovery of his pretended friend, 
 declared they could wait no longer. Saying this, 
 they would have forced him from the inanimate 
 form of Adeline, over whom he hung in unutter- 
 able anguish, when fiercely turning upon them, 
 
■ THE ROMANCE OF THE F0KEST. 211 
 
 he drew his sword, and swore no power on earth 
 should force him away before the lady recovered. 
 
 The men, enraged by the action and the deter- 
 mined air of Theodore, exclaimed, " Do you op- 
 pose the King's orders?" and advanced to seize 
 him; but he presented the point of hi.3 sword, 
 and bade them at their peril approach. One of 
 them immediately dreAv ; Theodore kept his 
 guard, but did not advance. " I demand only to 
 wait here till the lady recovers," said he; " you 
 understand the alternative." The man, already 
 exasperated by the opposition of Theodore, re- 
 garded the latter part of his speech as a threat, 
 and became determined not to give up the point: 
 he pressed forward, and while his comrade called 
 the men from the yard, Theodore wounded him 
 slightly in the shoulder, and received himself the 
 stroke of a sabre on his head. 
 
 The blood gushed furiously from the wound; 
 Theodore, staggering to a chair, sunk into it, just 
 as the remainder of the party entered the room, 
 and Adeline unclosed her eyes to see him ghast- 
 ly, pale, and covered with blood. She uttered an 
 involuntary scream, and exclaiming, "they have 
 murdered him!" nearly relapsed. At the sound 
 of her voice he raised his head, and smiling, held 
 out his hand to her. " I am not much hurt," said 
 he faintly, "and shall soon be better, if indeed 
 you are recovered." — She hastened towards him, 
 and gave her hand. " Is nobody gone for a sur- 
 geon!" said she, with a look of agony. — "Do not 
 be alarmed," said Theodore, " I am not so ill as 
 3'ou imagine." The room was now crowded with 
 people, whom the report of the affray had brought 
 together; among these was a man, who acted as 
 physician, apothecary, and surgeon, to the village, 
 and who now stepped forward to the assistance 
 of Theodore. 
 
 Having examined the wound, he declined giv- 
 ing his opinion, but ordered the patient to be im- 
 mediately put to bed: to which the officers ob- 
 
212 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Jected, alleging, that it was their duty to carry 
 him to the regiment; "That cannot be clone, 
 without great danger to his life," replied the 
 doctor; "and—" 
 
 " Oh! his life," said the sergeant, " we have no- 
 thing to do with that; we must do our duty." 
 Adeline, who had hitherto stood in trembling 
 anxiety, could now no longer be silent. " Since 
 the surgeon," said she, "has declared it as his 
 opinion, that this gentleman cannot be removed 
 in his present condition, without endangering his 
 life, you will remember, that if he dies, your's 
 will probably answer it." 
 
 "Yes," rejoined the surgeon, who was unwill- 
 ing to relinquish his patient; "I declare before 
 these witnesses, that he cannot be removed with 
 fcafety: you will do well, therefore, to consider 
 the consequences. He has received a very dan- 
 gerous wound, which requires the most careful 
 treatment, and the event is even then doubtful: 
 but, if he travels, a fever may ensue, and the 
 wound will then be mortal." Theodore heard 
 this sentence with composure, but Adeline could 
 with difficulty conceal the anguish of her heart: 
 she summoned all her fortitude to suppress the 
 tears that struggled in her eyes; and though she 
 wished to interest the humanity, or to awaken 
 the fears of the men, in behalf of the unfortunate 
 prisoner, she dared not to trust her voice with 
 utterance. 
 
 From this internal struggle she was relieved 
 by the compassion of the people who filled the 
 room, and becoming clamorous in the cause of 
 Theodore, declared the officers would be guilty 
 of murder if they removed him. " Why, he 
 must die at any rate," said the sergeant, "for 
 quitting his post, and drawing upon me in the 
 execution of the King's orders." A faint sick- 
 ness came over the heart of Adeline, and she 
 leaned for support against Theodore's chair, 
 whose concern for himself was for a while sus- 
 
TUT? BOMANCE OP TH.S FOREST. 213 
 
 pended in his anxiety for her. He supported her 
 with his arm, and forcing a smile, said in a low 
 voice, which she only could hear, ' : This is a mis- 
 representation; I doubt not, when the affair is 
 inquired into, it will be settled without any seri- 
 ous consequences.'' 
 
 Adeline knew these words were uttered only 
 to console her, and therefore did not give much 
 credit to them, though Theodore continued to 
 repeat similar assurances of his safety. Mean- 
 while the mob, whose compassion for him had 
 been gradually excited by the obduracy of the 
 officer, were now roused to pity and indignation 
 by the seeming certainty of his punishment, and 
 the unfeeling manner in which it had been de- 
 nounced. In a short time they became so much 
 enraged, that, partly from a dread of farther con- 
 sequences, and partly from the shame which their 
 charges of cruelty occasioned, the sergeant con- 
 sented that Theodore should be put to bed, till 
 his commanding officer might direct what was to 
 *e done. Adeline's joy at this circumstance over- 
 came for a moment the sense of her misfortunes 
 and of her situation. 
 
 Siie waited in an adjoining room the sentence 
 of the surgeon, who was now engaged in examin- 
 ing the wound; and though the accident would 
 in any other circumstances have severely afflict- 
 ed her. she now lamented it the more, because 
 she considered herself as the cause of it, and be- 
 cause the misfortune, by illustrating more fuuy 
 the affection of her lover, drew him closer to hei* 
 heart, and seemed therefore to sharpen the poig- 
 nancy of her affliction. The dreadful assertion 
 that Theodore, should he recover, would be pun- 
 ished with death, she scarcely dared to consider, 
 but endeavoured to believe, that it was no more 
 than a cruel exaggeration of his antagonist. 
 
 Upon the whole, Theodore's present danger, 
 together with the attendant circumstances, av,-a- 
 14 
 
 
214 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 
 
 kened all her tenderness, and discovered to her 
 the true state of her affections. The graceful 
 form, the noble, intelligent countenance, and the 
 engaging manners which she Lad at first admired 
 in Theodore, became afterwards more interesting 
 by that strength of thought, and elegance of sen- 
 timent, exhibited in his conversation. His con- 
 duct, since her escape, had excited her warmest 
 gratitude, and the danger which he had now en- 
 countered in her behalf, called forth her tender- 
 ness, and heightened it into love. The veil was 
 removed from her heart, and she saw, for the 
 first time, its genuine emotions. 
 
 The surgeon at length came out of Theodore's 
 chamber into the room where Adeline was wait- 
 ing to speak with him. She inquired concerning 
 the state of his wound. " You are a relation of 
 the gentleman's, I presume, Madame; his sister, 
 perhaps?" The question vexed and embarrassed 
 her; and, without answering it, she repeated her 
 inquiry. "Perhaps, Madame, you are more near- 
 ly related," pursued the surgeon, seeming also to 
 disregard her question; "perhaps you are his 
 wife." Adeline blushed, and was about to reply, 
 but he continued his speech. " The interest you 
 take in his welfare is, at least, very flattering, 
 and I would almost consent to exchange condi- 
 tions with him, were I sure of receiving such 
 tender compassion from so charming a lady " 
 Saying this, he bowed to the ground. Adeline, 
 assuming a very reserved air, said, "Now, Sir, 
 that you have concluded your compliment, you 
 will, perhaps, attend to my question; I have in- 
 quired how you left your patient?" 
 
 " That, Madame, is perhaps a question very 
 difficult to be resolved; and it is likewise a very 
 disagreeable efface to pronounce ill news— I fear 
 he will die." The surgeon opened his snuff-box 
 and presented it to A define. "Die!" she ex- 
 claimed in a faint voice, " Die! — " 
 
 " resumed the 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 215 
 
 surgeon, observing her grow pale, "do net be 
 alarmed. It is possible that the -wound may not 
 
 have reached the (he stammered;) in that 
 
 case the (stammering again) is not affected: 
 
 and if so, the interior membranes of the brain 
 are not touched: in this case the wound maj% 
 perhaps, escape inflammation, and the patient 
 may possibly recover. But if, on the other 
 hand, " 
 
 " I beseech you, Sir, to speak intelligibly," 
 interrupted Adeline, "'and not to trifle with my 
 anxiety. Do you really believe him in danger? 5 * 
 
 "In danger, Madame!" exclaimed the sur- 
 geon, "in danger! yes, certainly, in very great 
 danger." Saying this he walked away with an 
 air of chagrin and displeasure. Adeline remain- 
 ed for some moments in the room in an excess of 
 sorrow, which she found it impossible to restrain; 
 and then drying her tears, and endeavouring to 
 compose her countenance, she went to inquire 
 for the mistress of the inn, to whom she sent a 
 waiter. After expecting her in vain for some 
 time, she rang the bell, and sent another message 
 somewhat more pressing: still the hostess did 
 not appear, and Adeline, at length, went herself 
 down stairs, where she found her, surrounded by 
 a number of people, relating -with a loud voice 
 and various gesticulations, the particulars of the 
 late accident. Perceiving Adeline, she called 
 out, "Oh! here is Mademoiselle herself;" and 
 the eyes of the assembly were immediately turn- 
 ed upon her. Adeline, whom the crowd pre- 
 vented from approaching the hostess, now beck- 
 oned her, and -was going to withdraw; but the 
 landlady, eager in the pursuit of her story, disre- 
 garded the signal. In vain did Adeline endea- 
 vor r to catch her eye; it glanced everywhere 
 but _ up on her, who was unwilling to attract the 
 farther notice of the crowd by calling out. 
 
 " It is a great pity, to be sure that he should 
 be shot," said the landlady, " he's such a hand- 
 
216 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 some man : but they say he certainly will if he 
 recovers. Poor gentleman! he will very likely 
 not suffer though, for the doctor says he will 
 never go out of this house alive." Adeline now 
 spoke to a man who stood near, and desiring he 
 would tell the hostess she wished to speak with 
 her, left the place. 
 
 In about ten minutes the landlady appeared. 
 "Alas! Mademoiselle," said she, "your brother 
 is in a sad condition; the}- fear he won't get over 
 it." Adeline inquired, whether there was any 
 other medical person in the town than the sur- 
 geon whom she had seen. "Lord, Madame! 
 this is a rare healthy place; we have little need 
 of medicine people here; such an accident never 
 happened in it before. The Doctor has been 
 here ten years, or thereabout; but there's very 
 bad encouragement for his trade; and I believe 
 he's poor enough himself. One of the sort's quite 
 enough for us." Adeline interrupted her to ask 
 some questions concerning Theodore, whom the 
 hostess had attended to his chamber. She inqui- 
 red how he had borne the dressing of the wound, 
 and whether he appeared to be easier after the 
 operation; questions to which the hostess gave no 
 very satisfactory answers. She now inquired 
 whether there was any surgeon in the neighbour- 
 hood of the town, and was told there was not. 
 
 The distress visible in Adeline's countenance 
 seemed to excite the compassion of the landlady, 
 who now endeavoured to console her in the best 
 manner she was able. She advised her to send 
 for her friends, and offered to procure a messen- 
 ger. Adeline sighed, and said it was unneces- 
 sary. " I don't know, Ma'amselle, what you 
 may think necessary," continued the hostess, 
 " but I know I should think it very hard to die 
 in a strange place with no relations near me, and 
 I dare say the poor gentleman thinks so himself; 
 and besides who is to pay for his funeral if he 
 dies?" Adeline begged she would be silent, and, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 217 
 
 desiring that every proper attention might he 
 given, she promised her a reward for her trouble, 
 and requested pen and ink immediately. ' ; Aye, 
 to he sure, Ma'amselle, that is the proper way : 
 why your friends would never forgive you if you 
 did not acquaint them; I know it by myself. 
 And as for taking care of him, he shall have 
 every thing the house affords; aud I warrant 
 there is never a hetter inn in the province, 
 though the town is none of the biggest." Ade- 
 line was obliged to repeat her request for pen 
 and ink, before the loquacious hostess would 
 quit the room, 
 
 The thought of sending for Theodore's friends 
 had, in the tumult of the late scenes, never oc- 
 curred to her, and she was now somewhat con- 
 soled by the prospect of comfort which it opened 
 for him. When the pen and ink were brought 
 she wrote the following note to Theodore: 
 
 " In your present condition, you have need of 
 every comfort that can be procured you, and 
 surely there is no cordial more valuable in illness, 
 than the presence of a friend: suffer me, there- 
 fore, to acquaint your family with your situation ; 
 it will be a satisfaction to me, and, I doubt not, 
 a consolation to you." 
 
 In a short time after she had sent the note, 
 she received a message from Theodore, entreat- 
 ing most respectfully, but earnestly, to see her 
 for a few minutes. She immediately went to 
 his chamber, where her worst apprehensions 
 were confirmed by the languor expressed in his 
 countenance; and the shock she received, to- 
 gether with her struggles to disguise her emo- 
 tions, almost overcame her. " I thank you for 
 this goodness," said he, extending his hand, 
 which she received, and then, sitting down by 
 the bed, she burst into tears. When her agita- 
 tion had somewhat subsided, she removed her 
 handkerchief from her eyes, and again looked 
 on Theodore; a smile of the tenderest love ex- 
 
218 the romanceof'the forest. 
 
 pressed his sense of the interest she took in his 
 welfare, and administered a temporary relief to 
 her heart. 
 
 " Forgive this weakness," said she ; " my spirits 
 have been of late so variously agitated. 5 ' — Theo- 
 dore interrupted her — "These tears are most 
 flattering to my heart. But, for my sake, endea- 
 vour to support yourself: I doubt not I shall 
 soon be better; the surgeon—" 
 
 " I do not 1 like him," said Adeline: "but tell 
 me how you find yourself." He assured her, 
 that he was now much easier than he had yet 
 been, and mentioning her kind note, he led to the 
 subject on account of which he had solicited to 
 see her. " My family," said he, " reside at a 
 great distance from hence, and I well know their 
 affection is such, that were they informed of my 
 situation, no consideration, however reasonable, 
 could prevent then- coming to my assistance ; but 
 before they can arrive, their presence will proba- 
 bly be unnecessary." (Adeline looked earnestly 
 at him) — " I should probably be well," pursued 
 he, smiliug, "before a letter could reach them; 
 it would, therefore, occasion them unnecessary 
 pain, and, moreover, a fruitless journey. For 
 your sake, Adeline, I could wish they were here ; 
 but a few days will more fully show the conse- 
 quences of my wound : let us wait at least till 
 then, and be directed by circumstances." 
 
 Adeline forbore to press the subject farther, 
 and turned to one more immediately interesting. 
 " I much wish," said she, " that you had a more 
 able surgeon; you know the geography of the 
 province better than I do ; are we in the neigh- 
 bourhood of any town likely to afford you other 
 advice ? " 
 
 " I believe not," said he; "and this is an affair 
 of little consequence, for my wound is so in- 
 considerable, that a very moderate share of skill 
 may suffice to cure it. But why, my beloved 
 Adeline, do you give way to this anxiety? Why 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 219 
 
 suffer yourself to be disturbed by this tendency 
 to forbode the -worst? I am willing, perhaps 
 presumptuously so, to attribute it to your kind- 
 ness; and suffer me to assure you, that, while it 
 excites my gratitude, it increases my tenderest 
 esteem. Adeline ! since you wish my speedy 
 recovery, let me see you composed: while I be- 
 lieve you to be unhappy, I cannot be well." She 
 assured him she would endeavour to be, at least, 
 tranquil; and fearing the conversation, if pro- 
 longed, would be prejudicial to him, she left him 
 to repose. 
 
 As she turned out of the gallery, she met the 
 hostess, upon whom certain words of Adeline 
 had operated as a talisman, transforming neglect 
 and impertinence into officious civility. She 
 came to] inquire whether the gentleman above 
 stairs had every thing that he liked, for she was 
 sure it was her endeavour that he should have. 
 " I have got him a nurse, Ma'amselle, to attend 
 him, and I dare say she will do very well ; but I 
 will look to that, for I shall not mind helping 
 him myself sometimes. Poor gentleman ! how 
 patiently he bears it ! One would not think now 
 that he believes he is going to die; yet the 
 doctor told him so himself, or, at least as good." 
 Adeline was extremely shocked at this impru- 
 dent conduct of the surgeon, and dismissed the 
 landlady, after ordering a slight dinner. 
 
 Towards evening the surgeon again made his 
 appearance, and, having passed some time with 
 his patient, returned to the parlour, according to 
 the desire of Adeline, to inform her of his condi- 
 tion. He answered Adeline's inquiries with 
 great solemnity. " It is impossible to determine 
 positively at present, Madam, but I have reason 
 to adhere to the opinion I gave you this morn- 
 ing. I am not apt, indeed, to form opinions upon 
 uncertain grounds. I will give you a remarkable 
 instance of this: 
 
 M It is not above a fortnight since I was sent 
 
220 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 for to a patient at some leagues' distance. I was 
 from home when the messenger arrived, and the 
 case being ixrgent, before I could reach the pa- 
 tient another physician was consulted, who had 
 ordered such medicines as he thought proper, 
 and the patient had been apparently relieved by 
 them. His friends were congratulating them- 
 selves upon his improvement when I arrived, 
 and had agreed in opinion with the physician, 
 that there was no danger in this case. Depend 
 upon it, said I, you are mistaken; these medi- 
 cines cannot have relieved him; the patient is in 
 the utmost danger. The patient groaned, but 
 my brother physician persisted in affirming that 
 the remedies he had prescribed, would not only 
 be certain, but speedy, some good effect having 
 been already produced by them. Upon this I 
 lost ail patience, and adhering to my opinion, 
 that these effects were fallacious and the case 
 desperate, I assured the patient himself that his 
 life was in the utmost danger. I am not one of 
 those, Madam, who deceive their patients to the 
 last moments; but you shall hear the conclusion. 
 
 " My brother physician was, I suppose, en- 
 raged "by the firmness of my opposition, and he 
 assumed a most angry look, which did not in the 
 least affect me, and turning to the patient, de- 
 sired he would decide upon which of our opi- 
 nions to rely, for he must decline acting with me. 
 The patient did me the honour," pursued the 
 surgeon, with a smile of complacency, and 
 smoothing his ruffles, " to think more highly of 
 me than, perhaps, I deserved, for he immedi- 
 ately dismissed my opponent. I could not have 
 believed, said he, as the physician left the room, 
 I could not have believed, that a man who has 
 been so many years in the profession, could be 
 (SO wholly ignorant of it. 
 
 " I could not have believed it either, said I. 
 — I am astonished that he was not aware of my 
 danger, resumed the patient. — I am astonished 
 
THE ROMANCE OF TEE FOREST. 221 
 
 likewise, replied I. I was resolved to do what I 
 could for the patient, for he was a man of under- 
 standing-, as you perceive, and I had a regard for 
 him. I therefore altered the prescriptions, and 
 myself administered the medicines; but all 
 would not do, my opinion was verified, and he 
 died even before the next morning.'' — Adeline, 
 who had been compelled to listen to this long 
 story, sighed at the conclusion of it. " I don't 
 wonder that you are affected, Madam,*' said the 
 surgeon, "the instance I have related is cer- 
 tainly a very affecting one. It distressed me so 
 much, that it was some time before I could 
 think, or even speak concerning it. But you 
 must allow, Madam," continued he, lowering his 
 voice and bowing with a look of self-congratula- 
 tion, " that this was a striking instance of the in- 
 fallibility of my judgment.'"' 
 
 Adeline shuddered at the infallibility of his 
 judgment, and made no reply. " It was a shock- 
 ing thing for the poor man," resumed the sur- 
 geon. — " It was, indeed, very shocking," said 
 Adeline. — " It affected me a good deal when it 
 happened," continued he. — " Undoubtedly, Sir," 
 said Adeline. 
 
 " But time wears away the most painful im- 
 pressions." 
 
 u I think 3-0U mentioned it was about a fort- 
 night since it happened." 
 
 " Somewhere thereabouts," replied the sur- 
 geon, without seeming to understand the obser- 
 vation. — " And will you permit me, Sir, to ask 
 the name of the physician, who so iguorantly 
 opposed you ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Madam, it is Lafance." . 
 
 " He lives in the obscurity he deserves, no 
 doubt." said Adeline. 
 
 " Why no, Madam; he lives in a town of some 
 note, at about the distance of four leagues from 
 hence, and affords one instance, among many 
 others, that the public opinion is generally erro- 
 
222 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 neons. You will hardly believe it, but I assure 
 you it is a fact, that this man comes into a great 
 deal of practice, while I am suffered to remain 
 here neglected, and indeed, very little known." 
 
 During this narrative, Adeline had been con- 
 sidering by what means she could discover the 
 name of the physician; for the instance that had 
 been produced to prove his ignorance, and the in- 
 fallibility of his opponent, had completely settled 
 her opinion concerning them both. She now, 
 more than ever, wished to deliver Theodore from 
 the hands of the surgeon, and was musing on the 
 possibility, when he, with so much self-securit3 r , 
 developed the means. 
 
 She asked him a few more questions, concern- 
 ing the state of Theodore's wound, and was told it 
 was much as it had been, but that some degree 
 of fever had come on. " But I have ordered a 
 fire to be made in the room," continued the 
 eurgeon, "and some additional blankets to be 
 laid on the bed; these, I doubt not, will have a 
 proper effect. In the mean time they must be 
 careful to keep from him every land of liquid, 
 except some cordial draughts, which I shall send. 
 He will naturally ask for drink, but it must on 
 no account be given to him." 
 
 " You do not approve, then, of the method 
 which I have somewhere heard of," said Adeline, 
 " of attending to nature in these cases." 
 
 "Nature, Madam!" pursued he — "Nature is 
 the most improper guide in the Avorld. I always 
 adopt a method directly contx-ary to what she 
 wotdd suggest ; for what can be the use of Art, if 
 she is only to follow Nature? This was my first opi- 
 nion on setting out in life, and I have ever since 
 strictly adhered to it. From what I have said, in- 
 deed, Madame, you may perhaps perceive that 
 my opinions may be depended on-, what they once 
 are, they alwaj's are; for my mind is not of that 
 frivolous kind to be affected by circumstances." 
 
 Adeline was fatigued by this discourse, and 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 223 
 
 impatient to impart to Theodore her discovery of 
 a physician ; but the surgeon seemed by no means 
 disposed to leave her, and -was expatiating upon 
 various topics, and adducing new instances of his 
 surprising sagacity, when the waiter brought a 
 message that some person desired to see him. 
 He was, however, engaged upon too agreeable a 
 topic to be easily prevailed on to quit it, and it 
 was not till after a second message that he made 
 his bow to Adeline, and left the room. The mo- 
 ment he was gone she sent a note to Theodore, 
 entreating his permission to call in the assistance 
 of a physician. 
 
 The conceited manners of the surgeon had by 
 this time given Theodore a very unfavourable 
 opinion of his talents, and the last prescription 
 had so fully confirmed it, that he now readily 
 consented to have other advice. Adeline imme- 
 diately inquired for a messenger, but recollecting 
 that the residence of the physician was still a se- 
 cret, she applied to the hostess, who being really 
 ignorant of it, or pretending to be so, gave her 
 no information. "What farther inquiries she made 
 were equally ineffectual, and she passed some 
 hours in extreme distress, while the disorder of 
 Theodore rather increased than abated. 
 
 When supper appeared, she asked the boy who 
 waited, if he knew a physician of the name of 
 Lafance in the neighbourhood. "Not in the 
 neighbourhood, Madame; but I know Doctor 
 Lafance of Chaucy, for I come from the town." 
 — Adeline inquired farther, and received very 
 satisfactory answers. But the town was at some 
 leagues' distance, and the delay this circumstance 
 must occasion again alarmed her; she, however, 
 ordered a messenger to be immediately despatch- 
 ed, and, having sent again to inquire concerning 
 Theodore, retired to her chamber for the night. 
 
 The continued fatigue she had suffered for the 
 last fourteen horns overcame anxiety, and her 
 harassed spirits sunk to repose. She slept till 
 
22i TEE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 2ate in the morning, and was then awakened by 
 the landlady, who came to inform her that Theo- 
 dore was much worse, and to inquire what should 
 be done. Adeline, finding that the physician was 
 not arrived, immediately arose, and hastened to 
 inquire farther concerning Theodore. The host- 
 ess informed her, that he had passed a very dis- 
 turbed night; that he had complained of being 
 very hot, and desired that the fire in his room 
 might be extinguished; but that the nurse knew 
 her duty too well to obey him, and had strictly 
 followed the doctor's orders. 
 
 She added, that he had taken the cordial 
 draughts regularly, but had, notwithstanding, 
 continued to grow worse, and at last became 
 light-headed. In the mean time the boy, who 
 had been sent for the physician, was still absent: 
 " And no wonder," continued the hostess; "why- 
 only consider, it's eight leagues off, and the lad 
 had to find the road, bad as it is, in the dark. 
 But indeed, Ma'amselle, you might as well have 
 trusted our doctor, for we never want any body 
 else, not we, in the town here; and if I might 
 speak my mind, Jacques had better have been 
 sent off for the young gentleman's Mends than 
 for this strange doctor, that nobody knows." 
 
 After asking some farther questions concerning 
 Theodore, the answers to which rather increased 
 than diminished her alarm, Adeline endeavoured 
 to compose her spirits, and await in patience the 
 arrival of the physician. She was now more sen- 
 sible than ever of the forlornness of her own con- 
 dition, and of the danger of Theodore's, and ear- 
 nestly wished that his friends could be informed 
 of his situation; a wish which could not be grati- 
 fied, for Theodore, who alone could acquaint her 
 with their place of residence, was deprived of re- 
 collection. 
 
 When the surgeon arrived and perceived the 
 situation of his patient, he expressed no surprise; 
 but having asked some questions, and given a few 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 225 
 
 general directions, he went down to Adeline.— 
 After paying her his nsual compliments, he sud- 
 denly assumed an air of importance. " I am sor- 
 ry, Madame," said he, " that it is my office to- 
 communicate disagreeable intelligence ; but I 
 wish you to be prepared for the event, which I 
 fear is approaching."' Adeline comprehended his 
 meaning, and though she had hitherto given little 
 faith to his judgment, she could not hear him hint 
 at the immediate danger of Theodore without 
 yielding to the influence of fear. 
 
 She entreated him to accjuaint her with all he 
 apprehended; and he then proceeded to say, that 
 Theodore was, as he had foreseen, much Averse 
 this morning than he had been the preceding- 
 night; and the disorder having now affected his 
 head, there was every reason to fear it would 
 prove fatal in a few hours. " The worst conse- 
 quences may ensue," continued he; " if the wound 
 becomes inflamed, there will be very little chance 
 of his recovery." 
 
 Adeline listened to this sentence with a dread- 
 ful calmness, and gave no utterance to grief, either 
 by words or tears. " The gentleman, I suppose, 
 Madame, has friends, and the sooner you inform, 
 them of his condition the better. If they reside 
 at any distance, it is indeed too late; but there 
 are other necessary — you are ill, Madame." 
 
 Adeline made an effort to speak, but in vain, 
 and the surgeon now called loudly for a glass of 
 water: she drank it, and a deep sigh that she ut- 
 tered, seemed somewhat to relieve her oppressed 
 heart: tears succeeded. In the mean time, the 
 surgeon perceiving she was better, though not 
 well enough to listen to his conversation, took 
 his leave, and promised to return in an hour. 
 The physician was not yet arrived, and Adeline 
 awaited his appearance with a mixture of fear 
 and anxious hope. 
 
 About, noon he came, and bavins: been inform- 
 ed of the accident by which the fever was pro- 
 
225 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 
 
 duced, and of the treatment which the surgeon 
 had given it, he ascended to Theodore's chamber. 
 In a quarter of an hour he returned to the room 
 where Adeline expected him. " The gentleman 
 is still delirious," said he, "but I have ordered 
 him a composing draught." — " Is there any hope, 
 Sir?" inquired Adeline. — "Yes, Madame, certain- 
 ly there is hope; the case at present is somewhat 
 doubtful, but a few hours may enable me to judge 
 with more certainty. In the mean time, I have 
 directed that he shall be kept quiet, and be al- 
 lowed to drink freely of some diluting liquids." 
 
 He had scarcely, at Adeline's request, recom- 
 mended a surgeon, instead of the one at present 
 employed, when the latter gentleman entered 
 the room, and, perceiving the physician, threw a 
 glance of mingled surprise and anger at Adeline, 
 who retired with him to another apartment, 
 where she dismissed him with a politeness which 
 he did not deign to return, and which he certain- 
 ly did not deserve. 
 
 Early the following morning the surgeon ar- 
 rived; but either the medicines, or the crisis of 
 the disorder, had thrown Theodore into a deep 
 sleep, in which he remained for several hours. 
 The physician now gave Adeline reason to hope 
 for a favourable issue, and every precaution was 
 taken to prevent his being disturbed. He awoke 
 perfectly sensible, and free from fever; and his 
 first words inquired for Adeline, who soon learn- 
 ed that he was out of danger. 
 
 In a few days he was sufficiently recovered to 
 be removed from his chamber to a room adjoin- 
 ing, where Adeline met him with a joy, which 
 she found it impossible to repress; and the ob- 
 servance of this lighted up his countenance with 
 pleasure ; indeed Adeline, sensible to the attach- 
 ment he had so nobly testified, and softened by 
 the danger he had encountered, no longer at- 
 tempted to disguise the tenderness of her es- 
 teem, and was at length brought to confess the 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 227 
 
 interest his first appearance had impressed upon 
 •her heart. 
 
 After an hour of affecting conversation, in 
 which the happiness of a young and mutual at- 
 tachment occupied all their minds, and excluded 
 every idea not in unison vs-itli delight, they re- 
 turned to a- sense of their present embarrass- 
 ments: Adeline, recollecting that Theodore was 
 arrested for disobedience of orders, and desert- 
 ing his post; and Theodore, that he must shortly 
 be torn away from Adeline, who would be left 
 exposed to all the evils from which he had so 
 lately rescued her. This thought overwhelmed 
 his heart with anguish; and, after a long pause, 
 he ventured to propose, what his wishes had 
 often suggested, a marriage with Adeline, before 
 he departed from the village. This was the only 
 means of preventing, perhaps, an eternal separa- 
 tion; and though he saw the many dangerous 
 inconveniences to which she would be exposed 
 by a marriage with a man circumstanced like 
 himself, yet these appeared so unequal to those 
 she would otherwise be left to encounter alone, 
 that his reason could no longer scruple to adopt 
 what his affection had suggested. 
 
 Adeline was for some time too much agitated 
 to reply; and though she had little to oppose 
 to the arguments and pleadings of Theodore; 
 though she had no friends to control, and no 
 contrariety of interests to perplex her, she could 
 not bring herself to consent thus hastily to a 
 marriage with a man of whom she had little 
 knowledge, and to whose family and connexions 
 she had no sort of introduction. At length she 
 entreated he would drop the subject, and the 
 conversation for the remainder of the day was 
 more general, yet still interesting. 
 
 That simiiiarity of taste and opinion, which 
 had at first attracted them, every moment now 
 more fully disclosed. Their disccurse was en- 
 riched by elegant literature, and endeared by 
 
228 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 mutual regard. Adeline had enjoyed few oppor- 
 tunities of reading, but the books to which she 
 had access, operating upon a mind eager for 
 knowledge, and upon, a taste peculiarly sensible 
 of the beautiful and the elegant, had impressed 
 all their excellencies upon her understanding. 
 Theodore had received from nature many of the 
 qualities of genius, and from education all that it 
 could bestow ; to these were added, a noble inde- 
 pendency of spirit, a feeling heart, and manners 
 which partook of a happy mixture of dignity 
 and sweetness. ; 
 
 In the evening one of the officers, who, upon 
 the representation of the sergeant, was sent by 
 the persons employed to prosecute military cri- 
 minals, arrived at the village; and entering the 
 apartment of Theodore, from which Adeline im- 
 mediately withdrew, informed him, with an air 
 of infinite importance, that he should set out on 
 the following day for head-quarters. Theodore 
 answered that he was not able to bear the jour- 
 ney, and referred him to his physician; but the 
 officer replied, that he should take no such trou- 
 ble, it being certain that the physician might be 
 instructed what to say; and that he should 
 begin his journej' on the morrow. " Here has 
 been delay enough," said he, "already; and you 
 'will have sufficient business on your hands when 
 you reach head-quarters; for the sergeant, whom 
 you have severely wounded, intends to appear 
 against you ; and this, with the offence you have 
 committed by deserting your post — " 
 
 Theodore's eyes flashed fire — "Deserting!" 
 said he, rising from his seat, and darting a look 
 of menace at his accuser, " who dares to brand 
 me with the name of deserterl" But instantly 
 recollecting how much his conduct had appeared 
 to justify the accusation, he endeavoured to stifle 
 nis emotions, and, with a firm voice and com- 
 posed manner, said, that when he reached head- 
 quarters he should be ready to answer whatever 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 229 
 
 might be brought against him, but that till then 
 he should be silent. The boldness of the officer 
 was repressed by the spirit and dignity with 
 which Theodore spoke these words; and mutter- 
 ing a reply that was scarcely audible, he left the 
 room. 
 
 Theodore sat musing on the danger of his situ- 
 ation: he knew that he had much to apprehend 
 from the peculiar circumstances attending his 
 abrupt departure from his regiment, it having 
 been stationed in a garrison town upon the Span- 
 ish frontiers, where the discipline was very se- 
 vere; and from the power of his Colonel, the 
 Marquis de Mont alt, whom pride and disappoint- 
 ment would now rouse to vengeance, and proba- 
 bly render indefatigable in the accomplishment 
 of his destruction. But his thoughts soon fled 
 from his own danger to that of Adeline; and in 
 the consideration of this, all his fortitude forsook 
 him: he could not support the idea of leaving 
 her exposed to the evils he foreboded, nor in- 
 deed, of a separation so sudden as that which 
 now threatened him; and when she again enter- 
 ed the room, he renewed his solicitations for a 
 speedy marriage, with all the arguments that 
 tenderness and ingenuity could suggest. 
 
 Adeline, when she learned that he was to de- 
 part on the morrow, felt as if bereaved of her 
 last comfort. All the horrors of his situation 
 arose to her mind, and she turned from him in an 
 unutterable anguish. Considering her silence as 
 a favourable presage, he repeated his entreaties, 
 that she should consent to be his, and thus give 
 him a surety that their separation should not be 
 eternal. Adeline sighed deeply to these words, 
 " And who can know that our separation would 
 not be eternal," said she, " even if I could con- 
 sent to the marriage you propose? But while 
 you hear my determination, forbear to accuse 
 me of indifference, for indifference towards you 
 IS 
 
230 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 •would, indeed, be a crime, after the services you 
 have rendered me." 
 
 " And is a cold sentiment of gratitude all that 
 I must expect from you?" said Theodore. " I 
 know that you are going to distress me with a 
 proof of your indifference, which you mistake 
 for the suggestions of prudence; and that I shall 
 be reduced to look, -without reluctance, upon the 
 evils that may shortly await me. Ah, Adeline! 
 if you mean to reject this, perhaps the last pro- 
 posal which I can ever make to you, cease at 
 least to deceive yourself with an idea that you 
 love me; that delirium is fading even irom my 
 mind." 
 
 " Can you then so soon forget our conversation 
 of this morning?" replied Adeline; "and can 
 you think so lightly of me as to believe I would 
 profess a regard wdiich I do not feel? If, indeed, 
 you can believe this, I shall do well to forget that 
 I ever made such an acknowledgment ; and 
 you, that you heard it." 
 
 " Forgive me, Adeline, forgive the doubts and 
 inconsistencies I have betrayed: let the anxie- 
 ties of love, and the emergency of my circum- 
 stances, plead for me." Adeline, smiling faintly 
 through her tears, held out her hand, which he 
 seized, and pressed to his lips. " Yet do not 
 drive me to despair, by a rejection of my suit," 
 continued Theodore ; " think what I must suffer 
 to leave you here destitute of friends and pro- 
 tection." 
 
 " I am thinking how I ma}' avoid a situation 
 so deplorable," said Adeline. "They say there 
 is a convent, which receives boarders, within a 
 few miles, and thither I wish to go." 
 
 "A convent!" rejoined Theodore, "would you 
 go to a convent? Do you know the persecutions 
 you would be liable to; and that if the ilarquis 
 should discover you, there is little probabilit3 r 
 that the superior would resist his authority, or at 
 least, his bribes?" 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 231 
 
 " All this I have considered," said Adeline, 
 "and am prepared to enccmnter it, rather than 
 enter into an engagement, -which at this time can 
 be productive only of misery to us both." 
 
 "Ah, Adeline! could you think thus if you 
 truly loved? I see myself about to be sepa- 
 rated, and that, perhaps, for ever, from the ob- 
 ject of my tenderest affections — and I cannot but 
 express all the anguish I feel — i cannot forbear 
 to repeat every argument that may afford even, 
 the slightest possibility of altering your deter- 
 mination. But you, Adeline, you look with com- 
 placency upon a circumstance which tortures me 
 with despair." 
 
 Adeline, who had long tried to support her 
 spirits _ in his presence, while she adhered to a 
 resolution w hich reason suggested, but which the 
 pleadings of her heart powerfully opposed, was 
 unable longer to command her distress, and burst 
 into tears. Theodore was in the same moment 
 convinced of his error, and shocked at the grief 
 he had occasioned. He drew his chair towards 
 her, and taking her hand, again entreated her 
 pardon, and endeavoured in the tenderest accents 
 to soothe and comfort her. — "What a Avretch 
 was I to cause you this distress, by cpaestioning 
 that regard with which I can no longer doubt 
 you honour me! Forgive me, Adeline; say but 
 you forgive me, and whatever may be the pain of 
 this separation, I will no longer oppose it." 
 
 " You have given me some pain," said Adeline, 
 " but you have not offended me." — She then 
 mentioned some farther particulars concerning 
 the convent. Theodore endeavoured to conceal 
 the distress which the approaching separation 
 occasioned him, and to consult with her on these 
 plans with composure. His judgment by degrees 
 prevailed over his passions, and he now perceiv- 
 ed that the plan she suggested would afford her 
 the best chance of security. He considered, 
 what in the first agitation of his mind had es- 
 
232 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 caped him, that he might be condemned upon 
 the charges brought against him, and that his 
 death, should they have been married, would 
 not only deprive her of her protector, but leave 
 her more immediately exposed to the designs of 
 the Marquis, who would doubtless attend his 
 trial; and by this means discover that Adeline 
 was again within his reach. Astonished that he 
 had not noticed this before, and shocked at the 
 unwariness by which he might have betrayed 
 her into so dangerous a situation, he became at 
 once reconciled to the idea of leaving her in a 
 convent. He could have wished to place her in the 
 asylum of his own family; but the circumstances 
 under which she must be introduced were so 
 awkward and painful, and, above all, the dis- 
 tance at which they resided would render a jour- 
 ney so highly dangerous for her, that he forbore 
 to propose it. He entreated only that she would 
 allow him to write to her; but recollecting that 
 his letters might be a means of betraying the 
 place of her residence to the Marquis, he check- 
 ed himself: " I must deny myself even this 
 melancholy pleasure," said he, " lest my letters 
 should betray your abode; yet how shall I be 
 able to endure the impatience and uncertainty to 
 which prudence condemns me! If you are in 
 danger, I shall be ignorant of it; though indeed, 
 did I know it," said he with a look of despair, " I 
 could not fly to save you. exquisite misery! 
 'tis now only I perceive all the horrors of con- 
 finement—'tis now only that I understand all the 
 value of liberty!" 
 
 His utterance was interrupted by the violent 
 agitation of his mind; he rose from his chair, and 
 walked with quick paces about the room. Ade- 
 line sat, overcome by the description which The- 
 odore had given of his approaching situation, and 
 by the consideration that she might remain in 
 the most terrible suspense concerniDg his fate. 
 She saw him in a prison— pale, emaciated^ and in 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 233 
 
 chains: — she saw all the vengeance of the Mar- 
 quis descending upon him: and this, for his 
 noble exertions in her cause. Theodore, alarm 
 ed by the placid despair expressed in her coun- 
 tenance, threw himself into a chair by her's, and 
 taking her hand, attempted to speak comfort to 
 her; but the words faltered on his lips, and he 
 could only bathe her hand with tears. 
 
 This mournful silence was interrupted by the 
 arrival of a carriage at the inn ; and Theodore, 
 arisirjg, went to the window that opened into the 
 yard. The darkness of the night prevented his 
 distinguishing the objects without: but a light 
 now brought from the house showed him a car- 
 riage and four, attended by several servants. 
 Presently he saw a gentleman, wrapped up in a 
 roquelaure, alight and enter the inn, and in the 
 next moment he heard the voice of the Marquis. 
 
 He had flown to support Adeline, who was 
 sinking with terror, when the door opened, and 
 the Marquis, followed by the officers, and several 
 servants, entered. Fury flashed from his eyes, 
 as they glanced upon Theodore, who hung over 
 Adeline, with a look of fearful solicitude " Seize 
 that traitor," said he, turning to the officers; 
 " why have you suffered him to remain here so 
 long?" 
 
 " I am no traitor," said Theodore, with a firm 
 voice, and the dignitj' of conscious worth, "but a 
 defender of innocence; of one, whom the treach- 
 erous Marquis de Montalt would destroy." 
 
 "Obey your orders!" said the Marquis to the 
 officers. Adeline shrieked, held faster by Theo- 
 dore's arm, and entreated the men not to part; 
 them. " Force only shall effect it," said Theo- 
 dore, as he looked round for some instrument 
 of defence; but he could see none; and in the 
 same moment they surrounded and seized him. 
 "Dread every thing from my vengeance!" said 
 the Marquis to Theodore, as he caught the hand 
 of Adeline who had lost all power of resistance, 
 
234 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 and was scarcely sensible of what passed; " dread 
 everything from my vengeance! you know you 
 have deserved it." 
 
 " I defy your vengeance!" cried Theodore, 
 " and dread only the pangs of conscience, which 
 your power cannot inflict upon me, though your 
 vices condemn you to its tortures." 
 
 " Take him instantly from the room, and see 
 that he is strongly fettered," said the Marquis; 
 he shall soon known what a criminal, who adds 
 insolence to guilt, may suffer." — Theodore, ex- 
 claiming, "Oh Adeline! farewell!" was now 
 forced out of the room; while Adeline, whose 
 torpid senses were roused by his voice, and his 
 last looks, fell at the feet of the Marquis, and 
 ■with tears of agony implored compassion for 
 Theodore: but her pleadings for his rival seemed 
 only to irritate the pride and exasperate the 
 hatred of the Marquis. He denounced vengeance 
 on his head, and imprecations too dreadful for 
 the spirits of Adeline, whoni he compelled to 
 rise; and then, endeavouring to stifle the emo- 
 tions of rage which the presence of Theodore had 
 excited, he began to address her with his usual 
 expressions of admiration. 
 
 The wretched Adeline, who, regardless of what 
 he said, still continued to plead for her unhappy 
 lover, was at length alarmed by the returning 
 rage which the countenance of the Marquis ex- 
 pressed, and exerting all her remaining strength, 
 she sprung from his grasp towards the door of 
 the room; but he seized her hand before she 
 could reach it, and regardless of her shrieks, 
 bringing her back to her chair, was going to 
 speak, when voices were heard in the passage, 
 end immediately the landlord and his wife, 
 whom Adeline's cries had alarmed, entered the 
 apartment. The Marquis turning furiously to 
 them, demanded what they wanted; but not 
 waiting for their answer, he bade them attend 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 235 
 
 him ; and quitting the room, she heard the door 
 locked upon her. 
 
 Adeline now ran to the windows, which were 
 unfastened, and opened into the inn yard. With- 
 out all was dark and silent. She called aloud for 
 help, but no person appeared; and the windows 
 were so high, that it was impossible to escape 
 unassisted. She walked about the room in an 
 agony of terror and distress, now stopping to 
 listen, and fancying she heard voices disputing 
 below, and now quickening her steps, as sus- 
 pense increased the agitation of her mind. 
 
 She had continued in this state for near liarf an 
 hour, when she suddenly heard a violent noise in 
 the lower part of the house, which increased till 
 all was uproar and confusion. People passed 
 quickly through the passages, and doors were 
 frequently opened and shut. She called, but re- 
 ceived no answer. It immediately occurred to 
 her, that Theodore, having heard her screams, 
 had attempted to come to her assistance, and 
 that the bustle had been occasioned by the oppo- 
 sition of the officers. Knowing their fierceness 
 and cruelty, she was seized with dreadful appre- 
 hensions for the life of Theodore. 
 
 A confused uproar of voices now sounded from 
 below, and the screams of women convinced her 
 there was fighting; she even thought she heard 
 the clashing of swords; the image of Theodore, 
 dying by the hands of the Marquis, now rose to 
 her imagination, and the terrors of suspense be- 
 came almost insupportable. She made a despe- 
 rate effort to force the door, and again call for 
 help; but her trembling hands were powerless, 
 and every person in the house seemed to be too 
 much engaged even to hear her. A loud shriek 
 now pierced, her ears, and, amidst the tumult 
 that followed, she clearly distinguished deep 
 groans. This confirmation of her fears deprived 
 her of all her remaining spirits, and growing faint, 
 she sunk almost lifeless into a chair near- the door. 
 
236 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 The uproar gradually subsided til all -was still, 
 but nobody returned to her. Soon after she 
 heard voices in the yard, but she had no power 
 to walk across the room, even to ask the ques- 
 tions she wished, yet feared, to have answered. 
 
 About a quarter of an hour elapsed, when the 
 door was unlocked, and the hostess appeared with 
 a countenance as pale as death. " For God's sake," 
 said Adeline, "tell me what has happened? Is 
 he wounded? Is he killed?" 
 
 " He is not dead, Ma'amselle, but—" "He is 
 dying then?— Tell me where he is— let me go." 
 
 "Stop, Ma'amselle," cried the hostess, "you 
 are to stay here; I only want the hartshorn out 
 of that cupboard there." Adeline tried to escape 
 by the door, but the hostess, nushing her aside, 
 locked it, and went down stairs. 
 
 Adeline's distress now entirely overcame her, 
 and she sat motionless, and scarcely conscious 
 that she existed, till roused by a sound of foot- 
 steps near the door, which was again opened, and 
 three men, whom she knew to be the Marquis's 
 servants, entered. She had sufficient recollection 
 to repeat the questions she had asked the land- 
 lady, but they answered only, that she must come 
 with them, and that a chaise was waiting for her 
 at the door. Still she urged her questions. "Tell 
 me if he lives," cried she. " Yes, Ma'amselle, he 
 is alive, but he is terribly wounded, and the sur- 
 geon is just come to him." As they spoke they 
 hurried her along the passage, and, without no- 
 ticing her entreaties and supplications to know 
 whither she was going, they had reached the foot 
 of the stairs, when her cries brought several peo- 
 ple to the door. To these the hostess related, 
 that the lady was the wife of a gentleman just 
 arrived, who had overtaken her in her night 
 with a gallant ; an account which the Marquis's 
 servants corroborated. " 'Tis the gentleman who 
 has just fought the duel," added the hostess, "and 
 it was on her account." . 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 237 
 
 Adeline, partly disdaining to take any notice of 
 this artful story, and partly from her desire to 
 know the particulars of what had happened, con- 
 tented herself with repeating her inquiries; to 
 which one of the spectators at last replied, that 
 the gentleman was desperately wounded. The 
 Marquis's people would now have hurried her 
 into the chaise, hut she sunk lifeless in then- 
 arms, and her condition so much interested the 
 humanity of the spectators, that, notwithstanding 
 their belief of what had been said, they opposed 
 the effort made to carry her, senseless as she was, 
 into the carriage. 
 
 She was at length taken into a room, and, by 
 proper applications, restored to her senses. There 
 she so earnestly besought an explanation of what 
 had happened, that the hostess acquainted her 
 with some particulars of the late rencounter. 
 (i When the gentleman that was ill heard you 
 screams, Madame," said she, " he became quite 
 outrageous, as they tell me, and nothing could 
 pacify hum The" Marquis, for they say he is a 
 Marquis, but you know best, was then in the 
 room with my husband and I, and when he 
 heard the uproar, he went down to see what was 
 the matter; and when he came into the room 
 where the Captain was, he found him struggling 
 with the sergeant. Then the Captain was more 
 outrageous than ever; and notwithstanding he 
 had one leg chained, and no sword, he contrived 
 to get the sergeant's cutlass out of the scabbard, 
 and immediately flew at the Marquis, and wound- 
 ed him desperately; upon which he was secured." 
 —"It is the Marquis then who is wounded," said 
 Adeline, "the other gentleman is not hurt?" 
 
 " No, not he," replied the hostess, " but he will 
 smart for it by-and-bye, for the Marquis swears 
 he will do for him." Adeline, for a moment, for- 
 got all her misfortunes and all her danger in 
 thankfulness for the immediate escape of Theo- 
 dore; and she was proceeding to make some far- 
 
238 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 ther inquiries concerning him, when the Mar- 
 quis's servants entered the room, and declared 
 they could wait no longer. Adeline, now awa- 
 kened to a sense of the evils with which she was 
 threatened, endeavoured to win the pity of the 
 hostess, who, however, was, or affected to be, 
 convinced of the truth of the Marquis's story, 
 and, therefore, insensible to all she could urge. 
 Again she addressed the servants, but in vain; 
 they would neither suffer her to remain longer at 
 the inn, or inform her whither she was going; 
 but in the presence of several persons, already 
 prejudiced by the injurious assertions of the 
 hostess, Adeline was hurried into the chaise, and 
 her conductors mounting their horses, the whole 
 party was very soon beyond the village. 
 
 Thus ended Adeline's share of an adventure, 
 begun with a prospect not only of security, but 
 ofliappiness; an adventure, which had attached 
 her more closely to Theodore, and shown him to 
 be more worthy of her love; but which, at the 
 same time, had distressed her by new disappoint- 
 ment, produced the imprisonment of her gene- 
 rous and now adored lover, and delivered both 
 himself and her into the power of a rival, irri- 
 tated by delay, contempt, and opposition. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The surgeon of the place having examined the 
 Marquis's wound, gave him an immediate opinion 
 upon it, and ordered that he should be put to 
 bed: but the Marquis, ill as he was, had scarcely 
 any other apprehension than that of losing Ade- 
 line, and declared he should be able to begin his 
 journey in a few hours. With this intention, he 
 had begun to give orders for keeping horses in 
 readiness, when the surgeon persisting most se- 
 riously, and even passionately, to exclaim, that 
 his life would be the sacrifice of his rashness, he 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 239 
 
 was carried to a bed-chamber, where his valet 
 alone was permitted to attend him. 
 
 This man, the convenient confidant of all his 
 intrigues, had been the chief instrument in assist- 
 ing his designs concerning Adeline, and was, in- 
 deed, the very person who had brought her to 
 the Marquis's villa on the borders of the forest. 
 To him the Marquis gave his farther directions 
 concerning her; and foreseeing the inconveni- 
 ence as well as the danger of detaining her at 
 the inn, he had ordered him, with several other 
 servants, to carry her away immediately in a 
 hired carriage. The valet having gone to execute 
 his orders, the Marquis -was left to his own re- 
 flections, and to the violence of contending pas- 
 sions. 
 
 The reproaches and continued opposition of 
 Theodore, the favoured lover of Adeline, had ex- 
 asperated 1lis pride, and roused all his malice. 
 He could not for a moment consider this opposi- 
 tion, which was in some respects successful, with- 
 out feeling an excess of indignation and invete- 
 racy, such as the prospect of a speedy revenge 
 could alone enable him to support. 
 
 When he had discovered Adeline's escape from 
 the villa, his surprise at first equalled his disap- 
 pointment; and, after exhausting the paroxysm 
 of his rage upon his domestics, he despatched 
 them all different ways in pursuit of her, going 
 himself to the abbey, in the faint hope that, des- 
 titute as she was of other succour, she might have 
 fled thither. La Motte, however, being as much 
 surprised as himself, and ignorant of the route 
 which Adeline had taken, he returned to the 
 villa, impatient of intelligence, and found some 
 of his servants arrived, without any news of Ade- 
 line, and those who came afterwards were as suc- 
 cessless as the first. 
 
 A few days after, a letter from the Lieutenant- 
 colonel of the regiment informed him, that Theo- 
 dore had quitted his company, and had been for 
 
240 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 some time absent, nobody knew -where. This in- 
 formation, confirming a suspicion which had fre- 
 quently occurred to him, that Theodore had been, 
 by some means or other, instrumental in the es- 
 cape of Adeline; all his other passions became, 
 for a time, subservient to his revenge, and he gave 
 orders for the immediate pursuit and apprehen- 
 sion of Theodore; but Theodore, in the mean 
 time, had been overtaken and secured. 
 
 It was in consequence of having formerly ob- 
 served the growing partiality between him and 
 Adeline, and of intelligence received from La 
 Motte, who had noticed their interview in the 
 forest, that the Marquis had resolved to remove 
 a rival so dangerous to his love, and so likely to 
 be informed of his designs. He had therefore 
 told Theodore, in a manner as plausible as he 
 could, that it would be necessary for him to join 
 the regiment; a notice which affected him only 
 as it related to Adeline, and which seemed the 
 less extraordinary, as he had already been at the 
 villa a much longer time thanlwas usual with the 
 officers invited by the Marquis. Theodore, in- 
 deed, very well knew the character of the Mar- 
 quis, and had accepted his invitation rather from 
 an unwillingness to show any disrespect to his 
 Colonel by a refusal, than from a sanguine ex- 
 pectation of pleasure. 
 
 From the men who had apprehended Theo- 
 dore, the Marquis received the information, 
 which had enabled him to pursue and recover 
 Adeline; but, though he had now effected this, 
 he was internally a prey to the corrosive effects 
 of disappointed passion and exasperated pride. 
 The anguish of his wound was almost forgotten 
 in that of his mind, and every pang he felt seem- 
 ed to increase his thirst of revenge, and to recoil 
 with new torture upon his heart. While he was 
 in this state, he heard the voice of the innocent 
 Adeline imploring protection; but her cries ex- 
 cited in him neither pity or remorse; and when, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 241 
 
 soon after, the carriage drove away, and he was 
 certain both that she was secured, and Theodore 
 was wretched, he seemed to feel some cessation 
 of mental agony. 
 
 Theodore, indeed, did suffer all that a virtuous 
 mind, labouring under oppression so severe, could 
 feel; but he was, at least, free from those invete- 
 rate and malignant passions which tore the bosom 
 of the Marquis, and which inflict upon the pos- 
 sessor a punishment more severe than any they 
 cau prompt him to imagine for another. What 
 iudiguation he might feel towards the Marquis, 
 was at this time secondary to his anxiety for 
 Adeline. His captivity was painful, as it pre- 
 vented his seeking a just and honourable revenge: 
 but it was dreadful, as it withheld him from at- 
 tempting the rescue of her whom he loved more 
 thau life. 
 
 When he heard the wheels of the carriage that 
 contained her drive off, he felt an agony of de- 
 spair which almost overcame his reason. Even 
 the stern hearts of the soldiers who attended 
 him were not wholly insensible to his wretched- 
 ness, and by venturing to blame the conduct of 
 the Marquis, they endeavoured to console their 
 prisoner. The physician, who was just arrived, 
 entered the room, during this paroxysm of his 
 distress, and both feeling and expressing much 
 concern at his condition, inquired with strong 
 surprise why he had been thus precipitately re- 
 moved to a room so very unfit for his reception! 
 
 Theodore explained to him the reason of this, 
 of the distress he suffered, and of the chains by 
 which he was disgraced; and perceiving the phy- 
 sician listened to him with attention and com- 
 passion, he became desirous of acquainting him 
 with some farther particulars; for which purpose 
 he desired the soldiers to leave the room. The 
 men, complying with his request, stationed them- 
 selves on the outside of the door. 
 
 He t lien related all the particulars of the late 
 
242 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 transactions, and of his connexion with the Mar- 
 quis. The physician attended to his narrative 
 with deep concern, and his countenance fre- 
 quently expressed strong agitation. When Theo- 
 dore concluded, he remained for some time silent 
 and lost in thought; at length, awaking from his 
 reverie, he said, " I fear your situation is despe- 
 rate. The character of the Marquis is too well 
 known to suffer him either to he loved or respect- 
 ed; from sixch a man you have nothing to hope, 
 for he has scarcely any thing to fear. I wish it 
 was in my power to serve you, hut I see no pos- 
 sibility of it." 
 
 " Alas!" said Theodore, "my situation is indeed 
 desperate, and — for that suffering angel" — deep 
 sobs interrupted his voice, and the violence of 
 his agitation would not allow him to proceed. 
 The physician could only express the sympathy 
 he felt for his distress, and entreat him to he 
 more calm, when a servant entered the room 
 from the Marquis, who desired to see the physi- 
 cian immediately. After some time, he said he 
 would attend the Marquis; and having endea- 
 voured to attain a degree of composure, which 
 he found it difficult to assume, he wrung the 
 hand of Theodore and quitted the room, promis- 
 ing to return before he left the house. 
 
 He found the Marquis much agitated both in 
 body and mind, and rather more apprehensive 
 for the consequences of the wound than he had 
 expected. His anxiety for Theodore now sug- 
 gested a plan, by the execution of which he 
 hoped he might be able to serve him. Having 
 felt his patient's pidse, and asked some questions, 
 he assumed a very serious look, when the Mar- 
 quis, who watched every turn of his counten- 
 ance, desired he would without hesitation speak 
 his opinion. 
 
 " I am sorry to alarm 3-011, my Lord, but here 
 is some reason for apprehension: how long is it 
 since you received the wound?" 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 243 
 
 "Good God! there is danger then!" cried t lis 
 Marquis, adding some bitter execrations against 
 Theodore.—" There certainly is danger," replied 
 the physician; "a few hours may enable me to 
 determine its degree." 
 
 " A few hours, Sir!" interrupted the Marquis; 
 "a few hours!" The physician entreated him to 
 be more calm. " Confusion!" cried the Marquis. 
 " A man in health may, with great composure, 
 entreat a dying man to be calm. Theodore will 
 be broke upon the wheel for it, however." 
 
 " You mistake me, Sir," said the physician, 
 "if I believed you a dying man, or, indeed, very 
 near death, I should not have spoken as I did. 
 But it is of consequence I should know how long 
 the wound has been inflicted." The Marquis's 
 terrors now began to subside, and he gave a cir- 
 cumstantial account of the affray with Theodore, 
 representing that he had been basely used in an 
 affair where his own conduct had been perfectly 
 just and humane. The physician heard this re- 
 lation with great coolness, and when it concluded, 
 without making any comment upon it, told the 
 Marquis he would prescribe a medicine which he 
 wished him to take immediately. 
 
 The Marquis again alarmed by the gravity of 
 his_ manner, entreated he would declare most 
 seriously, whether he thought him in immediate 
 danger. The physician hesitated, and the anxi- 
 etj- of the Marquis increased: "it is of conse- 
 quence," said he, " that I should know my exact 
 situation." The physician then said, that if he 
 had any worldly affairs to settle, it would be as 
 well to attend to them, for that it was impossible 
 to say what might be the event. 
 
 He then turned the discourse, and said he had 
 just been with the 3'oung officer under arrest, 
 who, he hoped would not be removed at present, 
 as such a procedure must endanger his life. The 
 Marquis uttered a dreadful caih, and cursing 
 Theodore for having brought him to his present 
 
244 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 condition, said, he should depart with the guard 
 that very night. Against the cruelty of this sen- 
 tence, the physician ventured to expostulate; 
 and endeavouring to awaken the Marquis to a 
 sense of humanity, pleaded earnestly for Theo- 
 dore. But these entreaties and arguments seem- 
 ed, by displaying to the Marquis a part of his 
 own character, to rouse his resentment, and re- 
 kindle all the violence of his passions. 
 
 The physician at length withdrew in despon- 
 dency, after promising, at the Marquis's request, 
 not to leave the inn. He had hoped, by exagger- 
 ating his danger, to obtain some advantages, both 
 for Adeline and Theodore; but the plan had 
 quite a contrary effect: for the apprehension of 
 death, so dreadful to the guilty mind of the Mar- 
 quis, instead of awakening penitence, increased 
 his desire of vengeance against the man who had 
 reduced him to such a situation. He determined 
 to have Adeline conveyed where Theodore, 
 should he by any accident escape, could never 
 obtain her; and thus to secure to himself, at 
 least, some means of revenge. He knew, how- 
 ever, that when Theodore was once safely con- 
 veyed to his regiment, his destruction was cer- 
 tain: for should he even be acquitted of the 
 intention of deserting, he would be condemned 
 for having assaulted his superior officer. 
 
 The physician returned to the room where 
 Theodore was confined. The violence of his dis- 
 tress was now subsided into a stern despair, more 
 dreadful than the vehemence which had latety 
 possessed him. The guard, in compliance with 
 his request, having left the room, the physician 
 repeated to him some part of his conversation 
 with the Marquis. Theodore, after expressing 
 his thanks, said, he had nothing more to hope. 
 For himself he felt little; it was for his family, 
 and for Adeline he suffered. He inquired what 
 route she had taken, and though he had no pros- 
 pect of deriving advantage from the information, 
 
THE R03IANCE OF THE FOREST. 215 
 
 desired the physician to assist him in obtaining 
 it; but the landlord and his wife either were, or 
 affected to be, ignorant of the matter, and it was 
 in vain to apply to any other person. 
 
 The sergeant now entered with orders from 
 the Marquis for the immediate departure of 
 Theodore, who heard the message with compo- 
 sure, though the physician could not help ex- 
 pressing his indignation at this precipitate re- 
 moval, and his dread of the consequences that 
 might attend it. Theodore had scarcely time to 
 declare his gratitude for the kindness of this 
 valuable friend, before the soldiers entered the 
 room to conduct him to the carriage in waiting. 
 As he bade him farewell, Theodore slipped his 
 purse into his hand, and turning abruptly away, 
 told the soldiers to lead on; but the physician 
 stopped him, and refused the present with such 
 serious warmth, that he was compelled to re- 
 sume it: he then wrung the hand of his new 
 friend, and, being unable to speak, hurried away. 
 The whole party immediately set off, and the 
 unhappy Theodore was left to the remembrance 
 of his past hopes and sufferings; to his anxiety 
 for the fate of Adeline; the contemplation of his 
 present wretchedness, and the apprehension of 
 what might be reserved for him in future. 
 For himself, indeed, he saw nothing but de- 
 struction, and was only relieved from total des- 
 pair, by a feeble hope that she, whom he 
 loved better than himself, might one time enjoy 
 that happiness, of which he did not venture to 
 look for a participation. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Meanwhile the persecuted Adeline continued 
 to travel, with little interruption, all night. Her 
 mind suffered such a tumult of grie4 regret, 
 16 
 
246 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 despair, and terror, that she could not be said to 
 think. The Marquis's valet, who had placed 
 himself in the chaise with her, at first seemed in- 
 clined to talk; but her inattention soon silenced 
 him, and left her to the indulgence of her own 
 misery. 
 
 They seemed to travel through obscure lanes 
 and bye-ways, along which the carriage drove as 
 furiously as the darkness would permit: when 
 the dawn appeared, she perceived herself on the 
 borders of a forest, and renewed her entreaties to 
 know whither she was going. The man replied, 
 he had no orders to tell; but she would soon 
 see. Adeline, who had hitherto supposed they 
 were carrying her to the villa, now began to 
 doubt it ; and as every place appeared less terri- 
 ble to her imagination than that, her despair 
 began to abate, and she thought only of the 
 devoted Theodore, whom she knew to be the 
 victim of malice and revenge. 
 
 They now entered upon the forest, and it oc- 
 curred to her that she was going to the abbey ; 
 for though she had no remembrance of the sce- 
 nery through which she passed, it was not the 
 less probable that this was the forest of Fontan- 
 ville, whose boundaries were by much too exten- 
 sive to have come within the circle of her former 
 walks. This conjecture revived a terror, little 
 inferior to that occasioned by the idea of going to 
 the villa; for at the abbey she would be equally 
 in the power of the Marquis, and also in that of 
 her cruel enemy, La Motte. Her mind revolted 
 at the picture her fancy drew, and as the car- 
 riage moved under the shades, she threw from 
 the window a look of eager inquiry for some 
 object which might confirm, or destroy, her pre- 
 sent surmise; she did not long look, before an 
 opening in the forest showed her the distant 
 towers of the abbey—" I am, indeed, lost, then J" 
 said she, bursting into tears. 
 
 They were soon at the foot of the lawn, and 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 247 
 
 Peter was seen running to open the gate, at 
 which the carriage stopped. When he saw Ade- 
 line, he looked surprised,*and made an effort: to 
 speak; hut the chaise now'drove up to the abbey, 
 where, at the door of the hall, La Motte himself 
 appeared. As he advanced to take her from the 
 carriage, an universal trembling seized her; it 
 was with the utmost difficulty she supported 
 herself, and for some moments she neither ob- 
 served his countenance, or heard his voice. He 
 offered his arm to assist her into the abbey, 
 which she at first refused, but having tottered a 
 few paces, was obliged to accept; they then 
 entered the" vaulted room, where, sinking into a 
 chair, a flood of tears came to her relief. La 
 Motte did not interrupt the silence, which con- 
 tinued for some time, but paced the room in 
 seeming agitation. When Adeline was suffi- 
 ciently recovered to notice external objects, she 
 observed his countenance, and there read the 
 tumult of his soul, while he was struggling to 
 assume a firmness, which his better feelings op- 
 posed. 
 
 La Motte now took her hand, and would have 
 led her from the room; but she stopped, and 
 with a kind of desperate courage, made an effort 
 to engage kirn to pity, and to save her. He inter- 
 rupted her. " It is not in my power,'' said he, in 
 a voice of emotion ; "lam not master of myself, 
 or my conduct; inquire no farther — it is suffi- 
 cient for you to know that I pity you; more I 
 cannot do"." He gave her no time to reply, but 
 taking her hand, led her to the stairs* of the 
 tower, and from thence to the chamber she had 
 formerly occupied. 
 
 " Here you must remain for the present," said 
 he, "in a confinement which is perhaps almost as 
 involuntary on my part as it can be on yours. I 
 am willing to render it as easy as possible, and 
 have therefore ordered some books to be brought 
 you." 
 
243 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Adeline mdae an effort to speak, but lie hur- 
 ried from the room, seemingly ashamed of the 
 Eart he had undertaken, and unwilling to trust 
 imself with her tears. She heard the door of 
 the chamber locked, and then, looking towards 
 the windows, perceived they were secured: the 
 door that led to the other apartments was also 
 fastened. Such preparation for security shocked 
 her, and, hopeless as she had long believed her- 
 self, she now perceived her mind sink deeper in 
 despair. When the tears she shed had some- 
 what relieved her, and her thoughts coidd turn 
 from the subject of her immediate concern, she 
 was thankful for the total seclusion allotted her, 
 since it would spare her the pain she must feel 
 in the presence of Monsieur and Madame La 
 Motte, and allow the unrestrained indulgence of 
 her own sorrow and reflection; reflection which, 
 however distressing, was preferable to the agony 
 inflicted on the mind, when, agitated by care and 
 fear, it is obliged to assume an appearance of 
 tranquillity. 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour, her chamber 
 door was unlocked, and Annette appeared with 
 refreshments and books: she expressed satisfac- 
 tion at seeing Adeline again, but seemed fearful 
 of speaking, knowing probably that it was con- 
 trary to the orders of La Motte, who, she said, 
 was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. When 
 Annette was gone, Adeline took some refresh- 
 ment, which was indeed necessary; for she had 
 tasted nothing since she left the inn. She was 
 pleased, but not surprised, that Madame La 
 Motte did not appear, who, it was evident, shun- 
 ned her from a consciousness of her own ungene- 
 rous conduct; a consciousness which offered 
 some presumption that she was still not wholly 
 unfriendly to her. She reflected upon the words 
 of La Motte, " I am not master of myself, or my 
 conduct," aud though they afforded her no hope,- 
 she derived some comfort, poor as it was, from 
 
TEE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 243 
 
 the belief that he pitied her. After some time 
 spent in miserable reflection and various conjec- 
 tures, her long-agitated spirits seemed to demand 
 repose, and she laid down to sleep. 
 
 Adeline slept quietly for several hours, and 
 awoke with a mind refreshed and tranquillized. 
 To prolong this temporary peace, and to prevent, 
 therefore, the intrusion of her own thoughts, she 
 examined the books La Motte had sent her: 
 among these she found some that, in happier 
 times, had elevated her mind and interested her 
 heart: their effect was now weakened; they 
 were still, however, able to soften for a time the 
 sense of her misfortunes. 
 
 But this Lethean medicine to a wounded mind 
 was but of temporary effect; the entrance of La 
 Motte dissolved the illusions of the page, and 
 awakened her to a sense of her own situation. 
 He came with food, and having placed it on the 
 table, left the room without speaking. Again 
 she endeavoured to read; but his appearance 
 had broken the enchantment — bitter reflection 
 returned to her mind, and brought with it the 
 image of Theodore— of Theodore lost to her for 
 ever! 
 
 La Motte, meanwhile, experienced all the ter 
 rors that could be inflicted by a conscience not 
 wholly hardened to guilt. He had been led on 
 by passion to dissipation — and from dissipation 
 to vice; but having once touched the borders of 
 infamy, the progressive steps followed each other 
 fast, and he now saw himself the pander of a 
 villain, and the betrayer of an innocent girl, 
 Whom every plea of justice and humanity called 
 upon him to protect. He contemplated his pic- 
 ture — he shrunk from it, but he could change its 
 deformity only by an effort too nobly daring for 
 a mind already effeminated by habitual indul- 
 gence. He viewed the dangerous labyrinth into 
 which he was led, and perceived, as if for the 
 first time, the progression of his guilt; from this 
 
250 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 labyrinth he weakly imagined farther guilt could 
 alone extricate him. Instead of employing his 
 mind upon the means of saving Adeline from de- 
 struction, and himself from being instrumental to 
 it, he endeavoured only to lull the pangs of con- 
 science, and to persuade himself into a belief, 
 that he must proceed in the course he had be- 
 gun. He knew himself to be in the power of the 
 Marquis, and he dreaded that power more than 
 the sure, though distant, punishment that awaits 
 upon guilt. The honour of Adeline, and the 
 quiet of his own conscience, he consented to bar- 
 ter for a few years of existence. 
 
 He was ignorant of the present illness of the 
 Marquis, or he would have perceived, that there 
 was a chance of escaping the threatened punish- 
 ment at a price less enormous than infamy, and 
 he would perhaps have endeavoured to save 
 Adeline and himself by flight. But the Marquis, 
 foreseeing the possibility of this, had ordered his 
 servants carefully to conceal the circumstance 
 which detained him, and to acquaint La Motte, 
 that he should be at the abbey in a few days; at 
 the same time directing his valet to await him 
 there. Adeline, as he expected, had neither in- 
 clination or opportunity to mention it, and thus 
 La Motte remained ignorant of the circumstances 
 ■which might have preserved him from farther 
 guilt, and Adeline from misery. 
 
 Most unwillingly had La Motte acquainted his 
 wife with the action which had made him abso- 
 lutely dependent upon the will of the Marquis; 
 but the perturbation of his mind partly betrayed 
 him: frequently in his sleep he muttered incohe- 
 rent sentences, and frequently would start from 
 slumber, and call, in passionate exclamation, 
 upon Adeline. These instances of a disturbed 
 mind, had alarmed and terrified Madame La 
 Motte, who watched while he slept, and soon 
 gathered from his words a confused idea of the 
 Marquis's designs. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 251 
 
 She hinted her suspicions to La Motte, who re- 
 proved her for having entertained them; but his 
 manner, instead of repressing, increased her fears 
 for Adeline] fears which the conduct of the Mar- 
 quis soon confirmed. On the night that he slept 
 at the abbey, it had occurred to her, that what- 
 ever scheme was in agitation would then most 
 probably be discussed, and anxiety for Adeline 
 made her stoop to a meanness which, in other cir- 
 cumstances, would have been despicable. She 
 quitted her room, and, concealing herself in an 
 apartment adjoining that in which she had left 
 the Marquis and her husband, listened to their 
 discourse. It turned upon the subject she had 
 expected, and disclosed to her the full extent of 
 their designs. Terrified for Adeline, and shock- 
 ed at the guilty weakness of La Motte, she was 
 for some time incapable of thinking, or determin- 
 ing how to proceed. She knew her husband to 
 be under great obligations to the Marquis, whose 
 territory thus afforded him a shelter from the 
 world, and that it was in the power of the former 
 to betray him into the hands of his enemies. 
 She believed also that the Marquis would do this 
 if provoked; yet she thought, upon such an oc- 
 casion, La Motte might find some way of appeas- 
 ing the Marquis, without subjecting himself to 
 dishonour. After some farther reflection, her 
 mind became more composed, and she returned 
 to her chamber, where La Motte soon followed. 
 Her spirits, however, were not then in a state to 
 encounter either his displeasure or his opposition, 
 which she had too much reason to expect, when- 
 ever she should mention the subject of her con- 
 cern; and she therefore resolved not to notice it 
 till the morrow. 
 
 On the morrow she told La Motte all he had 
 uttered in his dreams, and mentioned other 
 circumstances, which convinced him it was in 
 vain any longer to deny the truth of her appre- 
 hensions. She then represented to him how pos- 
 
252 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 sible it was to avoid the infamy into which he 
 was about to plunge, by quitting the territories 
 of the Marquis ; and pleaded so warmly for Ade- 
 line, that La Motte, in sullen silence, appeared to 
 meditate upon the plan. His thoughts were, 
 however, very differently engaged. He was con- 
 scions of having deserved from the Marquis a 
 dreadful punishment, and knew that if he exas- 
 perated him by refusing to acquiesce with his 
 wishes, he had little to expect from flight, for 
 the eye of justice and revenge would pursue 
 him with indefatigable research. 
 
 La Motte meditated how to break this to his 
 wife; for he perceived that there was no other 
 method of counteracting her virtuous compassion 
 for Adeline, and the dangerous consequences to 
 be expected from it, than by opposing it with 
 terror for his safety; and this could be done only 
 by showing her the full extent of the evils that 
 must attend the resentment of the Marquis.' Vice 
 had not yet so entirely darkened his conscience, 
 but. that the blush of shame stained his cheek, 
 and his tongue faltered, when he would have 
 told his guilt. At length, finding it impossible to 
 mention particulars, he told her that, on account 
 of an affair which no entreaties should ever in- 
 duce him to explain, his life was in the power of 
 the Marquis. " You see the alternative," said 
 he; " take your choice of evils; and, if you can, 
 tell Adeline of her danger, and sacrifice my life 
 to save her from a situation, which many would 
 be ambitious to obtain." — Madame La Motte, 
 condemned to the horrible alternative of permit- 
 ting the seduction of innocence, or of dooming 
 her "husband to destruction, suffered a distraction 
 of thought which defied all control. Perceiving, 
 however, that an opposition to the designs of the 
 Marquis would ruin La Motte, and avail Adeline 
 little, she determined to yield and endure in si- 
 lence. 
 
 At the time when Adeline was planning her 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 2o3 
 
 escape from the abbey, the significant looks of 
 Peter had led La Motte to suspect the truth, and 
 to observe them more closely. He had seen 
 them separate in the hall in apparent confusion, 
 and had afterwards observed them conversing 
 together in the cloisters. Circumstances so un- 
 usual, left him not a doubt that Adeline had dis- 
 covered her danger, and was concerting with 
 Peter some means of escape. Affecting, there- 
 fore, to be informed of the whole affair, he charg- 
 ed Peter with treachery towards himself, and 
 threatened him with the vengeance of the Mar- 
 quis, if he did not disclose all he knew. The 
 menace intimidated Peter, and, supposing that 
 all chance of assisting Adeline was gone, he 
 made a circumstantial confession, and promised 
 to forbear acquainting Adeline with the disco- 
 very of the scheme. In this promise he was se- 
 conded by inclination; for he feared to meet the 
 displeasure which Adeline, believing he had be- 
 trayed her, might express. 
 
 On the evening of the day on which Adeline's 
 intended escape was discovered, the Marquis de- 
 signed to come to the abbey, and it had been 
 agreed that he should then take Adeline to his 
 villa. La Motte had immediately perceived the 
 advantage of permitting Adeline to repair, in the 
 belief of being undiscovered, to the tomb, It 
 would prevent much disturbance and opposition, 
 and spare himself the pain he must feel in her 
 presence, when she should know that he had be- 
 trayed her. A servant of the Marquis might go 
 at the appointed hour to the tomb, and, wrapt in 
 the disguise of night, might take her quietly 
 thence, in the character of Peter. Thus, with- 
 out resistance, she would be carried to the villa, 
 nor discover her mistake till it was too late to 
 prevent its consequence. 
 
 When the Marquis did arrive, La Motte, who 
 was not so much intoxicated by the wine he had 
 drank so as to forget his prudence, informed him 
 
254 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 of* what had happened and what he had planned; 
 and the Marquis approving it, his servant was 
 made acquainted with the signal which after- 
 wards betrayed Adeline to his power. 
 
 A deep consciousness of the unworthy neutrali- 
 ty she had observed in Adeline's concerns, made 
 Madame La Motte anxiously avoid seeing her, 
 now that she was again in the abbey. Adeline 
 understood this conduct, and rejoiced that she 
 was spared the anguish of meeting her as an ene- 
 my, whom she had once loved as a friend. Seve- 
 ral days now passed in solitude, in miserable re- 
 trospection, and dreadful expectation. The pe- 
 rilous situation of Theodore was almost the con- 
 stant subject of her thoughts. Often did she 
 breathe an agonizing wish for his safety, and 
 often look round the sphere of possibility in 
 search of hope: but hope had almost left the ho- 
 rizon of her prospect, and when it did appear, it 
 hovered only over the death of the Marquis, 
 whose vengeance threatened most certain de- 
 struction. 
 
 The Marquis, meanwhile, lay at the inn at 
 Baux, in a state of a very doubtful recovery. 
 The physician and surgeon, neither of whom he 
 would dismiss, nor suffer to leave the village, 
 proceeded upon ' contrary principles, and the 
 good effect of what the one prescribed, was fre- 
 quently counteracted by the injudicious treat- 
 ment of the other. Humanity alone prevailed 
 on the physician to continue his attendance. 
 The malady of the Marquis was also heightened 
 by the impatience of his temper, the terrors of 
 death, and the irritation of his passions. One 
 moment he believed himself dying, another he 
 could scarcely be prevented from attempting to 
 follow Adeline to the abbey. So various were 
 the fluctuations of his mind, and so rapid the 
 schemes that succeeded each other, that his pas- 
 sions were in a continual state of conflict. The 
 physician attempted to convince him, that Ins re- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 253 
 
 covery greatly depended upon tranquillity, and 
 to prevail upon him to attempt, at least, some 
 command of his feelings: but he was soon si- 
 lenced, in hopeless disgust, by the impatient an- 
 swers of the Marquis. 
 
 At length, the servant who had carried off 
 Adeline returned, and the Marquis having order- 
 ed him into his chamber, asked so many ques- 
 tions in a breath, that the man knew not which 
 to answer. He pulled a folded paper from his 
 pocket, which he said had been dropped in the 
 chaise by Mademoiselle Adeline, and as he 
 thought Ins Lordship would like to see it, he had 
 taken care of it. The Marquis stretched forth 
 his hand with eagerness, and received a note ad- 
 dressed to Theodore. On perceiving the super- 
 scription, the agitation of jealous rage for a mo- 
 ment overcame him, and he held it in his hand 
 unable to open it. 
 
 He, however, broke the seal, and found it to be 
 a note of inquiry, written by Adeline to Theo- 
 dore during his illness, and which, by some acci- 
 dent, she had been prevented from sending him. 
 The tender solicitude it expressed for his reco- 
 very stung the soul of the Marquis, and drew 
 from him a comparison of her feelings on the ill- 
 ness of his rival and that of himself. "She 
 could be solicitous for his recovery," said he, 
 11 but for mine, she only dreads it." As if willing 
 to prolong the pain this little billet had excited, 
 he then read it again. Again he cursed his fate, 
 and execrated his rival, giving himself up, as 
 usual, to the transports of his passion. He was 
 going to throw it from him, when his eyes caught 
 the seal, and he looked earnestly at it. His 
 anger seemed now to have subsided; he deposit- 
 ed the note carefully in his pocket-book, and was 
 for some time lost in thought. 
 
 After many days of hopes and fears, the 
 strength of his constitution overcame his illness, 
 and he was well enough to write several letters, 
 
256 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 one of which he immediately sent off to prepare 
 La Motte for his reception. The same policy 
 which had prompted him to conceal his illness 
 from La Motte, now urged him to say, what he 
 knew would not happen, that he should reach 
 the abbey on the day after his servant. He re- 
 peated his injunction, that Adeline should be 
 strictly guarded, and renewed his promises of 
 reward for the future services of La Motte. 
 
 La Motte, to whom each succeeding day had 
 brought new surprise and perplexity concerning 
 the absence of the Marquis, received this notice 
 with uneasiness; for he had begun to hope that 
 the Marquis had altered his intentions concern- 
 ing Adeline, being either engaged in some new 
 adventure, or obliged to visit his estates in some 
 distant province: he would have been willing 
 thus to have got rid of an affair which was to 
 reflect so much dishonour on himself. 
 
 This hope now vanished, and he directed Ma- 
 dame to prepare for the reception of the Mar- 
 quis. Adeline passed these days in a state of 
 suspense, which was now cheered by hope, and 
 now darkened by despair. This delay so much 
 exceeding her expectation, seemed to prove, that 
 the illness of the Marquis was dangerous; and 
 when she looked forward to the consequences of 
 his recovery, she could not be sorry that it was 
 so. So odious was the idea of him to her mind, 
 that she would not suffer her lips to pronounce 
 his name, nor make the inquiry of Annette, 
 which was of such consequence to her peace. 
 
 It was about a week after the receipt of the 
 Marquis's letter, that Adeline one day saw from 
 her window a party of horsemen enter the 
 avenue, and knew them to be t'ue Marquis and 
 his attendants. She retired from the window iu 
 a state of mind not to be described, and sinking 
 in a chair, was for some time scarcely conscious of 
 the objects aroisad her. When she had recovered 
 from the first terror which his appearance ex- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 257 
 
 cited, she again tottered to the window; the 
 party was not in sight, hut she heard the tramp- 
 ling of horses, and knew that the Marquis had 
 wound round to the great gate of the abbey. 
 She addressed herself to heaven for support and 
 protection, and, her mind being now somewhat 
 composed, sat down to wait the event. 
 
 La Motte received the Marquis with expres- 
 sions of surprise at his long absence; and the 
 latter, merely saying he had been detained by 
 illness, proceeded to inquire for Adeline. Re 
 was told she was in her chamber, from whence 
 she might be summoned if he wished to see her. 
 The Marquis hesitated, and at length excused 
 himself, but desired she might be strictly watch- 
 ed. " Perhaps, my Lord," said La Motte, smi- 
 ling, " Adeline's obstinacy has been too powerful 
 for your passion; you seem less interested con- 
 cerning her than formerly." 
 
 " 0, by no means!" replied the Marquis, "she 
 interests me, if possible, more than ever; so 
 much, indeed, that I cannot have her too closely 
 guarded; and I therefore beg, La Motte, that 
 you will suffer no one to attend her, but when 
 you can observe them yourself. Is the room 
 where she is confined sufficiently secure?" La 
 Motte assured him it was; but at the same time 
 expressed his wish that she was removed to the 
 villa. " If by any means," said he, " she should 
 contrive to escape, I know what I must ex- 
 pect from your displeasure; and this reflection 
 keeps my mind in continual anxiety." 
 
 " This removal cannot be at present," said the 
 Marquis; "she is safer here, and you do wrong 
 to disturb yourself with any apprehension of her 
 escape, if her chamber is really so secure as you 
 represent it." 
 
 " I can have no motive for deceiving you, my 
 Lord, on this point." 
 
 " I do not suspect you of any," said the Mar- 
 quis; " guard her carefully, and trust me she will 
 
258 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 not escape. I can rely upon my valet, and if 
 you -wish it, he shall remain here." La Motte 
 thought there could be no occasion for him, and it 
 was agreed that the man should go home. 
 
 The Marquis, after remaiaing about half an 
 hour in conversation -with La Motte, left the 
 abbey, and Adeline saw him depart with a mix- 
 ture of surprise and thankfulness that almost 
 overcame her. She had waited in momentary 
 expectation of being summoned to appear, and 
 had been endeavouring to arm herself with re- 
 solution to support his presence. She had listen- 
 ed to every voice that sounded from below, and 
 at every step that crossed the passage, her heart 
 had palpitated with dread, lest it should be La 
 Motte coming to lead her to the Marquis. This 
 state of suffering had been prolonged almost be- 
 yond her power of enduring it, when she heard 
 voices under her window, and rising, saw the 
 Marquis ride away. After giving utterance to 
 the joy and thankfulness that swelled her heart, 
 she endeavoured to account for this circum- 
 stance, which, considering what had passed, was 
 certainly very strange. It appeared indeed 
 wholly inexplicable, and after much fruitless in- 
 quiry, she quitted the subject, endeavouring to 
 persuade herself that it could portend only good. 
 
 The time of La Motte's usual visitation now 
 drew near, and Adeline expected it in the 
 trembling hope of hearing that the Marquis had 
 ceased his persecution; but he was, as usual, 
 sullen and silent, and it was not till he was about 
 to quit the room, that Adeline had the courage 
 to inquire, when the Marquis was expected 
 again. La Motte, opening the door to depart, 
 replied, " On the following day;" and Adeline, 
 whom fear and delicacy embarrassed, saw she 
 could obtain no intelligence of Theodore but by 
 a direct question; she looked earnestly, as if she 
 would have spoke, and La Motte stopped; but 
 she blushed and was still silent, till upon his 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 259 
 
 again attempting to leave the room, she faintly 
 called him back. 
 
 "I would ask," said 'she, " after that unfor- 
 tunate chevalier who has incurred the resent- 
 ment of the Marquis by endeavouring to serve 
 me. Has the Marquis mentioned him?" 
 
 " He has," replied La Motte; "and your indif- 
 ference towards the Marquis is now fully ex- 
 plained." 
 
 " Since I must feel resentment towards those 
 who injure me," said Adeline, " I may surely be 
 allowed to be grateful to those who serve me. 
 Had the Marquis deserved my esteem, he would 
 probably have possessed it." 
 
 " Well, well," said La Motte, " this young hero, 
 this Theodore, who, it seems, has been brave 
 enough to lift his arm against his colonel, is 
 taken care of, and, I doubt not, will soon be sen- 
 sible of the value of his quixotism." Indigna- 
 tion, grief, and fear, struggled in the bosom of 
 Adeline; she disdained to give La Motte an 
 opportunity of again profaning the name of 
 Theodore; yet the uncertainty under which she 
 laboured, urged her to inquire, whether the 
 Marquis had heard of him since he left Baux. 
 "Yes," said La Motte, " he has been safely car- 
 ried to his regiment, where he is confined till the 
 Marquis can attend to appear against him." 
 
 Adeline had neither power nor inclination to 
 inquire farther, aud La Motte quitting the cham- 
 ber, she was left to the misery he had renewed. 
 Though this information contained no new cir- 
 cumstance of misfortune, (for she now heard 
 confirmed what she had always expected), a 
 weight of new sorrow seemed to fall upon her 
 heart, and she perceived that she had uncon 
 sciously cherished a latent hope of Theodore's 
 escape, before he reached the place of his desti- 
 nation. All hope was now, however, gone; he 
 was suffering the miseries of a prison, and the 
 tortures of apprehension, both for his own life 
 
260 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 and her safety. She pictured to herself the dark 
 damp dungeon -where he lay, loaded -with chains, 
 and pale with sickness and grief; she heard him, 
 in a voice that thrilled her heart, call upon her 
 name, and raise his eyes to heaven in silent sup- 
 plication: she saw the anguish of his counte- 
 nance, the tears that fell slowly on his cheek; 
 and remembering, at the same time, the gene- 
 rous conduct that had brought him to this abyss 
 of misery, and that it -was for her sake he suf- 
 fered, grief resolved itself into despair, her tears 
 ceased to flow, and she sunk silently into a state 
 of dreadful torpor. 
 
 On the morrow the Marquis arrived and de- 
 parted as before. Several days then elapsed, and 
 he did not appear, till one evening, as La Motte 
 and his wife were in their usual sitting-room, he 
 entered, and conversed for some time upon gene- 
 ral subjects, from which, however, he by degrees 
 fell into a reverie, and after a pause of silence, 
 he rose and drew La Motte to the window. " I 
 would speak with you alone," said he, "if you 
 are at leisure; if not, some other time will do." 
 La Motte assuring him he was perfectly so, 
 would have conducted him to another room; but 
 the Marquis proposed a walk in the forest. They 
 went out together, and when they had reached 
 a solitary glade, where the spreading branches 
 of the beech and oak deepened the shades of 
 twilight, and threw a solemn obscurity around, 
 the Marquis turned to La Motte, and addressed 
 him : 
 
 (i Your condition, La Motte, is unhappy ; this 
 abbey is a melancholy residence for a man like 
 you, "fond of society, and like you also qualifi- 
 ed to adorn it." La Motte bow T ed. " I wish it 
 was in my power to restore you to the world," 
 continued the Marquis; "perhaps if I knew the 
 particulars of the affair which has driven you 
 from it, I might perceive that my interest could 
 effectually serve you. I think I have heard you 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 261 
 
 hint it was an affair of honour." La Motte was 
 silent. " I mean not to distress you, however; 
 nor is it common curiosity that prompts this 
 inquiry, but a sincere desire to befriend you. 
 You have already informed me of some particu- 
 lars of your misfortunes. I think the liberality 
 of your temper led you into expenses which you 
 afterwards endeavoured to retrieve by gaming." 
 
 " Yes, my Lord," said La Motte. " "lis true, 
 that I dissipated the greater part of an affluent 
 fortune in luxurious indulgences, and that I 
 afterwards took unworthy means to recover it: 
 but I wish to be spared upon this subject. 1 
 would, if possible, lose the remembrance of a 
 transaction which must for ever stain my charac- 
 ter, and the rigorous effect of which, I fear, it is 
 not in your power, my Lord, to soften." 
 
 " You may be mistaken on this point," replied 
 the Marquis; "my interest at court is by no 
 means inconsiderable. Fear not from me any 
 severity of censure; I am not at all inclined to 
 judge harshly of the faults of others. I well 
 know how to allow for the emergency of circum- 
 stances; and I think, La Motte, you nave hither- 
 to found me your friend." 
 
 " I have, my Lord." 
 
 " And when you recollect, that I have forgiven 
 a certain transaction of late date " 
 
 " It is true, my Lord; and allow me to say, I 
 have a just sense of your generosity. The trans- 
 action you allude to is by far the Avorst of my 
 life; and what I have to relate cannot, therefore, 
 lower me in your opinion. — When I had dis- 
 sipated the greater part of my property in habits 
 of voluptuous pleasure, I had recourse to gaming 
 to supply the means of continuing them. A run 
 of good luck for some time enabled me to do this, 
 and encouraging my most sanguine expectations, 
 I continued in the same career of success. 
 
 "Soon after this a sudden turn of fortune 
 17 
 
262 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 destroyed my hopes, and reduced me to the most 
 desperate extremity. In one night my money 
 was lowered to the sum of two hundred louis. 
 These I resolved to stake also, and with them my 
 life; for it was my resolution not to survive their 
 loss. Never shall I forget the horrors of that 
 moment on which hung my fate, nor the deadly 
 anguish that seized my heart when my last stake 
 was gone. I stood for some time in a state of 
 stupefaction, till, roused to a sense of my misfor- 
 tune, my passion made me pour forth execrations 
 on my more fortunate rivals, and act all the 
 phrenzy of despair. During this paroxysm of 
 madness, a gentleman, who had been a silent 
 observer of all that passed, approached me. — 
 ' You are unfortunate, Sir,' said he. — ' I need not 
 be informed of that, Sir,' I replied. 
 
 "'You have perhaps been ill used,' resumed 
 he. — ' Yes, Sir, I am ruined, and, therefore, it 
 may be said, I am ill used.' 
 
 " ' Do you know the people you have played 
 with?' 
 
 " ' No; but I have met them in the first circles.' 
 
 " ' Then I am probably mistaken,' said he, and 
 walked away. His last words roused me, and 
 raised a hope that my money had not been fairly 
 lost. Wishing for farther information, I went in 
 search of the gentleman, but he had left the 
 room; I, however, stifled my transports, return- 
 ed to the table where I had lost my money, 
 placed myself behind the chair of one of the 
 persons who had won it, and closely watched the 
 game. For some time I saw nothing that could 
 confirm my suspicions, but was at length con- 
 vinced they were just. 
 
 " When the game was ended I called one of 
 my adversaries out of the room, and telling him 
 what I had observed, threatened instantly to ex- 
 pose him if he did not restore my property. 
 The man was for some time as positive as myself; 
 and, assuming the bravo, threatened me with 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOUEST. 263 
 
 chastisement for my scandalous assertions. I 
 was not, however, in a state of mind to be fright- 
 ened, and his manner served only to exasperate 
 my temper, already sufficiently inflamed by mis- 
 fortune. After retorting his threats, I was about 
 to return to the apartment we had left, and ex- 
 pose what had passed, when, with an insidious 
 smile and a softened voice, he begged 1 would 
 favour him with a few moments' attention, and 
 allow him to speak with the gentleman his part- 
 ner. To the latter part of his request I hesitated, 
 but in the mean time, the gentleman himself 
 entered the room. His partner related to him, 
 in a few words, what had passed between us, and 
 the terror that appeared in his countenance suf- 
 ficiently declared his consciousness of guilt. 
 
 " They then drew aside, and remained a few 
 minutes in conversation together, after which 
 they approached me with an offer, as they 
 phrased it, of a compromise. I -declared, how- 
 ever, against any thing of the kind, and swore 
 nothing less than the whole sum I had lost 
 should content me. — Is it not possible, Monsieur, 
 that you may be offered something as advan- 
 tageous as the whole? — I did not understand their 
 meaning; but after they had continued for some 
 time to give distant hints of the same sort, they 
 proceeded to explain. 
 
 " Perceiving their characters to be wholly in 
 my power, they wished to secure my interest to 
 their party; and therefore informing me, that 
 they belonged to an association of persons, who 
 lived upon the folly and inexperience of others, 
 they 'offered me a share in their concern. My 
 fortunes were desperate, and the proposal now 
 made me would not only produce an immediate 
 supply, but enable me to return to those scenes 
 of dissipated pleasure, to which passion had at 
 first, and long habit afterwards, attached me. 
 I closed with the offer, and thus sunk from dis- 
 sipation into infamy," 
 
264 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 La Motte paused, as if the recollection of 
 those times filled him with remorse. The Mar- 
 quis understood his feelings. " You judge too 
 rigorously of yourself," said he; " there are few 
 persons, let their appearance of honesty he what 
 it may, who, in such circumstances, would have 
 acted better than you have done. Had I heen 
 iu your situation, I know not how I might, have 
 acted. That rigid virtue which shall condemn 
 you, may dignify itself with the appellation of 
 wisdom; hut I wish not to possess it: let it still 
 reside, where it generally is to he found, in the 
 cold bosoms of those, who, wanting feeling to he 
 men, dignify themselves with the title of philoso- 
 phers. But pray proceed." 
 
 " Our success was for some time unlimited, for 
 we held the wheel of fortune, and trusted not to 
 her caprice. Thoughtless and voluptuous by na- 
 ture, nry expenses fully kept pace with my in- 
 come. An unlucky discovery of the practices of 
 our party was at length made by a young noble- 
 man, which obliged us to act for some time with 
 the utmost circumspection. It would be tedious 
 to relate the particulars which made us at length 
 so suspected, that the distant civility and cold 
 reserve of our acquaintance rendered the fre- 
 quenting public assemblies both painful and un- 
 profitable. We turned cm thoughts to other 
 modes of obtaining money, and a swindling tran- 
 saction, in which I engaged to a very large 
 amouut, soon compelled me to leave Paris. You 
 know the rest, my Lord." 
 
 La Motte was now silent, and the Marquis con- 
 tinued for some time musing. " You perceive, 
 my Lord," at length resumed La Motte, "you 
 perceive that my case is hopeless." 
 
 " It is bad, indeed, but not entirely hopeless. 
 From my soul I pity you; yet, if you should re- 
 turn to the world, and incur the danger of prose- 
 cution, I think my interest with the Minister 
 might save you from any severe punishment. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 265 
 
 You seem, however, to have lost all relish for so- 
 ciety, and perhaps do not wish to return to it." 
 
 " Oh! my Lord, can you douht this!— But I am 
 overcome with the excess of your goodness; 
 would to Heaven it -were in my power to prove 
 the gratitude it inspires." 
 
 " Talk not of goodness," said the Marquis: " 1 
 will not pretend that my desire of seining you is 
 unalloyed by any degree of self-interest. I will 
 not affect to be more than man, and trust me, 
 those who do, are less. It is in your power 
 to testify your gratitude, and bind me to your 
 interest for ever." He paused. — " Name but the 
 means," cried La Motte, "name but the means, 
 and if they are within the compass of possibility 
 they shall be executed." The Marquis was still 
 silent. " Do you doubt my sincerity, my Lord, 
 that you are yet silent? Do you fear to repose a 
 confidence in the man whom you have already 
 loaded with obligations; who lives by your mer- 
 cy, and almost by your means 2 ." The Marquis 
 looked earnestly at him, but did not speak. " I 
 have not deserved this of you, my Lord, speak; I 
 entreat you." 
 
 " There are certain prejudices attached to the 
 human mind," said the Marquis, in a slow and 
 solemn voice, " which it requires all our wisdom 
 to keep from interfering with our happiness; cer- 
 tain set notions, acquired in infancy, and che- 
 rished involuntarily by age, which grow up and 
 assume a gloss so plausible, that few minds, in 
 what is called a civilized country, can afterwards 
 overcome them. Truth is often perverted by 
 education. While the refined Europeans boast a 
 standard of honour, and a sublimity of virtue, 
 which often leads them from pleasure to misery, 
 and from nature to error, the simple uninformed 
 American follows the impulse of his heart, and 
 obeys the inspiration of wisdom." The Marquis 
 paused, and La Motte continued to listen in 
 eager expectation. 
 
266 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOHESH. 
 
 " Nature, uncontaminated by false refinement," 
 resumed the Marquis, " every where acts alike in 
 the great occurrences of life. The Indian dis- 
 covers his friend to be perfidious, and he kills 
 him; the wild Asiatic does the same; the Turk, 
 when ambition fires, or revenge provokes, grati- 
 fies his passion at the expense of life, and does 
 not call it murder. Even the polished Italian, 
 directed by jealousy, or tempted by a strong cir- 
 cumstance of advantage, draws his stiletto, and 
 accomplishes his purpose. It is the first proof of 
 a superior mind to liberate itself from prejudices 
 of country, or of education. You are silent, La 
 Motte; are you not of my opinion^" 
 
 " I am attending, my Lord, to your reasoning." 
 
 " There are, I repeat it," said the Marquis, 
 f; people of minds so weak, as to shrink from acts 
 they have been accustomed to hold wrong, how- 
 ever advantageous. They never suffer them- 
 selves to be guided by circumstances, but fix for 
 life upon a certain standard, from which they 
 will on no account depart. Self-preservation is 
 the great law of nature; when a reptile hurts 
 us, or an animal of prey threatens us, we think 
 no farther, but endeavour to annihilate it. When 
 my life, or what may be essential to my life, re- 
 quires the sacrifice of another, or even if some 
 passion, wholly unconquerable, requires it, I 
 should be a madman to hesitate. La Motte, I 
 think I may confide in you — there are ways of 
 doing certain things — you understand me. There 
 are times, and circumstances, and opportunities 
 — you comprehend my meaning." 
 
 " Explain yourself, my Lord." 
 
 " Kind services that— in short there are ser- 
 vices, which excite all our gratitude, and which 
 we can never think repaid. It is in your power 
 to place me in such a situation." 
 
 " Indeed, 1x13' Lord! name the means. : ' 
 
 " I have already named them. This abbey well 
 suits the purpose; it is shut up from the eye of ob- 
 
HIE ROMANCE OF SHE FOREST. 267 
 
 serration ; any transaction may be concealed with- 
 in its walls; the hour of midnight may witness the 
 deed, and the morning shall not dawn to disclose 
 it; these woods tell no tales. Ah! La Motte, am 
 I right in trusting this business with you; may I 
 believe you are desirous of serving me, and of 
 preserving yourself?" The Marquis paused, and 
 looked steadfastly at La Motte, whose countenance 
 was almost concealed by the gloom of evening. 
 
 "My Lord, you may trust me in any thing; 
 explain yourself more fully." 
 
 " What security will you give me for your 
 faithfulness ?" 
 
 " Sly life, my Lord; is it not already in your 
 power I" The Marquis hesitated, and then said, 
 " To-morrow, about this time, I shall return to 
 the abbey, and will then explain my meaning, if 
 indeed you shall not already have understood it. 
 You, in the mean time, will consider your own 
 powers of resolution, and be prepared either to 
 adopt the purpose I shall suggest, or to declare 
 you will not." La Motte made some confused 
 reply. '•' Farewell till to-morrow," said the Mar- 
 quis; " remember that freedom and affluence are 
 now before you." He moved towards the abbey, 
 and mounting his horse, rode off with his atten- 
 dants. La Motte walked slowly home, musing on 
 the late conversation. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The Marquis was punctual to the hour. La 
 Motte received him at the gate, but he declined 
 entering, and said he preferred a walk in the 
 forest. Thither, therefore, La Motte attended 
 him. After some general conversation, " Well," 
 said the Marquis, " have you considered what I 
 said, and are you prepared to decide'" 
 
 *' I have, my Lord, and will quickly decide, 
 when you shall farther explain yourself. Till 
 
268 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 then I can form no resolution." The Marquis 
 appeared dissatisfied, aud was a moment silent. 
 " Is it then possible," he at length resumed, "that 
 you do not understand? This ignorance is surely 
 affected. La Motte, I expect sincerity. Tell me, 
 therefore, is it necessary I should say more?" 
 
 " It is, my Lord," said La Motte immediately. 
 " If you fear to confide in me freely, how can I 
 fully accomplish your purpose?" 
 
 " Before I proceed farther," said the Marquis, 
 " let me administer some oath which shall bind 
 you to secresy. But this is scarcely necessary; 
 for, could I even doubt your word of honour, the 
 remembrance of a certain transaction would 
 point out to you the necessity of being as silent 
 yourself as you must wish me to be." There was 
 now a pause of silence, during which both the 
 Marquis and La Motte betrayed some confusion. 
 " I think, La Motte," said he, " I have given you 
 sufficient proof that I can be grateful; the ser- 
 vices you have already rendered me, with respect 
 to Adeline, have not been unrewarded." 
 
 " True, my Lord, I am ever willing to acknow- 
 ledge this, and am sorry it has not been in my 
 power to serve you more effectually. Your far- 
 ther views respecting her I am ready to assist." 
 
 "I thank you. — Adeline" the Marquis hesi- 
 tated. — " Adeline," rejoined La Motte, eager to 
 anticipate his wishes, K has beauty worthy of your 
 pursuit. She has inspired a passion, of which she 
 ought to be proud; and, at any rate, she shall 
 soon be yours. Her charms are worthy of— — " 
 
 "Yes, yes," interrupted the Marquis; "but" 
 
 he paused. " But they have given you too 
 
 much trouble in the pursuit," said La Motte; 
 a and to be sure, my Lord, it must be confessed 
 they have ; but this trouble is all over — you may 
 now consider her as your own." 
 
 " I would do so," said the Marquis, fixing an 
 eye of earnest regard upon La Motte—" I would 
 do so." 
 
THE R03IAIs T C'E OF THE FOREST. 269 
 
 " Name your hour, my Lord ; you shall not he 
 interrupted. — Beauty, such as Adeline's " 
 
 " Watch her closely," rejoined the Marquis, 
 " and ou no account suffer her to leave her apart- 
 ment. Where is she now?" 
 
 " Confined in her chamher." 
 
 " Very well. But I am impatient." 
 
 "Name your time, my Lord to-morrow 
 
 night." 
 
 " To-morrow night," said the Marquis—" to- 
 morrow night! Do you understand me now?" 
 
 " Yes, my Lord, this night, if you wish it so — 
 But had you not better dismiss your servants, 
 and remain yourself in the forest? You know 
 the door that opens upon the woods from the 
 west tower. Come thither about twelve— I will 
 be there to conduct you to her chamber. Re- 
 member, then, my Lord, that to-night " 
 
 " Adeline dies!" interrupted the Marquis, in a 
 low voice, scarcely human. "Do you under- 
 stand me now?" La Motte shrunk aghast.— 
 
 "My Lord!" 
 
 "La Motte!" said the Marquis.— There was a 
 silence of several minutes, in which La Motte 
 endeavoured to recover himself. — " Let me ask, 
 my Lord, the meaning of this?" said he, when he 
 had breath to speak. "Why should you wish 
 the death of Adeline — of Adeline whom so lately 
 you loved?" 
 
 " Make no inquiries for my motive," said the 
 Marquis; "but it is as certain as that I live, that 
 she you name must die ! This is sufficient." The 
 surprise of La Motte equalled his horror. " The 
 means are various," resumed the Marquis. " I 
 could have wished that no blood might be spilt; 
 and there are drugs sure and speedy in their 
 effect, but they cannot be soon or safely procured. 
 
 I also wish it over it must be done quickly— 
 
 this night!" 
 
 " This night, my Lord!" 
 
270 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 u Aye, this night, La Motte; if it is to be, why 
 not soon? Have yon no convenient drug at 
 hand?" 
 
 " None, my Lord." 
 
 "I feared to trust a third person, or I should 
 have been provided," said the Marquis. " As it 
 is, take this poignard; use it as occasion offers, 
 but be resolute." La Motte received the poig- 
 nard with a trembling hand, and continued to 
 gaze upon it for some time, scarcely knowing 
 what he did. "Put it up," said the Marquis, 
 "and endeavour to recollect yourself." La 
 Motte obeyed; but continued to muse in silence. 
 
 He saw himself entangled in the web which 
 his own crimes had woven. Being in the power 
 of the Marquis, he knew he must either consent 
 to the commission cf a deed, from the enormi- 
 ty of which, depraved as he was, he shrunk in 
 horror, or sacrifice fortune, freedom, probably 
 life itself, to the refusal. He had been led on by 
 slow gradations from folly to vice, till he now 
 saw before him on abyss of guilt which startled 
 even the conscience that so long had slumbered. 
 The means of retreating were desperate— to pro- 
 ceed was equally so. 
 
 When he considered the innocence and the 
 helplessness of Adeline, her orphan state, her 
 former affectionate conduct, and her confidence 
 in his protection, his heart melted with compas- 
 sion for the distress he had already occasioned 
 her, and shrunk in terror from the deed he was 
 urged to commit. But when, on the other hand, 
 ]je contemplated the destruction that threatened 
 him from the vengeance of the Marquis, and 
 then considered the advantages that were offered 
 him of favour, freedom, and probably of fortune 
 — terror and temptation contributed to overcome 
 the pleadings of humanity, and silence the voice 
 of conscience. In this state of tumultuous un- 
 certainty he continued for some time silent, until 
 the voice of the Marquis roused him to a convic- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 271 
 
 tion of the necessity of at least appearing to ac- 
 quiesce in his designs. 
 
 "Do you hesitate?" said the Marquis. — "No, 
 toy Lord, my resolution is fixed — I will obey 
 you. But methinks it would be better to avoid 
 bloodshed. Strange secrets have been revealed 
 by " 
 
 "Aye, but how avoid it!" interrupted the 
 Marquis. — " Poison 1 will not venture to procure. 
 I have given you one sure instrument of death. 
 You also may find it dangerous to inquire for a 
 drug." La Motte perceived that he could not 
 purchase poison, without subjecting himself to 
 very dangerous suspicions, and he immediately 
 replied, " You are right, my Lord, and I will fol- 
 low your orders implicitly." The Marquis now 
 proceeded in broken sentences, to give farther 
 directions concerning this dreadful scheme. 
 
 "In her sleep," said he, "at midnight; the 
 family will then be at rest." Afterwards they 
 planned a story, which was to account for her 
 disappearance, and by which it was to seem that 
 she had sought an escape in consequence of her 
 aversion to the addresses of the Marquis. The 
 doors of her chamber and of the west tower were 
 to be left open to corroborate this account, and 
 many other circumstances were to be contrived 
 to confirm the suspicion. They farther consulted 
 how the Marquis was to be informed of the 
 event; and it was agreed, that he should come 
 as usual to the abbey on the following day. -" To- 
 ■night, then" said the Marquis, " I may rely upon 
 your resolution." 
 
 " You may, my Lord." 
 
 " Farewell, then. When we meet again " 
 
 " When we meet again," said La Motte, " it 
 will be done." He followed the Marquis to the 
 abbey, and having seen him mount his horse, 
 and wished him a good night, he retired to his 
 chamber, where he shut himself up. 
 
 Adeline, meanwhile, in the solitude of her pri« 
 
272 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 son, gave way to the despair which her condition 
 inspired. She tried to arrange her thoughts, and 
 to argue herself into some degree of resignation; 
 but reflection, by representing the past, and rea- 
 son, by anticipating the future, brought before 
 her mind the full picture of her misfortunes, and 
 she sunk in despondency. Of Theodore, who, by 
 a conduct so noble, had testified his attachment, 
 and involved himself in rain, she thought with a 
 degree of anguish infinitely superior to what she 
 had felt upon any other occasion. 
 
 That the very exertions -which had deserved 
 all her gratitude, and awakened all her tender- 
 ness, should be the cause of his destruction, was 
 a circumstance so much beyond the ordinary 
 bounds of misery, that her fortitude sunk at once 
 before it. The idea of Theodore suffering — Theo- 
 dore dying — was for ever present to her imagina- 
 tion, and frequently excluding the sense of her 
 own danger, made her conscious only of his. — 
 Sometimes the hope he had giveu her of being 
 able to vindicate his conduct, or at least to ob- 
 tain a pardon, would return; but it was like the 
 faint beam of an April morn, transient and cheer- 
 less. She knew that the Marquis, stung with 
 jealousy, and exasperated to revenge, would pur- 
 sue him with unrelenting malice. 
 
 Against such an enemy what could Theodore 
 oppose? Conscious rectitude would not avail him 
 to ward off the blow wdiich disappointed passion 
 and powerful pride directed. Her distress was 
 considerably heightened by reflecting that no in- 
 telligence of him could reach her at the abbey, 
 and that she must remain, she knew not how 
 long, in the most dreadful suspense concerning 
 his fate. From the abbey she saw no possibility 
 of escaping. She was a prisoner in a chamber 
 closed at every avenue: she had no opportunity 
 of conversing with any person who could afford 
 her even a chance of relief; and she saw herself 
 condemned to wait in passive silence the impend 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 273 
 
 ing destiny, infinitely more dreadful to her ima- 
 gination than death itself. 
 
 Thus circumstanced, she yielded to the pres- 
 sure of her misfortunes, and would sit for hours 
 motionless, and given up to thought. " Theo- 
 dore!" she would frequently exclaim, " you can- 
 not hear my voice, you cannot fly to help me; 
 yourself a prisoner, and in chains!" — The picture 
 was too horrid. The swelling anguish of her 
 heart would subdue her utterance— tears bathed 
 her cheeks — and she became insensible to every 
 thing but the misery of Theodore. 
 
 On this evening her mind had been remarkably 
 tranquil; and as she watched from her window, 
 with a still and melancholy pleasure, the setting 
 sun, the fading splendour of the western horizon, 
 and the gradual appi'oach of twilight, her thoughts 
 bore her back to the time when, in happier cir- 
 cumstances, she had viewed the same appear- 
 ances. She recollected also the evening of her 
 temporary escape from the abbey, when from 
 this same window she had watched the declining 
 sun, how anxiously she had awaited the fall of 
 twilight — how much she had endeavoured to an- 
 ticipate the events of her future life — with what 
 trembling fear she had descended from the 
 tower, and ventured into the forest. These re- 
 flections produced others that filled her heart 
 with anguish and her eyes with tears. 
 
 While she was lost in her melancholy reverie 
 she saw the Marquis mount his horse, and depart 
 from the gates. The sight of him revived, in all 
 its force, a sense of the misery Le inflicted on 
 her beloved Theodore, and a consciousness of 
 the evils which more immediately threatened 
 herself. She withdrew from the window in an 
 agony of tears, which continuing for a consider- 
 able time, her frame was at length quite ex- 
 hausted, and she retired early to rest. 
 
 La Motte remained in his chamber, till supper 
 obliged him to descend. At table his wild and 
 
274 THE ROMANCE 01? THE FOREST. 
 
 haggard countenance, which, in spite of all his 
 endeavours, betrayed the disorder of his mind, 
 and his long and frequent fits of abstraction, sur- 
 prised as well as alarmed Madame La Motte. 
 When Peter left the room she tenderly inquired 
 what had disturbed him ; and he, with a distort- 
 ed smile, tried to be gay; but the effort was 
 beyond his art, and he quickly relapsed into 
 silence; or when Madame La Motte spoke, he 
 strove to conceal the absence of his thoughts, he 
 answered so entirely from the purpose, that his 
 abstraction became still more apparent. Observ- 
 ing this, Madame La Motte appeared to take no 
 notice of his present temper; and they continued 
 to sit in uninterrupted silence till the hour of 
 rest, when they retired to their chamber. 
 
 La Motte lay in a state of disturbed watchful- 
 ness for some time, and his frequent starts awoke 
 Madame; who, however, being pacified by some 
 trifling excuse, soon went to sleep again. This 
 agitation continued till near midnight, when, re- 
 collecting that the time was now passing in idle 
 reflection, which ought to be devoted to action, 
 he stole silently from his bed, wrapped himself 
 in his night-gown, and talcing the lamp which 
 burned nightly in his chamber, passed up the 
 spiral staircase. As he went he frequently look- 
 ed back, and often started and listened to the 
 hollow sighings of the blast. 
 
 His hand shook so violently, when he attempt- 
 ed to unlock the door of Adeline's chamber, that 
 he was obliged to set the lamp on the ground, and 
 apply both his hands. The noise he made with 
 the key induced Urn to suppose he must have 
 awakened her; but when he opened the door, 
 and perceived the stillness that reigned within, 
 he was convinced that she was asleep. When he 
 approached the bed, he heard her gently breathe, 
 and soon after sigh— and he stopped; but silence 
 returning, he again advanced, and then heard 
 her sing in her sleep. As he listened he distin- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 275 
 
 guished some notes of a melancholy little air, 
 which, in her happier days, she had often sung 
 to him. The low and mournful accent in which 
 she now uttered them expressed too well the 
 tone of her mind. 
 
 La Motte now stepped hastily towards the 
 bed, when, breathing a deep sigh, she was again 
 silent. He undrew the curtain, and saw her 
 lying in a profound sleep, her cheek yet wet with 
 tears, resting upon her arm. He stood a moment 
 looking at her; and as he viewed her innocent and 
 lovely countenance, pale in grief, the light of the 
 lamp, which shone strong upon her eyes, awoke 
 her; and perceiving a man, she uttered a scream. 
 Her recollection returning, she knew him to be 
 La Motte; and it instantly recurring to her that 
 the Marquis was at hand, she raised herself in 
 bed, and implored pity and protection. La Motte 
 stood looking eagerly at her, but without re- 
 plying. 
 
 The wilclness of his looks and the gloomy 
 silence he preserved increased her alarm, and 
 with tears of terror she renewed her supplica- 
 tion. " You once saved me from destruction," 
 cried she; "Osave me now! Have pity upon 
 me— I have no protector but you." 
 
 " What is it you feaii" said La Motte, in a 
 tone scarcely articulate. — " O save me — save rne 
 from the Marquis!" 
 
 "Rise then," said he, "and dress yourself 
 quickly — 1 shall be back again in a few minutes." 
 He lighted a candle that stood on the table, and 
 left the chamber. Adeline immediately arose 
 aud endeavoured to dress, but her thoughts were 
 so bewildered, that she scarcely knew what she 
 did, and her whole frame so violently agitated 
 that it was with the utmost difficulty she pre- 
 served herself from fainting. She threw her 
 clothes hastily en, and then sat down to await 
 the return of La Motte. A considerable time 
 elapsed, yet he did not appear; and having in 
 
276 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 vain endeavoured to compose her spirits, the 
 pain of suspense at length became so insupport- 
 able, that she opened the door of her chamber, 
 and went to the top of the staircase to listen. 
 She thought she heard voices below; but con- 
 sidering, that if the Marquis were there, her ap- 
 pearance could only increase her danger, she 
 checked the step she had almost involuntarily- 
 taken to descend. Still she listened, and still 
 thought she distinguished voices. Soon after 
 she heard a door shut, and then footsteps; and 
 she hastened back to her chamber. 
 
 Near a quarter of an hour elapsed and La 
 Motte did not appear; when again she thought 
 she heard a murmur of voices below, and also 
 passing steps ; and at length her anxiety not suf- 
 fering her to remain in her room, she moved 
 through the passage that communicated with the 
 spiral staircase; but all was now still. In a few 
 moments, however, a light flashed across the 
 hall, and La Motte appeared at the door of the 
 vaulted room. He looked up, and seeing Adeline 
 in the gallery, beckoned her to descend. 
 
 She hesitated, and looked towards her cham- 
 ber; but La Motte now approached the stairs, 
 and with faltering steps she went to meet him. 
 " I fear the Marquis may see me," said she, 
 whispering; " where is he?" La Motte took her 
 hand, and led her on, assuring her she had noth- 
 ing to fear from the Marquis. The wildness of 
 his looks, however, and the trembling of his 
 hand, seemed to contradict this assurance, and 
 she inquired whither he was leading her. " To 
 the forest," said La Motte, " that you may 
 escape from the abbey— a horse waits for you 
 without. I can save you by no other means." 
 New terror seized her. She could scarcely be- 
 lieve that La Motte, who had hitherto conspired 
 ■with the Marquis, and had so closely confined 
 her, should now himself undertake her escape; 
 and she at this moment felt a dreadful present!- 
 
THE ROMANCE CF THE FOREST. 277 
 
 ment, which it was impossible to account for, 
 that he was leading her out to murder her in the 
 forest. Again shrinking hack, she supplicated 
 his mercy. He assured her he meant only to pro- 
 tect her, and desired she "would not waste time. 
 
 There was something in his manner that spoke 
 sincerity, and she suffered him to conduct her to 
 a side door that opened into the forest, where she 
 could just distinguish through the gloom a man 
 on horseback. This brought to her remembrance 
 the night in which she had quitted the tomb, 
 when, trusting to the person who appeared, she 
 had been carried to the Marquis's villa. La 
 Motte called, and was answered by Peter, whose 
 voice somewhat re-assured Adeline. 
 
 He then told her that the Marquis would re- 
 turn to the abbey on the following morning, and 
 that this could be her only opportunity of escap- 
 ing his designs; that she might rely upon his (La 
 Motte's) word, that Peter had orders to carry her 
 wherever she chose; but as he knew the "Mar- 
 quis would be indefatigable in search after her, 
 he advised her by all means to leave the king- 
 dom, which she might do with Peter, who was a 
 native of Savoy, and would convey her to the 
 house of his sis*ter. There she might remain till 
 La Motte himself, who did not now think it would 
 be safe to continue much longer in France, 
 should join her. He entreated her, whatever 
 might happen, never to mention the events 
 which had passed at the abbey. " To save you, 
 Adeline, I have risked my life; do not increase 
 my danger and your own by any unnecessary 
 discoveries. We may never meet again, but I 
 hope you will be happy; and remember, when 
 you think of me, that I am not quite so bad as I 
 have been tempted to be." 
 
 Having said this, he gave her some money, 
 which he told her would be necessary to defray 
 the expenses of her journey, Adeline could no 
 13 
 
278 THE ROMANCSOE THE FOREST. 
 
 longer doubt his sincerity, and her transports 
 of joy and gratitude would scarcely permit her 
 to thank him. She wished to have bid Madame 
 La Motte farewell, and indeed earnestly request- 
 ed it ; but he again told her she had no time to 
 lose, and having wrapped her in a large cloak, he 
 lifted her upon the horse. She bade him adieu 
 with tears of gratitude, and Peter set off as 
 fast as the darkness would permit. 
 
 When they were got some way, " I am glad 
 with all my heart, Ma'amselle," said he, " to see 
 you again. — Who would have thought, after all, 
 that my master himself would have bid me take 
 you away! — Well, to be sure strange things come 
 to pass; but I hope we shall have better luck 
 this time." Adeline not choosing to reproach 
 him with the treachery of which she feared he 
 had been formerly guilty, thanked him for his 
 good wishes, and said she hoped they should be 
 more fortunate; but Peter in his usual strain of 
 eloquence, proceeded to undeceive her in this 
 point, and to acquaint her with every circum- 
 stance which his memory, and it was naturally a 
 strong one, could furnish. 
 
 Peter expressed such an artless interest in her 
 welfare, and such concern for her former dis- 
 appointment, that she could no longer doubt 
 his faithfulness; and this conviction not only 
 strengthened her confidence in the present un- 
 dertaking, but made her listen to his conversa- 
 tion with kindness and pleasure. " I should 
 never have stayed at the abbey till this time," 
 said he, "if I could have got away; but my mas- 
 ter frightened me so about the Marquis, and I 
 had not money enough to carry me into my own 
 country, so that I was forced to stay. It's well 
 we have got some solid louis-dors now; for I 
 question, Ma'amselle, whether the people on the 
 road would have taken those trinkets you for- 
 merly talked of for money." 
 
 "Possibly not," said Adeline: "I am thankful 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 2/9 
 
 to Monsieur La Motte that we have more certain 
 means of procuring conveniences. What route 
 shall you take when we leave the forest, Peter?" 
 — Peter mentioned very correctly a great part of 
 the road to Lyons; '"'and then," said he, "we 
 can easily get to Savoy, and that will be nothing. 
 My sister, God bless her! I hope is living: I have 
 not seen her .many a year; but if she is not, all 
 the people will be glad to see me, and you will 
 easily get a lodging, Ma'amselle, and every thing 
 you want." 
 
 Adeline resolved to go with him to Savoy. La 
 Motte, -who knew the character and designs of 
 the Marquis, had advised her to leave the" king- 
 dom, and had told her, what her fears might have 
 suggested, that the Marquis would be indefatiga- 
 ble in search of her. His motive for this advice 
 must be a desire of serving her; why else, when 
 she was already in his power, should he remove 
 her to another place, and even furnish her with 
 money for the expenses of a journey? 
 
 At Lelencourt, where Peter said he was well 
 known, she would be most likely to meet with 
 protection and comfort, even should his sister be 
 dead; and its distance and solitary situation 
 were circumstances that pleased her. These re- 
 flections would have pointed out to her the pru- 
 dence of proceeding to Savoy, had she been less 
 destitute of resources in France; in her present 
 situation they proved it to be necessary. 
 
 She inquired farther concerning the route they 
 were to take, and whether Peter was sufficiently 
 acquainted with the road. " When once I get to 
 Thiers, I know it well enough," said Peter, " for I 
 have gone it many a time in my younger days ; 
 and any body will tell us the way there." They 
 travelled for several horns in darkness and 
 silence, and it was not till they emerged from 
 the forest, that Adeline saw the morning light 
 streak the eastern clouds. The sight cheered 
 and revived her; and as she travelled silently 
 
280 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 along, her mind revolved the events of the past 
 night, and meditated plans for the future. The 
 present kindness of La Motte appeared so very 
 different from his former conduct, that it as- 
 tonished and perplexed her; and she could 
 only account for it hy attributing it to one of 
 those sudden impulses of humanity which some- 
 times operate even upon the most depraved 
 hearts. 
 
 But when she recollected his former -words, 
 " that he was not master of himself," she could 
 scarcely believe that mere pity should induce 
 him to break the bonds which* had hitherto so 
 strongly held him: and then, considering the 
 altered conduct of the Marquis, she was inclined 
 to think that she owed her liberty to some 
 change in his sentiments towards her; yet the 
 advice La Motte had given her to quit the king- 
 dom, and the money with which he had supplied 
 her for that purpose, seemed to contradict this 
 opinion, and involved her again in doubt. 
 
 Peter now got directions to Thiers, which 
 place they reached without any accident, and 
 there stopped to refresh themselves. As soon as 
 Peter thought the horse sufficiently rested, they 
 again set forward, and from the rich plains of 
 the Lyonnois, Adeline, for the first time, caught 
 a view of the distant Alps, whose majestic 
 heads, seeming to prop the vault of heaven, 
 filled her mind with sublime emotions. 
 
 In a few hours they reached the vale in which 
 stands the city of Lyons, whose beautiful envi- 
 rons, studded with villas, and rich with cultiva- 
 tion, withdrew Adeline from the melancholy 
 contemplation of her own circumstances, and her 
 more painful anxiety for Theodore. 
 
 When they reached that busy city, her first 
 care was to inquire concerning the passage of the 
 Rhone; but she forbore to make these inquiries 
 of the people at the inn, considering that if the 
 Marquis should follow her thither, they might 
 
 1 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 281 
 
 enable him to pursue her route. She, therefore, 
 sent Peter to the quays to hire a boat, while she 
 herself took a slight repast, it being her inten- 
 tion to embark immediately. Peter presently re- 
 turned, having engaged a boat and men to take 
 them up the Rhone, to the nearest part of Savoy, 
 from whence they were to proceed by land to 
 the village of Lelencourt. 
 
 Having taken some refreshment, she ordered 
 him to conduct her to the vessel. A new and 
 striking scene presented itself to Adeline, who 
 looked with surprise upon the river, gay with 
 vessels, and the quay crowded with busy faces, 
 and felt the contrast which the cheerful objects 
 around bore to herself — to her, an orphan, de- 
 solate, helpless, and flying from persecution 
 and her country. She spoke with the master of 
 the boat, and having sent Peter back to the inn 
 for the horse (La Motte's gift to Peter, in lieu of 
 some arrears of wages), they embarked. 
 
 As they slowly passed up the Rhone, whos 
 steep banks, crowned with mountains, exhibited 
 the most various, wild and romantic scenery, 
 Adeline sat in pensive reverie. The novelty of 
 the scene through which she floated, now frown- 
 ing with savage grandeur, and now smiling in fer- 
 tility, and gay with towns and villages, soothed 
 her mind, and her sorrow gradually softened into 
 a gentle and not unpleasing melancholy. She had 
 seated herself at the head of the boat, where she 
 watched its sides cleave the swift stream, and 
 listened to the dashing of the waters. 
 
 The boat slowly opposing the current, passed 
 along for some hours, and at length the veil of 
 evening was stretched over the landscape. The 
 weather was fine, and Adeline, regardless of the 
 dews that now fell, remained in the open air, ob- 
 serving the objects darken around her, the gay 
 tints of the horizon fade away, and the stars gra- 
 dually appear, trembling upon the lucid mirror 
 of the waters. The scene was now sunk in deep 
 
282 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 shadow, and the silence of the hour was broken 
 only by the measured dashing of the oars, and 
 now and then by the voice of Peter speaking to 
 the boatmen. Adeline sat lost in thought: the 
 forlornness of her circumstances came heighten- 
 ed to her imagination. 
 
 She saw herself surrounded by the darkness 
 and stillness of night, in a strange place, far dis- 
 tant from any friends, going she scarcely knew 
 whither, under the guidance of strangers, and 
 pursued, perhaps, by an inveterate enemy. She 
 pictured to herself the rage of the Marquis now 
 that he had discovered her flight, and though she 
 knew it very unlikely he should follow her by 
 water, for Avhich reason she had chosen that man- 
 ner of travelling, she trembled at the portrait her 
 fancy drew. Her thoughts then wandered to the 
 plan she should adopt after reaching Savoy; and 
 much as her experience had prejudiced her 
 against the manners of a convent, she saw no 
 place more likely to afford her a proper asylum. 
 At length she retired to the little cabin for a few 
 hours' repose. 
 
 She awoke with the dawn, and her mind being 
 too much disturbed to sleep again, she rose and 
 watched the gradual approach of day. 
 
 When Adeline left the abbey, La Motte had 
 remained for some time at the gate, listening to 
 the steps of the horse that carried her, till the 
 sound was lost in distance; he then turned into 
 the hall with a lightness of heart to which he 
 had long been a stranger. The satisfaction of 
 having thus preserved her, as he hoped, from the 
 designs of the Marquis, overcame for a while all 
 sense of the danger in which this step must in- 
 volve him. But when he returned entirely to his 
 own situation, the terrors of the Marquis's re- 
 sentment struck their full force upon his mind, 
 and he considered how he might best escape it. 
 
 It was now past midnight — the Marquis was 
 expected early on the following day; and in this 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 283 
 
 interval it at first appeared probable to him that 
 be might quit the forest. There was only one 
 horse; but he considered whether jit would be 
 best to set off immediately for Auboine, where a 
 carriage might be procured to convey his family 
 and his moveables from the abbey, or quietly to 
 await the arrival of the Marquis, and endeavour 
 to impose upon him by a forged story of Adeline's 
 escape. 
 
 The time which must elapse before a carriage 
 could reach the abbey, would leave him scarcely 
 sufficient to escape from the forest; what money 
 he had remaining from the Marquis's bounty 
 would not carry him far; and when it was ex- 
 pended he must probably be at a loss for subsist- 
 ence, should he not before then be detected. By 
 remaining at the abbey it would appear that he 
 was unconscious of deserving the Marquis's re- 
 sentment, and though he could not expect to im- 
 press a belief upon him that his orders had been 
 executed, he might make it appear that Peter 
 only had been accessory to the escape of Ade- 
 line; an account which would seem the more 
 probable, from Peter's having been formerly de- 
 tected in a similar scheme. He believed also, 
 that if the Marquis should threaten to deliver 
 him into the hands of justice, he might save him- 
 self by a menace of disclosing the crime he had 
 commissioned him to perpetrate. 
 
 Thus arguing, La Motte resolved to remain at 
 the abbey and await the event of the Marquis's 
 disappointment. 
 
 When the Marquis did arrive, and was inform- 
 ed of Adeline's flight, the strong workings of" his 
 soul, which appeared in his countenance, for 
 awhile alarmed and terrified La Motte. He 
 cursed himself and her in terms of such coarse- 
 ness and vehemence, as La Motte was astonish- 
 ed to hear from a man whose manners were gene- 
 rally amiable, whatever might be the violence 
 and criminality of his passions. To invent and 
 
284 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 express these terms seemed to give him not only- 
 relief, but delight; yet he appeared more shock- 
 ed at the circumstance of her escape than exas- 
 perated at the carelessness of La Motte, and re- 
 collecting at length that he wasted time, he left 
 the abbey, and despatched several of his servants 
 in pursuit of her. 
 
 When he -was gone, La Motte, believing his 
 story had succeeded, returned to the pleasure of 
 considering that he had done his duty, and to the 
 hope that Adeline was now beyond the reach of 
 pursuit. This calm was of short continuance. 
 In a few hours the Marquis returned, accom- 
 panied by the officers of justice. The affrighted 
 La Motte, perceiving him approach, endeavoured 
 to conceal himself, but was seized and carried to 
 the Marquis, who drew him aside. 
 
 " I am not to be imposed upon," said he, "by 
 such a superficial story as you have invented; 
 you kuow your life is in my hands; tell me in- 
 stantly where you have secreted Adeline, or I 
 will charge you with the crime you have com- 
 mitted against me; but, upon your disclosing the 
 place of her concealment, I will dismiss the offi- 
 cers, and, if you wish it, assist you to leave the 
 kingdom. You have no time to hesitate, and 
 may know that I will not be trifled with.'"' La 
 Motte attempted to appease the Marquis, and af- 
 firmed that Adeline was really fled he knew not 
 whither. "You will remember, my Lord, that 
 3'-our character is also in my power; and that, if 
 you proceed to extremities, you will compel me 
 to reveal in the face of day, that you would have 
 made me a murderer." 
 
 "And who will believe you?" said the Mar- 
 quis. " The crimes that banished you from so- 
 ciety will be no testimony of your veracity, and 
 that with which I now charge you, will bring 
 wit>t_ it a sufficient presumption that your accu- 
 Eatiun is malicious. Officers, do your duty." 
 
 They entered the room and seized La Motte, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 285 
 
 ■whom terror now deprived of all power of resist- 
 ance, could resistance have availed him; and in 
 the perturbation of his mind he informed the 
 Marquis, that Adeline had taken the road to 
 Lyons. This discovery, however, was made too 
 late to serve himself; the Marquis seized the ad- 
 vantage it offered, but the charge had been given; 
 and, with the anguish of knowing that he had 
 exposed Adeline to danger without benefiting 
 himself, La Motte submitted in silence to his 
 fate. Scarcely allowing him time to collect what 
 little effects might easily be carried with him, 
 the officers conveyed him from the abbey; but 
 the Marquis, in consideration of the extreme 
 distress of Madame La Motte, directed one of his 
 servants to procure a carriage from Auboine that 
 she might follow her husband. 
 
 The Marquis, in the mean time, now acquaint- 
 ed with the route Adeline had taken, sent for- 
 ward his faithful valet to trace her to the place 
 of concealment, and return immediately with in- 
 telligence to the villa. 
 
 Abandoned to despair, La Motte and his wife 
 quitted the forest of Fontanville, -which had for 
 so many months afforded them an asylum, and 
 embarked once more upon the tumultuous world, 
 where justice would meet La Motte in the form 
 of destruction. They had entered the forest as a 
 refuge, rendered necessary by the former crimes 
 of La Motte, and for some time found in it the 
 security they sought; but other offences, for 
 even in that sequestered spot there happened to 
 be temptation, soon succeeded; and his life, 
 already sufficiently marked by the punishment 
 of vice, now afforded him another instance of 
 this great truth, " That where guilt is, thero 
 peace cannot enter." 
 
286 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Adeline, mean while, and Peter, proceeded 
 on their voyage, without any accident, and laud- 
 ed in Savoy, where Peter placed her upon the 
 horse, and himself walked beside her. When he 
 came within sight of his native mountains, his 
 extravagant joy burst forth into frequent excla- 
 mations; and he would often ask Adeline, if she 
 had ever seen such hills in France. " No, no," said 
 he, " the hills there are very well for French hills, 
 but they are not to be named on the same day 
 with ours." Adeline, lost in admiration of the 
 astonishing and tremendous scenery around her, 
 assented very warmly to the truth of Peter's as- 
 sertion, which encouraged him to expatiate more 
 largely upon the advantages of his country; its 
 disadvantages he totally forgot; and though he 
 gave away his last sous to the children of the 
 peasantry that ran bare-footed bylthe side of the 
 horse, he spoke of nothing but the happiness and 
 content of the inhabitants. 
 
 His native village, indeed, was an exception to 
 the general character of the country, and to the 
 usual effects of an arbitrary government; it was 
 flourishing, healthy, and happy; and these ad- 
 vantages it chiefly owed to the activity and at- 
 tention of the benevolent clergyman whose cure 
 it was. 
 
 Adeline, who noAV began to feel the effects of 
 long anxiety and fatigue, much wished to arrive 
 at the end of her journey, and inquired impa- 
 tiently of Peter concerning it. Her spirits thus 
 weakened, the gloomy grandeur of the scenes 
 which had so lately awakened emotions of de- 
 lightful sublimity, now awed her into terror; she 
 trembled at the sound of the torrents rolling 
 among the cliffs, and thundering in the vale be- 
 low; and shrunk from the view of the precipices, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 287 
 
 which sometimes overhung the road, and at 
 others appeared beneath it. Fatigued as she 
 was, she frequently dismounted to climb on foot 
 the steep flinty road, which she feared to travel 
 on horseback. 
 
 The day was closing when they drew near a 
 small village at the foot of the Savoy Alps, and 
 the sun in all his evening splendour, now sinking 
 behind their summits, threw a farewell gleam 
 athwart the landscape, so soft and glowing, as 
 drew from Adeline, languid as she was, an excla- 
 mation of rapture. 
 
 The romantic situation of the village next, 
 attracted her notice. It stood at the foot of 
 several stupendous mountains, which formed a 
 chain round a lake at some little distance, and 
 the woods that swept from their summits almost 
 embosomed the village. The lake, unruffled by 
 the lightest air, reflected the vermil tints of the 
 horizon, with the sublime scenery on its borders, 
 darkening every instant with the falling twilight. 
 
 When Peter perceived the village, he burst 
 into a shout of joy: " Thank God!" said he, "we 
 are near home; there is my dear native place. 
 It looks just as it did twenty years ago; and there 
 are the same old trees growing round our cottage 
 yonder, and the huge rock that rises above it. 
 My poor father died there, Ma'amselle. Pray 
 heaven my sister be alive; it is a long while since 
 I saw her." Adeline listened with a melancholy 
 pleasure to these artless expressions of Peter, 
 who, in retracing the scenes of his former days, 
 seemed to live them over again. As they ap- 
 proached the village, he continued to point out 
 various objects of his remembrance, " And there, 
 too, is the good pastor's chateau; look, Ma'am- 
 selle, that white house, with the smoke curling, 
 that stands on the edge of the lake yonder. I 
 wonder whether he is alive yet. He was not old 
 when l left the place, and as much beloved as 
 ever man was; but death spares nobody," 
 
288 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 They had by this time reached the village, 
 'which was extremely neat, though it did not 
 promise much accommodation. Peter had hardly 
 advanced ten steps before he was accosted by 
 some of his old acquaintance, who shook hands, 
 and seemed not to know how to part with him. 
 He inquired for his sister, and was told she was 
 alive and well. As they passed on, so many of 
 his old friends flocked round him, that Adeline 
 became quite weai-y of the delay. Many whom 
 he had left in the vigour of life, were now totter- 
 ing under the infirmities of age, while their sons 
 and daughters, whom he had known only in the 
 playfulness of infancy, were grown from his re- 
 membrance, and in the pride of youth. At length 
 they approached the cottage, and were met by 
 his sister, who, having heard of his arrival, came 
 and welcomed him with unfeigned joy. 
 
 On seeing Adeline, she seemed surprised, but 
 assisted her to alight, and conducting her into a 
 small but neat cottage, received her with a 
 ■warmth of ready kindness which would have 
 graced a better situation. Adeline requested to 
 speak with her alone, for the room was now 
 crowded with Peter's friends; and then acquaint- 
 ing her with such particulars of her circum- 
 stances as it was necessary to communicate, de- 
 sired to know if she could be accommodated with 
 lodgings in the cottage. " Yes, Ma'amselle," 
 said the good woman, "to such as it is, you are 
 heartily welcome; I am only sorry it is not 
 better. But you seem ill, Ma'amselle; what shall 
 I get yoiU" 
 
 Adeline, who had been long struggling with 
 fatigue and indisposition, now yielded to their 
 pressure. She said, she was indeed ill, but hoped 
 that rest would restore her; and desired a bed 
 might be immediately prepared. The good wo- 
 man went out to obey her, and soon returning, 
 showed her to a little cabin, where she retired to 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. SSJ? 
 
 a Led, whose cleanliness was its only recommen- 
 dation. 
 
 But notwithstanding her fatigue, she could not 
 sleep, and her mind, in spite of all her efforts, re- 
 turned to the scenes that were passed, or pre- 
 sented gloomy and imperfect visions of the future. 
 
 The difference between her own condition and 
 that of other persons, educated as she had been,, 
 struck her forcibly, and she wept. " They," said 
 she, " have friends and relations, all striving to> 
 save them, not only from what may hurt, but what 
 may displease them; watching not only for their 
 present safety, but for their future advantage,, 
 and preventing them even from injuring them- 
 selves. But during my whole life I have never- 
 known a friend; have been in general surround- 
 ed by enemies, and very seldom exempt from 
 some circumstance either of danger or calamity. 
 Yet surely I am not born to be for ever wretch- 
 ed; the time will come when"' She began t® 
 
 think she might one time be happy; but recol- 
 lecting the desperate situation of Theodore, 
 "No," said she, " I can never hope even fox 
 peace!" 
 
 Early the following morning the good woman 
 of the house came to inquire how she had rested, 
 and found she had slept little, and was much 
 worse than on the preceding night. The uneasi- 
 ness of her mind contributed to heighten the fe- 
 verish symptoms that attended her, and in the 
 course of the day her disorder began to assume a 
 serious aspect. She observed its progress with 
 composure, resigning herself to the will of God, 
 and feeling little to regret in life. Her kind host- 
 ess did every thing in her power to relieve heir, 
 and there was neither physician or apothecary ia 
 the village, so that nature was deprived of none 
 of her advantages. Notwithstanding this, the dis- 
 order rapidly increased, and on the third day 
 from its first attack she became delirious; after 
 which she sunk into a state of stupefaction. 
 
290 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 How long she remained in tins deplorable con- 
 dition she knew not ; hut on recovering her 
 senses, she found herself in an apartment very 
 different from any she remembered. It was spa- 
 cious and almost beautiful, the bed and every 
 thing around being in one style of elegant sim- 
 plicity. For some minutes she lay in a trance of 
 surprise, endeavouring to recollect her scattered 
 ideas of the past, and almost fearing to move, 
 lest the pleasing vision should vanish from her 
 eyes. 
 
 At length she ventured to raise herself, when 
 she presently heard a soft voice speaking near 
 her, and the bed curtain on one side was gently 
 undrawn by a beautiful girl. As she leaned for- 
 ward over the bed, and with a smile of mingled 
 tenderness and joy inquired of her patient how 
 she did, Adeline gazed in silent admiration upon 
 the most interesting female countenance she had 
 ever seen, iu which the expression of sweetuess 
 united with lively sense and refinement, was 
 chastened by simplicity. 
 
 Adeline at length recollected herself sufficient- 
 ly to thank her kind inquirer, and begged to 
 know to whom she was obliged, and where she 
 was. The lovely girl pressed her hand; " 'Tis we 
 who are obliged," said she. " Oh! how I rejoice 
 to find that you have recovered your recollec- 
 tion." She said no more, but flew to the door of 
 ihe apartment, and disappeared. In a few mi- 
 nutes she returned with an elderly lady, who, 
 approaching the bed with an air of tender inte- 
 rest, asked concerning the state of Adeline; to 
 which the latter replied, as well as the agitation 
 of her spirits would permit, and repeated her de~ 
 sire of knowing to whom she was so greatly 
 obliged. " You shall know that hereafter," said 
 the lady; "at present be assured, that you are 
 with those who will think their care much over- 
 paid by your recovery; submit, therefore, to eve- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 291 
 
 ry thing that may conduce to it, and consent to 
 be kept as quiet as possible. 
 
 Adeline gratefully smiled, and bowed her head 
 in silent assent. The lady now quitted the room, 
 for a medicine; having given which to Adeline, 
 the curtain was closed, and she was left to repose. 
 But her thoughts were too busy" to suffer her to 
 profit by the opportunity. She contemplated the 
 past, and viewed the present; and, when she 
 compared them, the contrast struck her with as- 
 tonishment. The whole appeared like one of 
 those sudden transitions so frequent in dreams, 
 in which Ave pass from grief and despair, we 
 know not how, to comfort and delight. 
 
 Yet she looked forward to the future with a 
 trembling anxiety that threatened to retard her 
 recovery ; and which, when she remembered the 
 words of her generous benefactress, she endea- 
 voured to suppress. Had she better known the 
 disposition of the persons in whose house she now 
 was, her anxiety, as far as it regarded herself, 
 must in a great measure have been done away ; 
 for La Luc, its owner, was one of those rare cha- 
 racters to whom misfortune seldom looks in vain, 
 and whose native goodness, confirmed by princi- 
 ple, is uniform and unassuming in its acts. The 
 following little picture of his domestic life, his 
 family, and his manners, will more fully illus- 
 trate his character: it was drawn from the life, 
 and its exactness will, it is hoped, compensate for 
 its length. 
 
 THE FAMILY OF LA LUC. 
 
 In the village of Lelencourt, celebrated for its 
 picturesque situation at the foot of the Savoy 
 Alps, lived Arnaud La Luc, a clergyman descend- 
 ed from an ancient family of France, whose de- 
 cayed fortunes occasioned them to seek a retreat 
 in Switzerland, in an age when the violence of 
 
292 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 civil commotion seldom spared the conquered. 
 He was minister of the village, and equally loved 
 for the piety and benevolence of the Christian, 
 as respected for the dignity and elevation of the 
 philosopher. His was the philosophy of nature, 
 directed by common sense; he despised the jar- 
 gon of the modern schools, and the brilliant ab- 
 surdities of systems, which have dazzled -without 
 enlightening, and guided without convincing 
 their disciples. 
 
 His mind was penetrating; his views extensive; 
 and his systems, like his religion, were simple, 
 rational, and sublime. The people of his parish 
 looked up to him as to a father; for while his 
 precepts directed their minds, his example touch- 
 ed their hearts. 
 
 In early youth La Luc lost a wife whom he 
 tenderly loved: this event threw a tincture of 
 soft and interesting melancholy over his charac- 
 ter, which remained, when time had mellowed 
 the remembrance that occasioned it. Philosophy 
 had strengthened, not hardened his heart; it en- 
 abled him to resist the pressure of affliction, ra- 
 ther than to overcome it. 
 
 Calamity taught him to feel with peculiar sym- 
 pathy the distresses of others. His income from 
 the parish was small, and what remained from 
 the divided and reduced estates of his aucestors 
 did not much increase it; but, though he could 
 not always relieve the necessities of the indigent, 
 his tender pity and holy conversation seldom 
 failed in administering consolation to the mental 
 sufferer. On these occasions the sweet and ex- 
 quisite emotions of his heart have often induced 
 him to say, that could the voluptuary be once 
 sensible of these feelings, he would never after 
 forego "the luxury of doing good." — " Ignorance 
 of true pleasure," he would say, " more frequent- 
 ly than temptation to that which is false, leads to 
 vice," 
 
TIIE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 293 
 
 La Luc had one son and a daughter, who were 
 too young, when their mother died, to lament 
 their loss. He loved them with peculiar tender- 
 ness, as the children of her whom he never ceas- 
 ed to deplore; and it was for some time his sole 
 amusement to observe the gradual unfolding of 
 their infant, minus, and to bend them to virtue. 
 His was the deep and silent sorrow of the heart; 
 his complaints he never obtruded upon others, 
 and very seldom did he even mention his wife. 
 His grief was too sacred for the eye of the vulgar. 
 Often he retired to the deep solitude of the 
 mountains, and amid their solemn and tremen- 
 dous scenery, would brood over the remembrance 
 of times past, and resign himself to the luxury of 
 grief. On his return from these little excursions, 
 he was always more placid and contented: a 
 sweet tranquillity, which arose almost to happi- 
 ness, was diffused over his mind, and his manners 
 were more than usually benevolent. As he ga- 
 zed on his children, and fondly hissed them, a 
 tear would sometimes steal into his eye; but it 
 was a tear of tender regret, unmingled with the 
 darker qualities of sorrow, and was most precious 
 to his heart. 
 
 On the death of his wife he received into his 
 house a maiden sister, a sensible, worthy woman, 
 who was deeply interested in the happiness of 
 her brother. Her affectionate attention and judi- 
 cious conduct anticipated the effect of time in 
 softening the poignancy of his distress, and her 
 unremitted care of his children, while it proved 
 the goodness of her own heart, attracted her 
 more closely to his. 
 
 It was with inexpressible pleasure that ho 
 traced in the infant features of Clara the resem- 
 blance of her mother. The same gentleness of 
 manner, and the same sweetness of disposition, 
 soon displayed themselves; and as she grew up, 
 her actions frequently reminded him so strongly 
 19 
 
294 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 of his lost wife, as to fix him in reveries, which 
 absorbed all his soul. 
 
 Engaged in the duties of his parish, the educa- 
 tion of his children, and in philosophic research, 
 his years passed in tranquillity. The tender me- 
 lancholy with which affliction had tinctured his 
 mind, was, by long indulgence, become dear to 
 him, and he would not have relinquished it for 
 the brightest dream of airy happiness. When 
 any passing incident disturbed him, he retired 
 for consolation to the idea of her he so faithfully 
 loved, and yielding to a gentle, and what the 
 world would call a romantic sadness, gradually 
 resumed his composure. This was the secret 
 luxury to which he withdrew from temporary 
 disappointment — the solitary enjoyment which 
 dissipated the cloud of care, and blunted the 
 sting of vexation — which elevated his mind 
 above this world, and opened to his view the 
 sublimity of another. 
 
 The spot he now inhabited, the surrounding 
 scenery, the romantic beauties of the neighbour- 
 ing walks, were dear to La Luc, for they had 
 once been loved by Clara; they had been the 
 scenes of her tenderness, and of his happiness. 
 
 His chateau stood on the borders of a small lake 
 that was almost environed by mountains of stu- 
 pendous height, which, shooting into a variety of 
 grotesque forms, composed a scenery singularly 
 solemn and sublime. Dark woods, intermingled 
 withhold projections of rock, sometimes barren 
 and sometimes covered with the purple bloom of 
 wild flowers, impended over the lake, and wove 
 seen in the clear mirror of its waters. The wild 
 and alpine heights which rose above were either 
 crowned with perpetual snows, or exhibited tre- 
 mendous crags and masses of solid rock, whose 
 appearance was continually changing as the rays 
 of light were variously reflected on their surface, 
 and whose summits were often wrapt in impene- 
 trable mists. Some cottages and hamlets, scat- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 295 
 
 tered on the margin of the lake, or seated in pic- 
 turesque points of view on the rocks above, were 
 the only objects that reminded the beholder of 
 humanity. 
 
 On the side of the lake, nearly opposite to the 
 chateau, the mountains receded, and a long chain 
 of Alps were seen stretching in perspective. 
 Their innumerable tints and shades, some veiled 
 in blue mists, some tinged with rich purple, and 
 others glittering in partial light, gave luxurious 
 and magical colouring to the scene. 
 
 The chateau was not large, but it was conveni- 
 ent, and was characterised by an air of elegant 
 simplicity and good order. The entrance was a 
 small hall, which, opening by a glass door into 
 the garden, afforded a view of the lake, with the 
 magnificent scenery exbibited on its borders. 
 On the left of the hall was La Luc's study, 
 where he usually passed his mornings; and ad- 
 joining was a small room fitted up with chemical 
 apparatus, and astronomical instruments, and 
 ether implements of science. On the right was 
 the family parlour, and behind it a room which 
 belonged exclusively to Madame La Luc. Here 
 were deposited various medicines and botanical 
 distillations, together with the apparatus for pre- 
 paring them. From this room the whole village 
 was liberally supplied with physical comfort; 
 for it was the pride of Madame to believe herself 
 skilful in relieving the disorders of her neigh- 
 bours. 
 
 Behind the chateau rose a tuft of pines, and in 
 front a gentle declivity, covered with verdure and 
 flowers, extended to the lake, whose waters flow- 
 ed even with the grass, and gave freshness to the 
 acacias that waved over its surface. Flowering 
 shrubs, intermingled with mountain ash, cypress, 
 and ever-green oak, marked the boundary of the 
 garden. 
 
 At the return of spring it was Clara's care to 
 direct the young shoots of the plants, to nurse 
 
296 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the budding flowers, and to shelter them with 
 the luxuriant branches of the shrubs from the 
 cold blasts that descended from the mountains. 
 In summer she usually rose with the sun, and 
 visited her favourite flowers while the dew yet 
 hung glittering on their leaves. The freshness of 
 early day, with the glowing colouring which then 
 touched the scenery, gave a pure and exquisite 
 delight to her innocent heart. Born amidst 
 scenes of grandeur and sublimity, she had quick- 
 ly imbibed a taste for their charms, which taste 
 was heightened by the influence of a warm ima- 
 gination. To view the sun rising above the Alps, 
 tinging then* snowy heads with light, and sudden- 
 ly dartiug his rays over the whole face of nature 
 — to see the fiery splendour of the clouds reflect- 
 ed in the lake below, and the roseate tints first 
 steal upon the rocks above — were among the ear- 
 liest pleasures of which Clara was susceptible. 
 From being delighted with the observance of na- 
 ture, she grew pleased with seeing her finely 
 imitated, and soon displayed a taste for poetry 
 and painting. When she was about sixteen, she 
 often selected from her father's library those of 
 the Italian poets most celebrated for picturesque 
 beauty, and would spend the first hours of mora- 
 ing in reading them under the shade of the acacias 
 that bordered the lake. Here too she would often 
 attempt rude sketches of the surrounding scenery, 
 and at length by repeated efforts, assisted by 
 some instruction from her brother, she succeeded 
 so well as to produce twelve drawings in crayon, 
 which were judged worthy of decorating the 
 parlour of the chateau. 
 
 Young La Luc played the flute, and she listen- 
 ed to him with exquisite delight, particularly 
 when he stood on the margin of the lake, under 
 her beloved acacias. Her voice was sweet and 
 flexible, though not strong, and she soon learned 
 to modulate it to the instrument. She knew 
 nothing of the intricacies of execution; her airs 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 297 
 
 were simple, and her style equally so; but she 
 soon gave them a touching expression, inspired 
 by the sensibility of her heart, which seldom left 
 those of her hearers unaffected. 
 
 It was the happiness of La Luc to see his 
 children happy ; and in one of his excursions to 
 Geneva, whither he went to visit some relations 
 of his late wife, he bought Clara a lute. She re- 
 ceived it with more gratitude than she could ex- 
 press; aud having learned one air, she hastened 
 to her favourite acacias, and played it again and 
 again till she forgot every thing besides. Her 
 little domestic duties, her books, her drawing, 
 even the hour which her father dedicated to her 
 improvement, when she met her brother in the 
 library, and with him partook of knowledge, even 
 this hour passed unheeded by. La Luc suffered 
 it to pass. Madame was displeased that her 
 niece neglected her domestic duties, and wished 
 to reprove her; but La Luc begged she would be 
 silent. "Let her experience teach her her er- 
 ror," said he; "precept seldom brings conviction 
 to young minds." 
 
 Madame objected that experience was a slow 
 teacher. " It is a sure one," replied La Luc, 
 " and is not unfrequently the quickest of all 
 teachers: when it cannot lead us into serious 
 evil, it is well to trust to it." 
 
 The second day passed with Clara as the first, 
 and the third as the second: she could now play 
 several tunes; she came to her father and re- 
 peated what she had learnt. 
 
 At supper the cream was not dressed, and 
 there was no fruit on the table: La Luc inquired 
 the reason; Clara recollected it, and blushed. 
 She observed that her brother was absent, but 
 nothing was said. Towards the conclusion of 
 the repast he appeared; his countenance express- 
 ed unusual satisfaction, but he seated himself in 
 silence. Clara inquired what had detained him 
 from supper, and learnt that he had been to a 
 
298 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST." 
 
 sick family in the neighbourhood, with the 
 weekly allowance which her father gave them. 
 La Luc had entrusted the care of this family to 
 Iris daughter, and it was her duty to have carried 
 them their little allowance on the preceding day; 
 but she had forgot every thing but music. 
 
 " How did you find the woman?" said La Luc 
 to his son.— " Worse, Sir," he replied; "for her 
 medicines had not been regularly given, and the 
 children had had little or no food to-day." 
 
 Clara was shocked. " No food to-day!" said 
 she to herself, " and I have been playing all day 
 on my lute under the acacias by the lake!" Her 
 father did not seem to observe her emotion, but 
 turned to his son. " I left her better," said the 
 latter; " the medicines I carried eased her pain, 
 and I had the pleasure to see her children make 
 a joyful supper." 
 
 Clara, perhaps for the first time in her life, 
 envied him his pleasure; her heart Avas full, and 
 Bhe sat silent. " No food to-day!" thought she. 
 
 She retired pensively to her chamber. The 
 sweet serenity with which she usually went to 
 rest w r as vanished, for she could no longer reflect 
 on the past day Avith satisfaction. 
 
 " What a pity," said she, " that what is so 
 pleasiug should be the cause of so much pain! 
 This lute is my delight, and my torment!" This 
 reflection occasioned her much internal debate; 
 but before she could come to any resolution upon 
 the point in question she fell asleep. 
 
 She awoke very early the next morning, and 
 impatiently watched the progress of the dawn. 
 The sun at length appearing, she arose, and, 
 determined to make all the atonement in her 
 power for her former neglect, hastened to the 
 cottage. 
 
 Here she remained a considerable time, and 
 when she returned to the chateau her counte- 
 nance had recovered all its usual serenity; she 
 resolved, however, not to touch her lute that day. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 299 
 
 Till the hour of breakfast she busied herself in 
 binding up the flowers, and pruning the shoots 
 that were too luxuriant; and she at length found 
 herself, she scarcely knew how, beneath her be- 
 loved acacias by the side of the lake. " Ah!" 
 said she, with a sigh, "how sweetly would the 
 song I learned yesterday sound now over the 
 waters!" But she remembered her determina- 
 tion, and checked the step she was involuntarily 
 taking towards the chateau. 
 
 She attended her father in the library at the 
 usual hour, and learned, from his discourse with 
 her brother on what had been read the two pre- 
 ceding days, that she had lost much entertaining 
 knowledge. She requested her father would in- 
 form her to what this conversation alluded; but 
 he calmly replied, that she had preferred another 
 amusement at the time when the subject was 
 discussed, and must therefore content herself 
 with ignorance. " You would reap the rewards 
 of study from the amusements of idleness," said 
 he; "learn to be reasonable— do not expect to 
 unite inconsistencies." 
 
 Clara felt the justice of this rebuke, and re- 
 membered her lute. " What mischief has it occa- 
 sioned!" sighed she. " Yes, I am determined not 
 to touch it all this day. I will prove that I am 
 able to control my inclinations when I see it 
 necessary so to do." Thus resolving, she applied 
 herself to study with more than usual assiduity. 
 
 She adhered to her resolution, and towards the 
 close of the day went into the garden to amuse 
 herself. The evening was still and uncommonly 
 beautiful. • Nothing was heard but the faint 
 shivering of the leaves, which returned but at 
 intervals, making silence more solemn, and the 
 distant murmurs of the torrents that rolled 
 among the cliffs. As she stood by the lake, and 
 watched the sun slowly sinking below the Alps, 
 whose summits were tinged with gold and pur- 
 ple; as she saw the last rays of light gleam upon 
 
SCO THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 the waters, whose surface was not curled by the 
 lightest air, she sighed, "Oh! how enchanting 
 would he the sound of my lute at this moment, 
 on this spot, and when every thing is so still 
 around me!" 
 
 The temptation was too powerful for the reso- 
 lution of Clara,: she ran to the chateau, returned 
 with the instrument to her dear acacias, and be- 
 neath their shade continued to play till the sur- 
 rounding objects faded in darkness from her 
 sight. But the moon arose, and, shedding a 
 trembling lustre on the lake, made the scene 
 more captivating than ever. 
 
 It was impossible to quit so delightful a spot; 
 Clara repeated her favourite airs again and again. 
 The beauty of the hour awakened all her genius; 
 she never played with such expression before, 
 and she listened with increasing rapture to the 
 tones as they languished over the waters and 
 died away on the distant air. She was perfectly 
 enchanted. "No! nothing was ever so delight- 
 ful as to play on the lute beneath her acacias, on 
 the margin of the lake, by moonlight." 
 
 When she returned to the chateau, supper was 
 over. La Luc had observed Clara, and would 
 not suffer her to be interrupted. 
 
 When the enthusiasm of the hour was passed, 
 she recollected that she had broken her resolu- 
 tion, and the reflection gave her pain. " I 
 prided myself on controlling my inclinations," 
 said she, " and I have weakly yielded to their 
 direction. But what evil have I incurred by in- 
 dulging them this evening? I have neglected no 
 duty, for I had none to perform. Of what then 
 have I to accuse my elf? It would have been ab- 
 surd to have kept my resolution, and denied my- 
 self a pleasure, when there appeared no reason 
 for this self-denial." 
 
 She paused, not quite satisfied with this rea- 
 soning. Suddenly resuming her inquiry, " But 
 how," said she, "am I certain that I should 
 
THE ROMANCE OE THE FOREST. 301 
 
 have resisted my inclinations if there had been a 
 reason for opposing them? If the poor family 
 whom I neglected yesterday had been unsup- 
 plied to-day, I fear I should again have forgot- 
 ten them while I played on my lute on the banks 
 of the lake." 
 
 She then recollected all that her father had at 
 different times said on the subject of self-com- 
 mand, and she felt some pain. 
 
 " No," said she, " if I do not consider that to 
 preserve a resolution,' which I have once;solemnly 
 formed, is a sufficient reason to control my in- 
 clinations, I fear no other motive would long 
 restrain me. I seriously determined not to 
 touch my lute this whole day, and I have broken 
 my resolution. To-morrow perhaps I may be 
 tempted to neglect some duty, for I have discover- 
 ed that I cannot rely on my own prudence. Since 
 I cannot conquer temptation, I will fly from it." 
 
 On the following morning she brought her lute 
 to La Luc, and begged he would receive it again, 
 and at least keep it till she had taught her incli- 
 nations to submit to control. 
 
 The heart of La Luc swelled as she spoke. 
 u No, Clara," said he, " it is unnecessary that I 
 should receive your lute; the sacrifice you would 
 make proves you worthy of my confidence. 
 Take back the instrument; since you have suffi- 
 cient resolution to resign it when it leads you 
 from duty, I doubt not that you will be able to con- 
 trol its influence now that it is restored to you." 
 
 Clara felt a degree of pleasure and pride at 
 these words, such as she had never before ex- 
 perienced: but she thought, that to deserve the 
 commendation they bestowed, it was necessary 
 to complete the sacrifice she had begun. In the 
 virtuous enthusiasm of the moment, the delights 
 of music were forgotten in those of aspiring to 
 well-earned praise; and when she refused the 
 lute thus offered, she was conscious only of ex- 
 quisite sensations. " Dear Sir," said she, tears 
 
302 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 of pleasure swelling in her eyes, " allow me to 
 deserve the praises you bestow, and then I shall 
 indeed be happy." 
 
 La Luc thought she had never resembled her 
 mother so much as at this instant, and tenderly 
 hissing her, he for some moments wept in silence. 
 When he was able to speak, "you do already 
 deserve my praises, 5 ' said he, " and I restore 
 your lute as a reward for the conduct which ex- 
 cites them." This scene called back recollections 
 too tender for the heart of La Luc, and giving 
 Clara the instrument, he abruptly quitted the 
 room. 
 
 La Luc's son, a youth of much promise, was 
 designed by his father for the church, and had 
 received from him an excellent education, which, 
 however, it was thought necessary he should 
 finish at an university; that of Geneva was fixed 
 upon by La Luc. His scheme had been to make 
 his son not a scholar only; he was ambitious 
 that he should also be enviable as a man. From 
 early infancy he had accustomed him to hardi- 
 hood and endurance, and, as he advanced in 
 youth, he encouraged him in manly exercises, 
 and acquainted him with the useful arts as well 
 as with abstract science. 
 
 He was high spirited and ardent in his temper, 
 but his 'heart was generous and affectionate. He 
 looked forward to Geneva, and the new world it 
 would disclose, with the sanguine expectations of 
 youth; and in the delight of these expectations 
 was absorbed the regret he would otherwise have 
 felt at a separation from his family. 
 
 A brother of the late Madame La Luc, who 
 was by birth an Englishwoman, resided at Gene- 
 va with his family. To have been related to his 
 wife was a sufficient claim upon the heart of La 
 Luc, and he had, therefore, always kept up an 
 intercourse with Mr. Audley, though the differ- 
 ence in their characters and manner of thinkiug, 
 would never permit tins association to advance 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 303 
 
 into friendship, La Luc now wrote to him, signi- 
 fying an intention of sending his son to Geneva, 
 and recommending him to his care: to this letter 
 Mr. Audley returned a friendly answer; and a 
 short, time 'after, am acquaintance of La Luc's 
 being called to Geneva, he determined that his 
 son should accompany him. The separation was 
 painful to La Luc, and almost insupportable to 
 Clara. Madame was grieved, and took care that 
 lie should have a sufficient quantity of medicines 
 put up in his travelling trunk; she was also at 
 some pains to point out their virtues, and the 
 different complaints for which they were requi- 
 site; but she was careful to deliver her leoture 
 during the absence of her brother. 
 
 La Luc, with his daughter, accompanied his 
 son on horse-back to the next town, which was 
 about eight miles from Lelencourt; and there 
 again enforcing all the advice he had formerly 
 given him respecting his conduct and pursuits, 
 and again yielding to the tender weakness of the 
 father, he bade him farewell. Clara wept, and 
 felt more sorrow at his parting than the occasion 
 could justify; but this was almost the first time 
 she had known grief, and she artlessly yielded to 
 its influence. 
 
 La Luc and Clara travelled pensively back, 
 and the day was closing when they came within 
 view of the lake, and soon after the chateau. 
 Never had it appeared gloomy till now; but now, 
 Clara wandered forlornly through every deserted 
 apartment where she had been accustomed to 
 see her brother, and recollected a thousand little 
 circumstances, which, had he been present, she 
 would have thought immaterial, but on which 
 imagination nor/ stamped a value. The garden, 
 the scenes around, all wore a melancholy aspect, 
 and it was long ere they resumed their natural 
 character, and Clara recovered her vivacity. 
 
 Near four years had elapsed since this separa- 
 tion, when one evening, as Madame La Luc and 
 
304 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 her niece were sitting at work together in the 
 parlour, a good -woman in the neighbourhood de- 
 sired to he admitted. She came to ask for somo 
 medicines, and the advice of Madame La Luc. 
 " Here is a sad accident happened at our cottage, 
 Madam," said she; "I am sure my heart aches 
 for the poor young creature."— Madame La Luc 
 desired she would explain herself, and the wo- 
 man proceeded to say, that her brother Peter, 
 whom she had not seen for so many years, was 
 arrived, and had brought a young lady to her 
 cottage, who she verily believed was dying. She 
 described her disorder, and acquainted Madame 
 with what particulars of her mournful story 
 Peter had related, failing not to exaggerate such 
 as her compassion for the unhappy stranger and 
 her love of the marvellous prompted. 
 
 The account appeared a very extraordinary 
 one to Madame; but pity for the forlorn condi- 
 tion of the young sufferer induced her to inquire 
 farther into the affair. " Do let me go to her, 
 Madame," said Clara, who had been listening 
 with ready compassion to the poor woman's nar- 
 rative: "Do suffer me to go — she must want 
 comforts, and I wish much to see how she is." 
 Madame asked some farther questions concern- 
 ing her disorder, and then, taking off her spec- 
 tacles, she rose from her chair and said she would 
 go herself. Clara desired to accompany her. 
 They put on their hats and followed the good 
 woman to the. cottage, where in a very small 
 close room, on a miserable bed, lay Adeline, 
 pale, emaciated, and unconscious of all around 
 her. Madame turned to the woman, and asked 
 how long she had been in this way, while Clara 
 went up to the bed, and taking the almost life- 
 less hand that lay on the quilt, looked anxiously 
 in her face. " She observes nothing," said she, 
 " poor creature! I wish she was at the chateau, 
 she would be better accommodated, and I could 
 nurse her there." The woman told Madame La 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 305 
 
 Luc, that the young lady had lain in that state 
 for several hours. Madame examined hei\pulse, 
 and shook her head. " This room is very close," 
 said she. — "Very close, indeed," cried Clara, 
 eagerly; "surely she would be better at the 
 chateau, if she could be moved." 
 
 " We will see about that," said her aunt. " In 
 the mean time let me speak to Peter; it is some 
 years since I saw him." She went to the outer 
 room, and the Avoman ran out of the cottage to 
 look for him. When she was gone, " This is a 
 miserable habitation for the poor stranger," said 
 Clara; " she will never be well here: do, Madame, 
 let her be carried to our house; I am sure my 
 father would wish it. Besides, there is some- 
 thing in her features, even inanimate as they 
 now are, that prejudices me in her favour." 
 
 " Shall I never persuade you to give up that 
 romantic notion of judging people by their 
 faces'" said her aimt: "what sort of a face she 
 has is of very little consequence — her condition 
 is lamentable, and I am desirous of amending 
 it; but I wish first to ask Peter a few questions 
 concerning her." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear aunt," said Clara; " she 
 will be removed then?" Madame La Luc was 
 going to reply, but Peter now entered, and ex- 
 pressing great joy at seeing her again, inquired 
 how Monsieur La Luc and Clara did. Clara 
 immediately welcomed honest Peter to his na- 
 tive place, and he returned her salutation with 
 many expressions of surprise at finding her so 
 much grown—" Though I have so often dandled 
 you in my arms, Ma'amselle, I should never 
 have known you again. Young twigs shoot fast, 
 as they say." 
 
 Madame La Luc now inquired into the parti- 
 culars of Adeline's story, and heard as much as 
 Peter knew of it; being only that his late master 
 found her in a very distressed situation, and that 
 he had himself brought her from the abbey to 
 
SOG THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 save her from a French Marquis. The simplicity 
 of Peter's manner would not suffer her to ques- 
 tion his veracity, though some of the circum- 
 stances he related excited all her surprise, and 
 awakened all her pity. Tears frequently stood 
 in Clara's eyes during the course of his narra- 
 tive, and Avhen he concluded, she said. " Dear 
 Madame, I am sure when my father learns the 
 history of this unhappy young woman, he will 
 not refuse to be a parent to her, and I will be 
 her sister." 
 
 " She deserves it all," said Peter, " for she is 
 very good indeed." He then proceeded in a 
 strain of praise, which was very unusual with him. 
 — " I will go home and consult with my brother 
 about her," said Madame La Luc, rising: '"she 
 certainly ought to be removed to a more airy 
 room. The chateau is so near, that I think she 
 may be carried thither without much risk." 
 
 "Heaven bless you! Madame," cried Peter, 
 rubbing his hands, "for your goodness to my 
 poor young lady." 
 
 La Luc had just returned from his evening 
 walk when they reached the chateau. Madame 
 told him where she had been, and related the 
 history of Adeline and her present condition. 
 a By all meaus have her removed hither," said 
 La Luc, whose eyes bore testimony to the ten- 
 derness of his heart, " She can be better attend- 
 ed to here than in Susan's cottage." 
 
 " I knew you would say so, my dear father," 
 said Clara; " I will go and order the green bed to 
 be prepared for her." 
 
 "Be patient, niece," said Madame La Luc; 
 " there is no occasion for such haste: some things 
 are to be considered first; but you are young and 
 romantic." — La Luc smiled. " The evening is 
 now closed," resumed Madame; "it will there- 
 fore be dangerous to remove her before morning. 
 Early to-morrow a room shall be got ready, and 
 she shall be brought here; in the mean time I 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 307 
 
 will go and make up a medicine, which I hope 
 may be of service to her." — Clara reluctantly as- 
 sented to this delay, and Madame La Luc re- 
 tired to her closet. 
 
 On the following morning, Adeline, wrapped 
 in blankets, and sheltered as much as possible 
 from the air, was brought to the chateau, where 
 the good La Luc desired she might have every 
 attention paid her, and where Clara watched 
 over her with unceasing anxiety and tenderness. 
 She remained in a state of torpor dm'ing the 
 greater part of the day, but towards evening she 
 breathed more freely; and Clara, who still watch- 
 ed by her bed, had at length the pleasure of 
 perceiving that her senses were restored. It 
 was at this moment that she found herself in 
 the situation from which we have digressed to 
 give this account of the venerable La Luc and 
 his family. — The reader will find that his virtues 
 and his friendship to Adeline deserved this notice. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Adeline, assisted by a fine constitution, and 
 the kind attention of her new friendsj was, in 
 little more than a week, so much recovered as to 
 leave her chamber. She was introduced to La 
 Luc, whom she met with tears of gratitude, and 
 thanked for his goodness, in a manner so warm, 
 yet so artless, as interested him still more in her 
 favour. During the progress of her recovery, the 
 sweetness of her behaviour had entirely won the 
 heart of Clara, and greatly interested that of 
 her aunt, whose reports of Adeline, together 
 with the praises bestowed by Clara, had excited 
 both esteem and curiosity 'in the breast of .La 
 Luc ; and he now met her with an expression of 
 benignity, which spoke peace and comfort to her 
 heart. She had acquainted Madame La Luc 
 with such particulars of her story, as Peter, 
 either through ignorance or inattention, had not 
 
308 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 communicated, suppressing only through a false 
 delicacy, perhaps, an acknowledgment of her 
 attachment to Theodore. These circumstances 
 were repeated to La Luc, who, ever sensible to 
 the sufferings of others, was particularly interest- 
 ed by the singular misfortunes of Adeline. 
 
 Near a fortnight had elapsed since her removal 
 to the chateau, when one morning La Luc desi- 
 red to speak with her alone. She followed him 
 into his study, and then, in a manner the most 
 delicate, he told her, that as he found she was so 
 unfortunate in her father, he desired she would 
 henceforth consider him as her parent, and his 
 house her home. — " You and Clara shall be 
 equally my daughters," continued he; "lam 
 rich in having such children." — The strong emo- 
 tions of surprise and gratitude for some time 
 kept Adeline silent.—" Do not thank me," said 
 La Luc; " I know all you would say, and I know 
 also that I am but doing my duty. I thank God 
 that my duty and my pleasures are generally in 
 unison." Adeline wiped away the tears which 
 his goodness had excited, and was going to speak; 
 but La Luc pressed her hand, and, turning away 
 to conceal his emotion, he walked out of the room. 
 
 Adeline was now considered as a part of the 
 family, and in the parental kindness of La Luc, 
 the sisterly affection of Clara, and the steady and 
 uniform regard of Madame, she would have been 
 happy as she was thankful, had not unceasing 
 anxiety for the fate of Theodore, of whom in 
 this solitude she was less likely than ever to hear, 
 corroded her heart, and embittered every mo- 
 ment of reflection. Even when sleep obliterated 
 for a while the memory of the past, his image 
 frequently arose to her fancy, accompanied by 
 all the exaggerations of terror. She saw him in 
 chains, and struggling in the grasp of ruffians, or 
 saw him led, amidst the dreadful preparations 
 for execution, into the field: she saw the agony 
 of his look, and heard him repeat her name in 
 
THE ROMANCE OK THE FOREST. * 309 
 
 frantic accents, till the horrors of the scShe over- 
 came her, and she awoke. 
 
 A similarity of taste and character attached 
 her to Clara; yet the misery that preyed upon 
 her heart was of a nature too delicate to be spo- 
 ken of, and she never mentioned Theodore even 
 to her friend. Her illness had yet left her weak 
 and languid, and the perpetual anxiety of her 
 mind contributed to prolong this state. She en- 
 deavoured, by strong, and almost continual 
 efforts, to abstract her thoughts from their 
 mournful subject, and was often successful. La 
 Luc had an excellent library, and the instruction 
 it offered at once gratified her love of knowledge, 
 and withdrew her mind from painful recollec- 
 tions. His conversation, too, afforded her ano- 
 ther refuge from misery. 
 
 But her chief amusement was to wander 
 among the sublime scenery of the adjacent coun- 
 try, sometimes with Clara, though often with no 
 other companion than a book. There were in- 
 deed times when the conversation of her friend 
 imposed a painful restraint, and, when given up 
 to reflection, she would ramble alone through 
 scenes, whose solitary grandeur assisted and 
 soothed the melancholy of her heart. Here she 
 would retrace all the conduct of her beloved 
 Theodore, and endeavour to recollect his exact 
 countenance, his air, and manner. Now she 
 would weep at the remembrance, and then, 
 suddenly considering that he had, perhaps, al- 
 ready suffered an ignominious death for her sake, 
 even in consequence of the very action which 
 had proved his love, a dreadful despair would 
 seize her, and, arresting her tears, would threat- 
 en to bear down every barrier that fortitude and 
 reason could oppose. 
 
 Fearing longer to trust her own thoughts, she 
 would hurry home, and by a desperate effort 
 would try to lose, in the conversation of La Luc, 
 20 
 
310 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the remembrance of the past. Her melancholy, 
 when he observed it, La Luc attributed to a 
 sense of the cruel treatment she had received 
 from her father; a circumstance which, by ex- 
 citing his compassion, endeared her more strong- 
 ly to his heart; while that love of rational con- 
 versation, which, in her calmer hours, so fre- 
 quently appeared, opened to him a new source of 
 amusement in the cultivation of a mind eager for 
 knowledge, and susceptible of all the energies of 
 genius. She found a melancholy pleasure in lis- 
 tening to the soft tones of Clara's lute, and would 
 often soothe her mind by attempting to repeat 
 the airs she heard. 
 
 The gentleness of her manners, partaking so 
 much of that pensive character which marked 
 La Luc's, was soothing to his heart, and tinctured 
 his behaviour with a degree of tenderness that 
 imparted comfort to her, and gradually won her 
 entire confidence and affection. She saw with 
 extreme concern, the declining state of his 
 health, and united her efforts with those of the 
 family to amuse and revive him. 
 
 Tiie pleasing society of which she partook, and 
 +he quietness of the country, at length restored 
 her mind to a state of tolerable composure. She 
 was now acquainted with all the wild Avalks of 
 the neighbouring mountains, and, never tired of 
 viewing their astonishing scenery, she often in- 
 dulged herself in traversing alone their unfre- 
 quented paths, where now and then a peasant 
 from a neighbouring village was all that inter- 
 rupted the profound solitude. She generally 
 took with her a book, that if she percived her 
 thoughts inclined to fix on the one object of her 
 grief, she might force them to a subject less dan- 
 gerous to her peace. She had become a tolera- 
 ble proficient in English while at the convent 
 where she received her education, and the in- 
 structions of La Luc, who was well acquainted 
 with the language, now served to perfect her. He 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. Sll 
 
 was partial to the English; he admired their 
 character, and the constitution of then- laws; 
 and his library contained a collection of the best 
 authors, particularly of their philosophers and 
 poets. Adeline found that no species of -writing 
 had power so effectually to withdraw her mind 
 from the contemplation of its own misery as the 
 higher kinds of poetry, and in these her taste 
 soon taught her to distinguish the superiority of 
 the English over that of the French. The genius 
 of the language, more perhaps than the genius of 
 the people, if indeed the distinction may be al- 
 lowed, occasioned this. 
 
 She frequently took a volume of Shakspeare 
 or Milton, and having gained some wild emi- 
 nence, would seat herself beneath the pines, 
 whose low murmurs soothed her heart, and con- 
 spired with the visions of the poet to lull her to 
 forgetfulness of grief. 
 
 One evening, when Clara was engaged at 
 home, Adeline wandered alone to a favourite 
 spot among the rocks that bordered the lake- 
 It was an eminence which commanded an entire 
 view of the lake, and of the stupendous moun- 
 tains that environed it. A few ragged thorns 
 grew from the precipice beneath, which descend- 
 ed perpendicularly to the water's edge: and 
 above rose a thick wood of larch, pine, and fir, 
 intermingled with some chesnut and mountain 
 ash. The evening was fine, and the air so 
 still, that it scarcely waved the light leaves of 
 the trees around, or rimpled the broad expanse 
 of the waters below. Adeline gazed on the 
 scene with a kind of still rapture, and watched 
 the sun sinking amid a crimson glow, which tint- 
 ed the bosom of the lake, and the snowy heads 
 of the distant Alps. The delight which the 
 scenery inspired, was now heightened by the 
 tones of a French horn; and looking on the lake 
 she perceived at some distance a pleasure boat. 
 As it was a spectacle rather uncommon in this 
 
312 THE ROMANCE CF THE FOREST. 
 
 solitude, she concluded the boat contained a party 
 of foreigners come to view the wonderful scenery 
 of the country, or perhaps of Genevois, who choose 
 to amuse themselves on a lake, almost as grand, 
 though much less extensive, than their own; and 
 the latter conjecture was probably just. 
 
 La Luc observing how much Adeline was 
 charmed with the features of the country, and 
 desirous of amusing her melancholy, which, not- 
 withstanding her efforts, was often too apparent, 
 wished to show her other scenes than those to 
 which her walks were circumscribed. He pro- 
 posed a party on horseback to take a nearer view 
 of the Glaciers; to attempt their ascent was a 
 difficulty and fatigue to which neither La Luc, 
 in his present state of health, or Adeline, were 
 equal. She had not been accustomed to ride 
 single, and the mountainous road they were to 
 pass, made the experiment rather dangerous; 
 but she concealed her fears, and they were not 
 sufficient to make her wish to forego an enjoy- 
 ment such as was now offered her. 
 
 The following day was fixed for this excursion. 
 La Luc and his party arose at an early hour, and 
 having taken a slight breakfast, they set out 
 towards the Glacier of Montanvert, which lay at 
 a few leagues' distance. Peter carried a small 
 basket of provisions; and it was their plan to 
 dine on some pleasant spot, in the open air. 
 
 It is unnecessary to describe the high enthusi- 
 asm of Adeline, the more complacent pleasure 
 of La Luc, and the transports of Clara, as the 
 scenes of this romantic country shifted to their 
 eyes. Now frowning in dark and gloomy gran- 
 deur, it exhibited only tremendous rocks, and 
 cataracts rolling from the heights into some deep 
 and naiTow valley, along which their united 
 waters roared and foamed, and burst away to 
 regions inaccessible to mortal foot; and now the 
 scene arose less fiercely wild; 
 
 " The pomp of groves and garniture of fields" 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 313 
 
 were intermingled with the ruder features of 
 nature, and while the snow froze on the summit 
 of the mountain, the vine blushed at its foot. 
 
 Engaged in interesting conversation, and by 
 the admiration which the country excited, they 
 travelled on till noon, when they looked round 
 for a pleasant spot where they might rest and 
 take refreshment. At some little distance they 
 perceived the ruins of a fabric, which had once 
 been a castle: it stood nearly on a point of rock 
 that overhung a tieep valley; and its broken 
 turrets rising from among the woods that em- 
 bosomed it, heightened the picturesque beauty 
 of the object. 
 
 The edifice invited curiosity, and the shades 
 repose — La Luc and his party advanced. 
 
 They seated themselves on the grass, under 
 the shade of some high trees, near the ruins. 
 An opening in the woods afforded a view of 
 the distant Alps — the deep silence of solitude 
 reigned. For some time they were lost in me- 
 ditation. 
 
 Adeline felt a sweet complacency, such as she 
 had long been a stranger to. Looking at La 
 Luc, she perceived a tear stealing down his 
 cheek, while the elevation of his mind was 
 strongly expressed on his countenance. He 
 turned on Clara his eyes, which were now filled 
 with tenderness, and made an effort to recover 
 himself. 
 
 " The stillness and total seclusion of this scene," 
 said Adeline, " those stupendous mountains, the 
 gloomy grandeur of these woods, together with 
 that monument of faded glory on which the hand 
 of time is so emphatically impressed, diffuse a 
 sacred enthusiasm over the mind, and awaken 
 sensations truly sublime." 
 
 La Luc was going to speak; but Peter coming 
 forward, desired to know whether he had not 
 better open the wallet, as he fancied his honour 
 and the young ladies must be main hungry, jog- 
 
314 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 ging on so far up hill and down before dinner. 
 They acknowledged the truth of honest Peter's 
 suspicion, and accepted his hint. 
 
 Refreshments were spread on the grass, and 
 having seated themselves under the canopy of 
 waving woods, surrounded by the sweets of wild 
 flowers, they inhaled the pure breeze of the Alps, 
 which might be called spirit of air, and partook 
 of a repast, which these circumstances rendered 
 delicious. 
 
 When they arose to depart, " I am unwilling," 
 said Clara, "to quit this charming spot. How 
 delightful would it be to pass one's life beneath 
 these shades, with the friends who are dear to 
 one !" — La Luc smiled at the romantic simplicity 
 of the idea; but Adeline sighed deeply to the 
 image of felicity, and of Theodore, which it re- 
 called, and turned away to conceal her tears. 
 
 They now mounted their horses, and soon after 
 arrived at the foot of Montanvert. The emotions 
 of Adeline, as she contemplated in various points 
 of view the astonishing objects around her, sur- 
 passed all expression ; and the feelings of the 
 whole party were too strong to admit of conver- 
 sation. The profound stillness which reigned 
 in these regions of solitude, inspired awe, and 
 heightened the sublimity of the scenery to an 
 exquisite degree. 
 
 " It seems," said Adeline, " as if we were 
 walking over the ruins of the world, and were 
 the only persons who had survived the wreck. 
 I can scarcely persuade myself that we are not 
 left alone on the globe." 
 
 "The view of these objects," said La Luc, 
 "lifts the soul to their Great Author, and we 
 contemplate with a feeling almost too vast for 
 humanity — the sublimity of his nature in the 
 grandeur of his works." — La Luc raised his eyes, 
 filled with tears, to heaven, and was for some 
 moments lost in silent adoration. 
 
 They quitted these scenes with extreme reluc- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 315 
 
 tance; but the hour of the day, and the appear- 
 ance of the clouds, Avhieh seemed gathering for a 
 storm, made them hasten their departure. Ade- 
 line almost wished to have Avitnessed the tremen- 
 dous effect of a thunder-storm in these regions. 
 
 They returned to Lelencourt by a different 
 route, and the shade of the over-hanging preci- 
 pices was deepened by the gloom of the atmos- 
 phere. It was evening when they came within 
 view of the lake, which the travellers rejoiced 
 to see, for the storm so long threatened was now 
 fast approaching; the thunder murmured among 
 the Alps, and the dark vapours that rolled hea- 
 vily along their sides heightened their dreadful 
 sublimity. La Luc would have quickened his 
 pace, but the road winding down the steep side 
 of a mountain, made caution necessary. The 
 darkening air and the lightnings that now flashed 
 along the horizon terrified Clara, but she with- 
 held the expression of her fear in consideration 
 of her father. A peal of thunder, which seemed 
 to shake the earth to its foundations, and was 
 reverberated in tremendous echoes from the 
 cliffs, burst over their heads. Clara's horse took 
 fright at the sound, and setting off, hurried her 
 with amazing velocity down the mountain to- 
 wards the lake, which washed its foot. The 
 agony of La Luc, who viewed her progress in 
 the horrible expectation of seeing her dashed 
 down the precipice that bordered the road, is 
 not to be described. 
 
 Clara kept her seat, but terror had almost 
 deprived her of sense. Her efforts to preserve 
 herself were mechanical, for she scarcely knew 
 what she did. The horse, however, carried her 
 safely almost to the foot of the mountain, but 
 was making towards the lake, when a gentleman 
 who travelled along the road caught the bridle 
 as the animal endeavoured to pass. The sudden 
 stopping of the horse threw Clara to the ground, 
 and, impatient of restraint, the animal buret; 
 
S16 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 from the hand of the stranger, and plunged into 
 the lake. The violence of the fall deprived her 
 of recollection; but while the stranger endea- 
 voured to support her, his servant ran to fetch 
 water. 
 
 She soon recovered, and unclosing her eyes, 
 found herself in the arms of a chevalier, avIio 
 appeared to support her with difficulty. The 
 compassion expressed in his countenance, while 
 he inquired how she did, revived her spirits, and 
 she was endeavouring to thank him for his kind- 
 ness when La Luc and Adeline came up. The 
 terror impressed on her father's features was 
 perceived by Clara; languid as she was, she tried 
 to raise herself, and said with a faint smile, which 
 betrayed instead of disguising her sufferings, 
 " Dear Sir, I am not hurt." Her pale counte- 
 nance, and the blood that trickled down her 
 cheek, contradicted her words. But La Luc, 
 to whom terror had suggested the utmost possi- 
 ble evil, now rejoiced to hear her speak; he 
 recalled some presence of mind, and while Ade- 
 line applied her salts, he chafed her temples. 
 
 When she revived she tcld him how much she 
 was obliged to the stranger. La Luc endeavour- 
 ed to express his gratitude ; but the former inter- 
 rupting him, begged he might be spared the pain 
 of receiving thanks for having followed only an 
 impulse of common humanity. 
 
 They were not now far from Lelencourt; but 
 the evening was almost shut in, and the thunder 
 murmured deeply among the hills. La Luc was 
 distressed how to convey Clara home. 
 
 In endeavouring to raise her from the ground, 
 the stranger betraying such symptons of paiu, 
 that La Luc inquired concerning it. The sudden 
 jerk which the horse had given the arm of the 
 chevalier, in escaping from his hold, had violent- 
 ly sprained his shoulder, and rendered his arm 
 almost useless. The pain was exquisite, and La 
 Luc, whose fears for his daughter were now sub- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 317 
 
 siding, was shocked at the circumstance, and 
 pressed the stranger to accompany him to the 
 village, where relief might be obtained. He ac- 
 cepted the invitation, and Clara, being at length 
 placed on a horse led by her father, was con- 
 ducted to the chateau. 
 
 When Madame, who had been looking out for 
 La Luc some time, perceived the cavalcade ap- 
 proaching, she was alarmed, and her apprehen- 
 sions were confirmed, when she saw the situa- 
 tion of her niece. Clara was carried into the 
 house, and La Luc would have sent for a sur- 
 geon, but there was none within several leagues 
 of the village, neither were there any of the 
 physical profession within the same distance. 
 Clara was assisted to her chamber by Adeline, 
 and Madame La Luc undertook to examine the 
 wounds. The result restored peace to the fam- 
 ily; for though she was much bruised, she had 
 escaped material injury; a slight contusion ou 
 the forehead had occasioned the bloodshed which 
 at first alarmed La Luc. Madame undertook to 
 restore her niece in a few days, with the assistance 
 of a balsam composed by herself, on the virtues 
 of which she descanted with greet eloquence, till 
 interrupted by La Luc, who reminded her of the 
 condition of her patient. 
 
 Madame having bathed Clara's bruises, and 
 given her a cordial of incomparable efficacy, left 
 her, and Adeline watched in the chamber of 
 her friend till she retired to her own for the night. 
 
 La Luc, whose spirits had suffered, much per- 
 turbation, was now tranquillized by the report 
 his sister made of Clara. He introduced the 
 stranger, and having mentioned the accident he 
 had met with, desired that he might have imme- 
 diate assistance. Madame hastened to her clo- 
 set, and it is perhaps difficult to determine 
 whether she felt most concern for the sufferings 
 of her guest, or pleasure at the opportunity thus 
 offered of displaying her physical skill. However 
 
S18 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 this might be, she quitted the room with great 
 alacrity, and very quickly returned with a phial 
 containing her inestimable halsam; and having 
 given the necessary directions for the application 
 of it, she left the stranger to the care of his 
 servant. 
 
 La Luc insisted that the chevalier, M. Verneu- 
 il, should not leave the chateau that night, and 
 he very readily submitted to be detained. His 
 manners during the evening were as frank and 
 engaging as the hospitality and gratitude of La 
 Luc were sincere, and they soon entered into 
 interesting conversation. M. Verneuil conversed 
 like a man who had seen much, and thought 
 more; and if he discovered any prejudice in his 
 opinions, it was evidently the prejudice of a mind 
 which, seeing objects through the medium of its 
 own goodness, tinges them with the hue of its 
 predominant quality. La Luc was much plea- 
 sed, for, in his retired situation, he had not often 
 an opportunity of receiving the pleasure which 
 results from a communion of intelligent minds. 
 He found that M. Verneuil had travelled. La 
 Luc having asked some questions relative to Eng- 
 land, they fell into discourse concerning the na- 
 tional characters of the French and English. 
 
 " If it is the privilege of wisdom/' said M. Ver- 
 neuil, " to look beyond happiness, I own I would 
 rather be without it. When we observe the Eng- 
 lish, their laws, writings, and conversation, and 
 at the same time mark their countenances, man- 
 ners, and the frequency of suicide among them, 
 we are apt to believe that wisdom and happiness 
 are incompatible. If, on the other hand, we 
 turn to their neighbours, the French, and see 
 their wretched policy, their sparkling, but so- 
 phistical discourse, frivolous occupations, and 
 withal, their gay animated air, we shall be com- 
 pelled to acknowledge that happiness and folly 
 too often dwell together." 
 
 " It is the end of wisdom/' said La Luc, "to 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 319 
 
 attain happiness; and I can hardly dignify that 
 conduct or course of thinking which tends to 
 misery with the name of wisdom. By this rule, 
 perhaps, the folly, as we term it, of the French, 
 deserves, since its' effect is happiness, to be called 
 wisdom. That airy thoughtlessness, which seems 
 alike to contemn reflection and anticipation, pro- 
 duces all the effect of it, without reducing its 
 subjects to the mortification of philosophy.'*' 
 
 Discoursing on the variety of opinions that are 
 daily formed on the same conduct, La Luc ob- 
 served how much that which is commonly called 
 opinion is the result of passion and temper. 
 
 " True," said M. Verneuil, " there is a tone of 
 thought, as there is a key-note in music, that 
 leads all its weaker affections. Thus, where the 
 powers of judging may be equal, the disposition 
 to judge is different at different times, and the 
 actions of men are at least but too often arraigned 
 by whim and caprice, by partial vanity and the 
 humour of the moment." 
 
 Here La Luc took occasion to reprobate the 
 conduct of those writers, who, by showing the 
 dark side only of human nature, and by dwelling 
 on the evils only which are incident to humanity, 
 have sought to degrade man in his own eyes, 
 and to make him discontented with life. " What 
 should we say of a painter," continued La Luc, 
 "who collected in his piece objects of a black 
 hue only, who presented you with a black man, 
 a black horse, a black dog, &c. &c. and tells you 
 that his is a picture of nature, and that nature is 
 black? — 'Tis true, you would reply, the objects 
 you exhibit do exist in nature, but they form 
 a very small part of her works. You say that 
 nature is black, and, to prove it, you have col- 
 lected on your canvas all the animals of this hue 
 that exist. "But you have forgot to paint the 
 green earth, the blue sky, the white man, and 
 objects of all those various hues with which ere* 
 ation abounds." 
 
320 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 The countenance of M. Verneuil lighted with 
 peculiar animation during the discourse of La 
 Luc.—" To think well of his nature," said be, 
 " is necessary to the dignity and to the happiness 
 of man. There is a decent pride which becomes 
 every mind, and is congenial to virtue. That 
 consciousness of innate dignity, which shows him 
 the glory of his nature, will be his best protec- 
 tion from the meanness of vice. Where this 
 consciousness is wanting," continued M. Ver- 
 neuil, " there can be no sense of moral honour, 
 and consequently none of the higher principles 
 of action. What can be expected of him who 
 says that it is his nature to be mean and selfish? 
 Or who can doubt that he who thinks thus, thinks 
 from the experience of his own heart, from the 
 tendency of his own inclinations? Let it always 
 be remembered, that he who would persuade 
 men to be good, ought to show them that they 
 may be great." 
 
 " Yon speak," said La Luc, u with the honest 
 enthusiasm of a virtuous mind; and in obeying 
 the impulse of your heart, you utter the truths 
 of philosophy; and trust me, a bad heart and 
 a truly philosophic head have never yet been 
 united in the same individual. Vicious inclina- 
 tions not only corrupt the heart, but the under- 
 standing, and thus lead to false reasoning. Vir- 
 tue only is on the side of truth." 
 
 La Luc and his guest, mutually pleased with 
 each other, entered upon the discussion of sub- 
 jects so interesting to them both, that it was late 
 before they parted for the night. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Repose had so much restored Clin a, that when 
 Adeline, anxious to know how she did, went 
 early in the morning to her chamber, she found 
 her already risen and ready to attend the family 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 321 
 
 at, breakfast. Monsieur Verneuil appeared also, 
 but Ms looks betrayed a want of rest; arid indeed 
 he had suffered, during the night, a degree of 
 anguish from his arm, which it was an effort of 
 some resolution to endure in silence. It was 
 now swelled and inflamed; and this might in 
 some degree be attributed to the effect of Ma- 
 dame La Luc's balsam, whose restorative quali 
 ties had for once failed. The whole family sym- 
 pathised with bis sufferings, and Madame, at'the 
 request of M. Verneuil, abandoned her balsam, 
 and substituted an emollient fomentation. 
 
 From an application of this, he in a short time 
 found an abatement of the pain, and returned 
 to the breakfast table with greater composure. 
 The happiness which La Luc felt at seeing his 
 daughter in safety was very apparent, but the 
 warmth of his gratitude towards her preserver 
 he found it difficult to express. Clara spoke the 
 genuine emotions of her heart with artless, but 
 modest energy, and testified sincere concern 
 for the sufferings which she had occasioned M. 
 v erneuil. 
 
 The pleasure received from the company of 
 his guest, and the consideration of the essential 
 service he had rendered him, co-operated with 
 the natural hospitality of La Luc, and he pressed 
 M. Verneuil to remain some time at the chateau. 
 — '•'' I can never repay the service you have done 
 me," said La Luc; "yet I seek to increase my 
 obligations to you by requesting you will prolong 
 your visit, and thus allow mean opportunity of 
 cultivating your acquaintance." 
 
 M. Verneuil, who at the time he met La Luc, 
 was travelling from Geneva to a distant part of 
 Savoy, merely for the purpose of viewing the 
 country, being now delighted with his host, and 
 with every thing around him, willingly accepted 
 the invitation. In this circumstance prudence 
 concurred with inclination; for to have pursued 
 Lis journey on horseback, in his present situa- 
 
322 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 tion, would have been dangerous, if not imprac- 
 ticable. 
 
 The morning was spent in conversation, in 
 which M. Verneu.il displayed a mind enriched 
 with taste, enlightened by science, and enlarged 
 by observation. The situation of the chateau, 
 and the features of the surrounding scenery, 
 charmed him, and in the evening he found him- 
 self able to -walk with La Luc, and explore the 
 beauties of this romantic region. As they passed 
 through the village, the salutations of the pea- 
 sants, in whom love and respect were equally 
 blended, and their eager inquiries after Clara, 
 bore testimony to the character of La Luc, while 
 his countenance expressed a serene satisfaction, 
 arising from the consciousness of deserving and 
 possessing their love. — " I live surrounded by 
 my children," said he, turning to M. Verneuil, 
 who had noticed their eagerness; "for such I 
 consider my parishioners : in discharging the 
 duties of my office, I am repaid not only by my 
 own conscience, but by their gratitude. There 
 is a luxury in observing their simple and honest 
 love, which I would not exchange for any thing 
 the world calls blessings." 
 
 " Yet the world, Sir, would call the pleasures 
 of which you speak romantic," said M. Verneuil; 
 "for to be sensible of this pure and exquisite 
 delight, requires a heart untainted with the vi- 
 cious pleasures of society — pleasures that deaden 
 its finest feelings, and poison the source of its 
 truest enjoyments." — They pursued their way 
 along the borders of the lake, sometimes under 
 the shade of hanging woods, and sometimes oi'er 
 hillocks of turf, where the scene opened in all 
 its wild magnificence. M. Verneuil often stopped 
 in raptures to observe and point out the singular 
 beauties it exhibited, while La Luc, pleased with 
 the delight his friend expressed, surveyed with 
 more than usual satisfaction the objects which 
 had so often charmed him before. But there 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. S23 
 
 was a tender melancholy in the tone of his voice 
 and his countenance, which arose from the recol- 
 lection of having often traced these scenes, and 
 partook of the pleasure they inspired, with her 
 who had long since bade them an eternal farewell. 
 
 They presently quitted the lake, and winding 
 up a steep ascent between the woods, came, after 
 an hour's walk, to a green summit, which ap- 
 peared among the savage rocks that environed 
 it, like the blossom on the thorn. It was a spot 
 formed for solitary delight, inspiring that sooth- 
 ing tenderness so dear to the feeling mind, and 
 which calls back to memory the images of past 
 regret, softened by distance, and endeared by 
 frequent recollection. Wild shrubs grew from 
 the crevices of the rocks beneath, and the high 
 trees of pine and cedar that waved above, afford- 
 ed a melancholy and romantic shade. The silence 
 of the scene was interrupted only by the breeze 
 as it rolled over the woods, and by the solitary 
 notes of the birds that inhabited the cliffs. 
 
 From this point the eye commanded an entire 
 view of those majestic and sublime Alps, whose 
 aspect fills the soul with emotions of indescriba- 
 ble awe, and seems to lift it to a nobler nature. 
 The village and the chateau of La Luc appeared, 
 in the bosom of the mountains, a peaceful retreat 
 from the storms that gathered on their tops. 
 Ail the faculties of M. Verneuil were absorbed 
 in admiration, and he was for some time quite 
 silent; at length, bursting into a rhapsody, he 
 turned, and would have addressed La Luc, when 
 he perceived him at a distance, leaning against a 
 rustic urn, over which drooped, in beautiful 
 luxuriance, the weeping birch. 
 
 As he approached, La Luc quitted his position, 
 and advanced to meet him, while M. Verneuil 
 inquired upon what occasion the urn had been 
 erected. La Luc, unable to answer, pointed to 
 it, and walked silently away; and M. Verneuil, 
 
324 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 approaching the iirn, read the following inscrip- 
 tion: 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF CLARA LA LUO ; 
 THIS URN 
 
 IS ERECTED ON THE SPOT WHICH SHE LOVED, 
 
 IN TESTIMONY OF THE 
 
 AFFECTION OF A HUSBAND. 
 
 M. Verneuii now comprehended the whole, 
 and feeling for his friend, was hurt that he had 
 noticed this monument of his grief. He rejoined 
 La Luc, who was standing on the point of the 
 eminence, contemplating the landscape below, 
 with an ah' more placid, and touched with the 
 sweetness of piety and resignation. He perceived 
 that M,. Verneuii was somewhat disconcerted, 
 and he sought to remove his uneasiness. " You 
 will consider it," says he, " as a mark of my 
 esteem, that I have' brought you to this spot. 
 It is never profaned by the presence of the 
 unfeeling. They would deride the faithfulness 
 of an attachment which has so long survived its 
 object, aud which, in their own breasts, woidd 
 quickly have been lost amidst the dissipation of 
 general society. I have cherished in my heart 
 the remembrance of a woman, whose virtues 
 claimed all my love: I have cherished it as a 
 treasure to which I could withdraw from tem- 
 porary cares and vexations, in the certainty of 
 finding a soothing, though melancholy, comfort.'"' 
 
 La Luc paused. M. Verneuii expressed the 
 sympathy he felt; but he knew the sacredaess 
 of sorrow, and soon relapsed into silence. " One 
 of the brightest hopes of a future state," resumed 
 La Luc, "is that we shall meet again those 
 whom we have loved upon earth. And perhaps 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 325 
 
 our happiness may be permitted to consist very 
 much in the society of our friends, purified from 
 the frailties of mortality, with the finer affections 
 more sweetly attuned, and with the faculties of 
 mind infinitely more elevated and enlarged. We 
 shall then be enabled to comprehend subjects 
 which are too vast for human conception ; to 
 comprehend, perhaps, the sublimity of that Deity 
 who first called us into being. These views of 
 futurity, my friend, elevate us above the evils of 
 this world, and seem to communicate to us a 
 portion of the nature we contemplate. 
 
 " Call them not the illusions of a visionary 
 brain," proceeded La Luc; " I trusted their re- 
 ality. Of this I am certain, that whether they 
 are illusions or not, a faith in them ought to be 
 cherished for the comfort it brings to the heart, 
 and reverenced for the dignity it imparts to the 
 mind. Such feelings make a happy and impor- 
 tant part of our belief in a future existence: they 
 give energy to virtue, and stability to principle." 
 
 " This," said M. Verneuil, " is what I have 
 often felt, and what every ingenuous mind must 
 acknowledge." 
 
 La Luc and M. Verneuil continued in conver- 
 sation till the sun had left the scene. The moun- 
 tains, darkened by twilight, assumed a sublimer 
 aspect, while 'the tops of some of the highest 
 Alps were yet illumined by the sun's rays, and 
 formed a striking contrast to the shadowy obscu- 
 rity of the world below. As they descended 
 through the woods, and traversed the margin of 
 the lake, the stillness and solemnity of the hour 
 diffused a pensive sweetness over their minds, 
 and sunk them into silence. 
 
 They found supper spread, as was usual, in the 
 hall, of which the windows opened upon a gar- 
 den, where the flowers might be said to yield 
 their fragrance in gratitude to the refreshing 
 dews, The windows were embowered with eg- 
 21 
 
325 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 lantine and other sweet shrubs, which hung in 
 ■wild luxuriance around, and formed a beautiful 
 and simple decoration. Clara and Adeline loved 
 to pass the evenings in this hall, where Clara had 
 acquired the first rudiments of astronomy, and 
 from which they had a wide view of the heavens. 
 La Luc pointed out to them the planets and the 
 fixed stars, explained their laws, and from thence 
 taking occasion to mingle moral with scientific 
 instruction, would often ascend towards that 
 great first Cause, whose nature soars beyond the 
 grasp of human comprehension. 
 
 "No study," he would sometimes say, "so 
 much enlarges the mind, or impresses it with so 
 sublime an idea of the Deity, as that of astro- 
 nomy. When the imagination launches iuto the 
 regions of space, and contemplates the innumer- 
 able worlds which are scattered through it, we 
 are lost in astonishment and awe. This globe 
 appears as a mass of atoms in the immensity of 
 the universe, and man a mere iusect: yet how 
 wonderful! that man, whose frame is so diminu- 
 tive in the scale of beings, should have powers 
 which spurn the narrow boundaries of time and 
 place, soar beyond the sphere of his existence, 
 penetrate the secret laws of nature, and calculate 
 their progressive effects! 
 
 _ " ! how expressively does this prove the spi- 
 rituality of our being! Let the Materialist con- 
 sider it, and blush that he has ever doubted." 
 
 In this hall the whole family now met at sup- 
 per, and during the remainder of the evening 
 the conversation turned upon general subjects, 
 in which Clara joined in modest and judicious 
 remark. La Luc had taught her to familiarize 
 her mind to reasoning, and had accustomed her 
 to deliver her sentiments freely; she spoke them 
 with a simplicity extremely engaging, and which 
 convinced her hearers, that the love of know- 
 ledge, not the vanity of talking, induced her to 
 converse. M. Vemeuii evidently endeavoured 
 
T1IE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 327 
 
 to draw forth her sentiments, and Clara, inter- 
 ested by the subjects he introduced, a stranger 
 to affectation, and pleased with the opinions he 
 expressed, answered them with frankness and 
 animation. They retired mutually pleased with 
 each other. 
 
 M. Verneuil was about six- and- thirty; his 
 figure manly, his countenance frank and en- 
 gaging. A quick, penetrating eye, whose fire 
 was softened by benevolence, disclosed the chief 
 traits of his character; he was quick to discern, 
 but generous to excuse, the follies of mankind; 
 and while no one more sensibly felt an injury, 
 none more readily accepted the concessions of 
 an enemy. 
 
 He was by birth a Frenchman. A fortune 
 lately devolved to him, had enabled him to exe- 
 cute the plan, which his active and inquisitive 
 mind had suggested, of viewing the most remark- 
 able parts of the continent of Europe. He was 
 peculiarly susceptible of the beautiful and sub- 
 lime in nature. To such a taste Switzerland, 
 and the adjacent country was, of all others, the 
 most interesting; and he found the scenery it 
 exhibited infinitely surpassing all that his glow- 
 ing imagination had formed; he saw with the 
 eye of a painter, and felt with the rapture of a 
 poet. 
 
 In the habitation of La Luc he met with the 
 hospitality, the frankness, and the simplicity, so 
 characteristic of the country: in his venerable 
 host he saw the strength of philosophy united 
 with the finest tenderness of humanity — a philo- 
 soplry which taught him to correct his feelings, 
 not to annihilate them; in Clara, the bloom of 
 beauty, | with the most perfect simplicity of 
 heart; and in Adeline, all the charms of ele- 
 gance and grace, with a genius deserving of the 
 highest culture. In this family picture the 
 goodness of Madame La Liic was not unper- 
 ceived or forgotten. The cheerfulness and liar- 
 
323 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 mony that reigned within the chateau was de- 
 lightful; but the philanthropy which, flowing 
 from the heart of the pastor, was diffused through 
 the whole village, and united the inhabitants in 
 the sweet and firm bonds of social compact, was 
 divine. The beauty of its situation conspired 
 with these circumstances to make Lelencourt 
 seem almost a paradise. M. Verneuil sighed, 
 that he must so soon quit it. " I ought to seek 
 no farther," said he, " for here wisdom and hap- 
 piness dwell together." 
 
 The admiration was reciprocal: La Luc and 
 his family found themselves much interested in 
 M. Verneuil, and looked forward to the time of 
 his departure with regret. So warmly they 
 pressed him to prolong his visit, and so power- 
 fully his own inclination seconded their's, that 
 he accepted the invitation. La Luc omitted no 
 circumstance which might contribute to the 
 amusement of his guest, who having in a few 
 days recovered the use of his arm, they made 
 several excursions among the mountains. Ade- 
 line, and Clara, whom the care of Madame had 
 restored to her usual health, were generally of 
 the party. 
 
 After spending a week at the chateau, M. 
 Verneuil bade adieu to La Luc and his family; 
 they parted with mutual regret, and the former 
 promised, that when he returned to Geneva, he 
 would take Lelencourt in his way. As he said 
 this, Adeline, who had for some time observed 
 with much alarm La Luc's declining health, 
 looked mournfully on his languid countenance, 
 and uttered a secret prayer that he might live 
 to receive the visit of M. Verneuil. 
 
 Madame was the only person who did not 
 lament his departure; she saw that the efforts of 
 hei brother to entertain his guest were more 
 than his present state of health would admit of, 
 and she rejoiced in the quiet that would now re- 
 turn to him. 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 329 
 
 But this quiet brought La Luc no respite from 
 illness; the fatigue he had suffered in his late 
 exertions seemed to have increased his disorder, 
 which in a short time assumed the aspect of a 
 consumption. Yielding to the solicitations of 
 his family, he went to Geneva, for advice, and 
 was there recommended to try the air of Nice. 
 
 The journey thither, however, was of consider- 
 able length; and believing his life to be very 
 precarious, he hesitated whether to go. He was 
 also unwilling to leave the duty of his parish 
 unperformed for so long a period as his health 
 might require; but this was an objection which 
 would not have withheld him from Nice, had 
 his faith in the climate been equal to that of his 
 physicians. 
 
 His parishioners felt the life of their pastor to 
 be of the utmost consequence to them. It was 
 a general cause, and they testified at once his 
 worth, and their sense of it, by going in a body 
 to solicit him to leave them. He was much affect- 
 ed by this instance of their attachment. Such a 
 proof of regard, rejoined with the entreaties of 
 his own family, and a consideration that for their 
 sakes it was a duty to endeavour to prolong his 
 life, was too powerful to be withstood, and he 
 determined to set out for Italy. 
 
 It was settled that Clara and Adeline, whose 
 health La Luc thought required change of air 
 and scene, should accompany him, attended by 
 the faithful Peter. 
 
 On the morning of his departure, a large body 
 of his parishioners assembled round the door to 
 bid him farewell. It was an affecting scene; they 
 might meet no more. At length, wiping the 
 tears from his eyes, La Luc said, " Let us trust 
 in God, my friends; he has power to heal all 
 disorders both of body and mind. We shall meet 
 again, if not in this world, I hope in a better. 
 Let our conduct be such as to insure that 
 better." 
 
330 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 The sobs of his people prevented any reply. 
 There was scarcely a dry eye in the village; for 
 there was scarcely an inhabitant of it that was 
 not now assembled in the presence of La Luc. 
 He shook hands with them all. " Farewell, my 
 friends," said he, " we shall meet again." " God 
 grant we may!" said they, with one voice of 
 fervent petition. 
 
 Having mounted his horse, and Clara and 
 Adeline being ready, they took a last leave of 
 Madame La Luc, and quitted the chateau. The 
 people, unwilling to leave La Luc, the greater 
 part of them accompanied him to some distance 
 from the village. As he moved slowly on, he 
 cast a last lingering look at his little home, 
 where he had spent so many peaceful years, and 
 which he now gazed on, perhaps for the last 
 time, and tears rose in his eyes; but he checked 
 them. Every scene of the adjacent country 
 called up, as he passed, some tender remem- 
 brance. He looked towards the spot consecra- 
 ted to the memory of his deceased wife; the 
 dewy vapours of the morning veiled it. La Luc 
 felt the disappointment more deeply, perhaps, 
 than reason could justify; but those who know 
 from experience how much the imagination 
 loves to dwell on any object, however remotely 
 connected with that of our tenderness, will feel 
 with him. This was an object round which the 
 affections of La Luc had settled themselves; it 
 was a memorial to the eye, and the view of it 
 awakened more forcibly in the mind, every ten- 
 der idea that could associate with the primary 
 subject of his regard. In such cases fancy gives 
 to the illusions of strong affection, the stamp of 
 reality, and they are cherished by the heart 
 with romantic fondness. 
 
 His people accompanied him for near a mile 
 from the village, and could scarcely then be 
 prevailed on to leave him; at length he once 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 331 
 
 more Lade them farewell, and went on his way 
 followed by their prayers and blessings. 
 
 La Luc and his little party travelled slowly on, 
 sunk in pensive silence— a silence too pleasingly 
 sad to be soon relinquished, and which they "in- 
 dulged -without fear of interruption. The soli- 
 tary grandeur of the scenes through which they 
 passed, and the soothing murmur of the pines 
 that waved above, aided this soft luxury of me- 
 ditation. 
 
 They proceeded by easy stages; and after 
 travelling for some daj T s among the romantic 
 mountains and pastoral valleys of Piedmont, 
 they entered the rich country of Nice. The gay 
 and luxuriant views which now opened upon the 
 travellers as they wound among the hills, ap- 
 peared like scenes of fairy enchantment, or those 
 produced by the lonely visions of the poets. 
 While the spiral summits of the mountains ex- 
 hibited the snowy severity of winter, the pine, the 
 cypress, the olive, and the myrtle, shaded their 
 sides with the green tints of spring, and groves 
 of orange, lemon, and citron, spread over their 
 feet the full glow of autumn. As they advanced, 
 the scenery became still more diversified; and at 
 length, between the receding heights, Adeline 
 caught a glimpse of the distant waters of the 
 Mediterranean, fading into the blue and cloud- 
 less horizon. She had never till now seen the 
 ocean; and this transient view of it roused her 
 imagination, and made her watch impatiently for 
 a nearer prospect. 
 
 It was towards the close of day when the tra- 
 vellers, winding round an abrupt projection of 
 that range of Alps which crowns the amphithea- 
 tre that environs the city of Nice, looked down 
 upon the green hills that stretch to the shores, 
 on the city and its ancient castle, and on the 
 wide waters of the Mediterranean, with the 
 mountains of Corsica in the farthest distance. 
 Such a sweep of sea and land 3 so varied with the 
 
332 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 gay, the magnificent, and the awful, would have 
 fixed any eye in admiration: for Adeline and 
 Clara, novelty and enthusiasm added their 
 charms to the prospect. The soft and salubrious 
 air seemed to welcome La Luc to this smiling 
 region,', and the serene atmosphere to promise 
 invariable summer. They at length descended 
 upon the little plain where stands the city of 
 Nice, and w T hich was the most extensive piece of 
 level ground they had passed since they entered 
 the country. Here, in the bosom of the moun- 
 tains, sheltered from the north and the east, 
 where the western gales alone seemed to breathe, 
 all the blooms of spring and the riches of au- 
 tumn were united. Trees of myrtle bordered 
 the road, which wound among groves of orange, 
 lemon, and bergamot, whose delicious fragrance 
 came to the sense mingled with the breath of 
 roses and carnations that blossomed in their shade. 
 The gently-swelling hills that rose from the plain 
 were covered with vines, and crowned with cy- 
 presses, olives, and date trees; beyond there ap- 
 peared the sweep of lofty mountains whence the 
 travellers had descended, and whence flows the 
 little river Paglion, sworn by the snows that 
 melt on their summits, and which, after mean- 
 dering through the plain, washes the walls of 
 Nice, where it falls into the Mediterranean. In 
 this blooming region, Adeline observed that the 
 countenances of the peasants, meagre and discon- 
 tented, formed a melancholy contrast to the face 
 of the country; and she lamented again the 
 effects of an arbitrary government, where the 
 bounties of nature, which were designed for all, 
 are monopolized by a few, and the many are suf- 
 fered to starve, tantalized by surrounding plenty. 
 The city lost much of its enchantment on a 
 nearer approach: its narrow streets and shabby 
 houses, but ill answered the expectation which 
 a distant view of its ramparts, and its harbour, 
 gay with vessels, seemed to authorise. The ap- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 333 
 
 pearance of the inn, at which La Luc now 
 alighted, did not contribute to soften his disap- 
 pointment; but if he was surprised to find^such 
 indifferent accommodation at the inn of a town 
 celebrated as the resort of valetudinarians, he 
 was still more so when he learned the difficulty 
 of procuriug furnished lodgings. 
 
 After much search, he procured apartments in 
 a small but pleasant chateau, situated a little 
 way out of the town; it had a garden, and a 
 terrace which overlooked the sea, and was dis- 
 tinguished by an air of neatness very unusual in 
 the houses of Nice. He agreed to board with 
 the family, whose table likewise accommodated 
 a gentleman and lady, their lodgers; and thus 
 he became a temporary inhabitant of this charm- 
 ing climate. 
 
 On the following morning, Adeline rose at an 
 early hour, eager to indulge the new and sub- 
 lime emotion with which a view of the ocean 
 inspired her, and walked with Clara towards 
 the hills that afforded a more extensive prospect. 
 They pursued their way for some time between 
 high embowering banks, till they arrived at an 
 eminence. 
 
 They sat down on a point of rock, overshadow- 
 ed by lofty palm trees, to contemplate at leisure 
 the magnificent scene. The sun Avas just emerg- 
 ed from the sea, over which his rays shed a flood 
 of light, and darted a thousand brilliant tints on 
 the vapours that ascended the horizon, and 
 floated there in light clouds, leaving the bosom 
 of the waters below clear as crystal, except 
 where the white surges were seen to beat upon 
 the rocks; and discovering the distant sails of 
 the fishing- boats, and the far distant island of 
 Corsica, tinted with petherial blue. 
 
 La Luc, in his walks, met with some sensible 
 and agreeable companions, who like himself 
 came to Nice in search of health. Of these he 
 soon formed a small but pleasant society, among 
 
334 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 whom was a Frenchman, whose mild manners, 
 marked with a deep and interesting melancholy, 
 had particularly attracted La Luc. He very 
 seldom mentioned himself, or any circumstance 
 that might lead to a knowledge of his family; 
 hut on other subjects conversed with frankness 
 and much intelligence. La Luc had frequently 
 invited him to his lodgings; hut he had always 
 declined the invitation, and this in a manner so 
 gentle as to disarm displeasure, and convince La 
 Luc that his refusal was the consequence of a 
 certain dejection of mind, which made him re- 
 luctant to meet other strangers. 
 
 The description which La Luc had given of 
 this foreigner, bad excited the curiosity of Clara; 
 and the sympathy which the unfortunate feel 
 for each other called forth the commiseration 
 of Adeline; for that he was unfortunate she 
 could not doubt. On their return from an even- 
 ing walk La Luc pointed out the chevalier, and 
 quickened his pace to overtake him. Adeline 
 was for a moment impelled to follow, but delica- 
 cy checked her steps; she knew how painful the 
 presence of a stranger often is to a wounded mind, 
 and forbore to intrude herself on his notice, for 
 the sake of only satisfying an idle curiosity. She 
 turned therefore into another path; but the deli- 
 cacy which now prevented the meeting accident 
 in a few days defeated, and La Luc introduced 
 the stranger. Adeline received him with a soft 
 smile, but endeavoured to restrain the expres- 
 sion of pity which her features had involuntarily 
 assumed; she wished him not to know that she 
 observed lie was unhappy. 
 
 After this interview he no longer rejected the 
 invitations of La Luc, but made him frequent 
 visits, and often accompanied Adeline and Clara 
 in their rambles. The mild and sensible conver- 
 sation of the former seemed to soothe his mind, 
 and in her presence he frequently conversed 
 with a degree of animation, which La Luc till 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 335 
 
 then had not observed in him. Adeline, too, de- 
 rived from the similarity of their taste, and his 
 intelligent conversation, a degree of satisfaction 
 which contributed, with the compassion his de- 
 jection inspired, to win her confidence, and she 
 conversed with an easy frankness rather unusual 
 to her. 
 
 His visits soon became more frequent. He 
 walked with La Luc and his family; he attended 
 them on their little excursions to view those 
 magnificent remains of Roman antiquity which 
 enrich the neighbourhood of Nice. When the 
 ladies sat at home and worked, he enlivened the 
 hours by reading to them, and they had the 
 pleasure to observe his spirits somewhat relieved 
 from the heavy melancholy that had oppressed 
 him. 
 
 M. Amand was passionately fond of music. 
 Clara had not forgot to bring her beloved lute; 
 he would sometimes strike the chords in the 
 most sweet and mournful symphonies, but never 
 could be prevailed on to play. When Adeline or 
 Clara played, he would sit in deep reverie, and 
 lost to every object around him, except when he 
 fixed his eyes in mournful gaze on Adeline, and 
 a sigh would sometimes escape him. 
 
 One evening Adeline having excused herself 
 from accompanying La Luc and Clara in a visit 
 to a neighbouring family, retired to the terrace 
 of the garden, which overlooked the sea, and as 
 she viewed the tranquil splendour of the setting 
 sun, and his glories reflected on the polished sur- 
 face of the waves, she touched the strings of the 
 lute in softest harmony, her voice accompanying- 
 it with words which she had one day written, 
 after having read that rich effusion of Shak- 
 speare's genius, "A Midsummer Night's Dream," 
 
336 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 TITANIA TO HER LOVE. 
 
 O! fly with me through distant air 
 To isles that gem the western deep! 
 
 For laughing Summer revels there, 
 And hangs her wreath on every steep. 
 
 As through the green transparent sea, 
 Light floating on the waves we go, 
 
 The nymphs shall gaily welcome me, 
 Far "in their coral caves below. 
 
 For oft upon their margin sands, 
 When twilight leads the fresh'ning hours, 
 
 I come with all my jocund bands 
 To charm them from their sea-green bow'rs. 
 
 And well they love our sports to view, 
 And on the ocean's breast to lave ; 
 
 And oft as we the dance renew, 
 They call up music from the wave. 
 
 Swift hie we to that splendid clime, 
 Where gay Jamaica spreads her scene, 
 
 Lifts the blue mountain— wild — sublime! 
 And smooths her vales of vivid green. 
 
 Where throned high, in pomp of shade, 
 
 The Power of Vegetation reigns, 
 Expanding wide o'er hill and glade, 
 
 Shrubs of all growth— fruit of all stains: 
 
 She steals the sun-beam's fervid glow, 
 To paint her flow'rs of mingling hue; 
 
 And o'er the grape the purple throw, 
 Breaking from verdant leaves to view. 
 
 There myrtle bow'rs, and citron grove, 
 
 O'ercanopy our airy dance; 
 And there the sea-breeze loves to rove, 
 
 When trembles day's departing glance. 
 
 And when the false moon steals away, 
 Or o'er the chasing morn doth rise, 
 
 Oft fearless, we our gambols play 
 By the fire-worm's radiant eyes, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 337 
 
 And suck the honey'd reeds that swell 
 
 In tufted plumes of silver white; 
 Or pierce the cocoa's milky cell, 
 
 To sip the nectar of delight .' 
 
 And when the shaking thunders roll, 
 And light'nings strike athwart the gloom, 
 
 We shelter in the cedar's bole, 
 And revel 'mid the rich perfume ! 
 
 But chief we love beneath the palm, 
 Or verdant plantain's spreading leaf, 
 
 To hear, upon the midnight calm, 
 Sweet Philomela pour her grief. 
 
 To mortal sprite such dulcet sound, 
 Such blissful hours were never known! 
 
 Oh ! fly with me my airy round, 
 And'l will make them all thine own ! 
 
 Adeline ceased to sing— when she immediately 
 heard repeated, in a low voice, 
 
 " To mortal sprite such dulcet sound, 
 Such blissful hours were never known!'' 
 
 and turning her eyes whence it came, she saw M. 
 Amand. She blushed and laid down the lute, 
 which he instantly took up, and. with a tremulous 
 hand, drew forth tones 
 
 " That might create a soul under the ribs of Death." 
 
 In a melodious voice that trembled with sensibi- 
 lity, he sang the following 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 How sweet is Love's first gentle sway, 
 
 When crown'd with flow'rs he softly smiles I 
 His blue eyes fraught with tearful wiles, 
 
 Where beams of tender transport play : 
 
 Hope leads him on his airy way, 
 
 And Faith and Fancy still beguiles— 
 Faith quickly tangled in her toils 
 
338 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Fancy whose magic forms so gay 
 
 The fair Deceiver's self deceive 
 
 '• How sweet is Love's first gentle sway ."' 
 Ne'er would that heart he bids to grieve 
 From Sorrow's soft enchantments stray 
 Ne'er — till the God exulting in this art, 
 Relentless frowns and wings th' envenom'd dart I 
 
 Monsieur Amand paused: he seemed much op- 
 pressed, and at length burst into tears, laid down 
 the instrument, and walked abruptly away to the 
 farther end cf the terrace. Adeline, without seem- 
 ing to observe his agitation, rose and leaned upon 
 the wall, below which a group of fishermen were 
 busily emplo3 r ed in drawing a net. In a few mo- 
 ments he returned, with a composed and softened 
 countenance. " Forgive this abrupt conduct," 
 said he; " I know not how to apologise for it but 
 by owning its cause. When I tell you, Madame, 
 that my tears flow to the memory of a Lady who 
 strongly resembled you, and who is lost to me for 
 ever, you will know how to pity me." — His voice 
 faltered, and he paused. Adeline was silent. 
 " The kite," he resumed, " was her favourite in- 
 strument, and when you touched it with such 
 melancholy expression, I saw her very image be- 
 fore me. But, alas! why do I distress you with a 
 knowledge of my sorrows! she is gone, never to 
 return ! And you, A deline — you " He check- 
 ed his speech, and Adeline, turning on him a look 
 of mournful regard, observed a wildness in his 
 ej r es, which alarmed her. " These recollections 
 are too painful," said she, in a gentle voice; " let 
 us return to the house; M. La Luc is probably 
 come home." — "0 no!" replied M. Amand; "No — 
 this breeze refreshes me. How often at this hour 
 have I talked with her, as I now talk with you! 
 Such were the soft tones of her voice— such the 
 ineffable expression of her countenance." — Ade- 
 line interrupted him: " Let me beg of you to con- 
 sider your health — this dewy air cannot be good 
 for invalids." He stood with his hands clasped, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 339 
 
 and seemed not to hear her. She took up the 
 lute to go, and passed her finger8 lightly over the 
 chords. The sounds recalled his scattered senses; 
 he raised his eyes, and fixed them in long unset- 
 tled gaze upon her's. " Must I leave you here?" 
 said she, smiling, and standing in an attitude to 
 depart. — " I entreat you to play again the air I 
 heard just now," said M. Amand, in a hurried 
 voice. — " Certainly;" and she immediately began 
 to play. He leaned against a palm-tree in an at- 
 titude of deep attention, and as the sounds lan- 
 guished on the air, his features gradually lost 
 their wild expression, and he melted into tears. 
 He continued to weep silently till the song con- 
 cluded, and it was some time before he recovered 
 voice enough to say, " Adeline, I sincerely thank 
 you for this goodness. My mind has recovered 
 its bias; you have soothed a broken heart. In- 
 crease the kindness you have shown ine by pro- 
 mising never to mention what you have witnessed 
 this evening, and I will endeavour never again to 
 wound your sensibility by a similar offence." — 
 Adeline gave the required promise; and M. 
 Amand, pressing her hand, with a melancholy 
 smile, hurried from the garden, and she saw him 
 no more that night. 
 
 La Luc had been near a fortnight at Nice, and 
 his health, instead of amending, seemed rather to 
 decline; yet he wished to make a longer experi- 
 ment of the climate. The air, which failed to re- 
 store her venerable friend, revived Adeline, and 
 the variety and novelty of the surrounding scenes 
 amused her mind, though since they could not 
 obliterate the memory of past, or suppress the 
 pang of present affliction, they were ineffectual 
 to dissipate the sick languor of melancholy. Com- 
 pany, by compelling her to withdraw her atten- 
 tion from the subject other sorrow, afforded her 
 a transient relief, but the violence of the exertion 
 generally left her more depressed. It was in the 
 stillness of solitude, in the tranquil observance of 
 
340 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 beautiful nature, that her mind recovered its 
 tone, and indulging the pensive inclination now 
 become habitual to it, was soothed and fortified. 
 Of all the grand objects which nature had exhi- 
 bited, the ocean inspired her with the most sub- 
 lime admiration. She loved to wander alone on 
 its shores; and, when she could escape so long 
 from the duties or the forms of society, she would 
 sit for hours on the beach, watching the rolling 
 waves, and listening to their dying murmur, till 
 her softened fancy recalled long-lost scenes, and 
 restored the image of Theodore; when tears of 
 despondency too often followed those of pity and 
 regret. But these visions of memory, painful as 
 they were, no longer excited that frenzy of grief 
 they formerly awakened in Savoy ; the sharpness 
 of misery was passed, though its heavy influence 
 was not, perhaps, less powerful. To these solitary 
 indulgences generally succeeded calmness, and 
 what Adeline endeavoured to believe was resig- 
 nation. 
 
 She usually rose early, and walked down to 
 the shore to enjoy, in the cool and silent hours of 
 the morning, the cheering beauty of nature, and 
 inhale the pure sea-breeze. Every object then 
 smiled in fresh and lively colours. The blue sea, 
 the brilliant sky, the distant fishing-boats, with 
 their white sails, and the voices of the fishermen, 
 borne at intervals on the air, were circumstances 
 which re-animated her spirits. 
 
 During several days succeeding that on which 
 M. Amand had disclosed the cause of his melan- 
 choly, he did not visit La Luc. At length Ade- 
 line met him in one of her solitary rambles on 
 the shore. He was pale and dejected, and seem- 
 ed much agitated when he observed her: she 
 therefore endeavoured to avoid him, but he ad- 
 vanced with quickened steps and accosted her. 
 He said it was his intention to leave ; Nice in a 
 few days. "I have found no benefit from the 
 climate," added M. Amaud. "Alas \ what climate 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 341 
 
 can relieve the sickness of the heart ! I go to lose, 
 in the variety of new scenes, the remembrance of 
 past happiness; yet the effort is vain; I am every 
 where equally restless and unhappy." Adeline 
 tried to encourage him to hope much from time 
 and change of place. " Time will blunt the 
 sharpest edge of sorrow," said she; "I know it 
 from experience." Yet while she spoke, the 
 tears in her eyes contradicted the assertion of 
 her lips. "You have been unhappy, Adeline!— 
 Yes — I knew it from the first. The smile of 
 pity which you gave me assured me that you 
 knew what it was to suffer." The desponding 
 air with which he spoke renewed her apprehen- 
 sion of a scene similar to the one she had lately 
 witnessed, and she changed the subject; but he 
 soon returned to it. "You bid me hope much 
 
 from time! — My wife! — My clear wife!" his 
 
 tongue faltered.—" It is now many months since 
 I lost her — yet the moment of her death seems 
 but as yesterday." Adeline faintly smiled.— 
 "You can scarcely judge of the effect of time yet, 
 yon have much to hope for." He shook his 
 head. — "But I am again intruding my misfor- 
 tunes on your notice; forgive this perpetual ego- 
 tism. There is a comfort in the pity of the good, 
 such as nothing else can impart; this must pleaol 
 my excuse; may you, Adeline, never want it. 
 
 Ah! those tears -" Adeline hastily dried 
 
 them. M. Amand forebore to press the subject, 
 and immediately began to converse on different 
 topics. They returned towards the chateau, but 
 La Luc being from home, M. Amand took leave 
 at the door. Adeline retired to her chamber, 
 oppressed by her own sorrow s and those of her 
 amiable friend. 
 
 Near three weeks had now elapsed at Nice, 
 during which the disorder of La* Luc seemed 
 rather to increase than to abate, when his phy- 
 sician very honestly confessed the little hope ae 
 22 
 
342 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 entertained from the climate, and advised him 
 more to try the effect of a sea voyage, adding, 
 that if the experiment failed, even the air of 
 Montpellier appeared to him more likely to 
 afford relief than that of Nice. La Luc received 
 this disinterested advice with a mixture of grati- 
 tude and disappointment. The circumstances 
 which had made him reluctant to quit Savoy, 
 rendered him more so to protract his absence, 
 and increase his expenses; hut the ties of affec- 
 tion that bound him to his family, and the love of 
 life, which so seldom leaves us, again prevailed 
 over inferior considerations, and he determined 
 to coast the Mediterranean as far as Lauguedoc, 
 where, if the voyage did not answer his expec- 
 tations, he would land and proceed to Mont- 
 pellier. 
 
 When M. Amand learned that La Luc designed 
 to quit Nice in a few days, he determined not to 
 leave it before him. Luring this interval he had 
 not sufficient resolution to deny himself the fre- 
 quent conversation of Adeline, though her pre- 
 sence, by reminding him of his lost wife, gave 
 him more pain than comfort. — He was the second 
 son of a French gentleman of family, and had 
 been married about a year to a lady to whom he 
 had long been attached, when she died in her 
 lying-in. The infant soon followed its mother, 
 and left the disconsolate father abandoned to 
 grief, which had preyed so heavily on his health, 
 that his physician thought it necessary to send 
 him to Nice. From the air of Nice, however, he 
 had derived no benefit, and he now determined 
 to travel farther into Italy, though he no longer 
 felt any interest in those charming scenes, which 
 in happier days, and with her whom he never 
 ceased to lament, would have afforded him the 
 highest degree of mental luxury — now, he sought 
 only to escape from himself, or rather from the 
 image of her who had once constituted his truest 
 happiness. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 343 
 
 La Luc having laid his plan, hired a small ves- 
 sel, and in a few days embarked -with a sick hope, 
 bidding adieu to the shores of Italy and the 
 towering Alps, and seeking on a new element 
 the health which had hitherto mocked his pur- 
 suit. 
 
 M. Amand took a melancholy leave of his new 
 friends, whom he attended to the sea side. When 
 he assisted Adeline on board, his heart was too 
 full to suffer him to say farewell; but he stood 
 long on the beach, pursuing with his eyes her 
 course over the waters, and waving his hand, till 
 tears dimmed his sight. The breeze waited the 
 vessel gently from the coast, and Adeline saw 
 herself surrounded by the undulating waves of 
 the ocean. The shore appeared to recede, its 
 mountains to lessen, the gay colours of its land- 
 scape to melt into each other, and in a short time 
 the figure of M. Amand was seen no more: the 
 town of Nice, with its castle and harbour, next 
 faded away in distance, and the purple tint of the 
 mountains was at length all that remained on the 
 verge of the horizon. She sighed as she gazed, 
 and her eyes filled with tears: "So vanished my 
 prospect of happiness,'*' said she; " and my future 
 view is like the waste of waters that surround 
 me." Her heart was full, and she retired from 
 observation to a remote part of the deck, where 
 she indulged her tears as she watched the vessel 
 cut its way through the liquid glass. The water 
 v^.s so transparent that she saw the sun-beams 
 playing at considerable depth, and fish of various 
 colours glance- athwart the current. Innumer- 
 able marine plants spread their vigorous leaves 
 on the rocks below, and the richness of their 
 verdure formed a beautiful contrast to the glow- 
 ing scarlet of the coral that branched beside 
 them. 
 
 The distant coast, at length, entirely disap- 
 peared.' Adeline gazed with an emotion the most 
 sublime on the boundless exnanse of waters that 
 
344 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 spread on all sides: she seemed as if launched 
 into a new world; the grandeur and immensity of 
 the view astonished and overpowered her: for a 
 moment she doubted the truth of the compass, 
 and believed it to be almost impossible for the 
 vessel to find its way over the pathless waters to 
 any shore. And when she considered that a 
 plank alone separated her from death, a sensation 
 of unmixed terror superseded that of sublimitj'-, 
 and she hastily turned her eyes from the pros- 
 pect, and her thoughts from the subject. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Towards evening the captain, to avoid the 
 danger of encountering a Barbary corsair, steered 
 for the French coast, and Adeline distinguished 
 in the gleam of the setting sun the shores of Pro- 
 vence, feathered with wood, and green with pas- 
 turage. La Luc, languid and ill, had retired to 
 the cabin, whither Clara attended him. The 
 pilot at the helm, guiding the tall vessel through 
 the sounding waters, and one solitary sailor, lean- 
 ing with crossed arms against the mast, and now 
 and then singing parts of Ta mournful ditty, were 
 all of the crew, except Adeline, that remained 
 upon deck; and Adeline silently watched the de- 
 clining sun, which threw a saffron glow upon the 
 waves, and on the sails, gently swelling in the 
 breeze that was now dying away. The sun at 
 length sunk below the ocean, and twilight stole 
 over the scene, leaving the shadowy shores yet 
 visible, and touching with a solemn tint the wa- 
 ters that stretched wide around. She sketched 
 the picture, but it was with a faint pencil. 
 
 As the shadows thickened, the scene sunk into 
 deeper repose. Even the sailor's song had ceased ; 
 no sound was heard but that of the waters dash- 
 ing beneath the vesseh, and their fainter murmur 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 345 
 
 on the pebbly coast. Adeline's mind was in uni- 
 son with the tranquillity of the hour: lulled by the 
 waves, she resigned herself to a still melancholy, 
 and sat lost in reverie. The present moment 
 brought to her recollection her voyage up the 
 Rhone, when, seeking refuge from the terrors of 
 the [Marquis de Montalt, she so anxiously endea- 
 voured to anticipate her future destiny. She 
 then, as now, had watched the fall of evening and 
 the fading prospect, and she remembered what 
 a desolate feeling had accompanied the impres- 
 sions which those objects made. She had then 
 no friends— no asylum— no certainty of escaping 
 the pursuit of her enemy. Now she had found 
 affectionate friends— a secure retreat — and was 
 delivered from the terrors she then suffered— but 
 still she was unhappy. The remembrance of 
 Theodore — of Theodore who had loved her so 
 truly, who had encountered and suffered so much 
 [ for her sake, and of whose fate she was now as 
 ignorant as when she traversed the Rhone, was 
 : an incessant pang to her heart. She seemed to 
 I be more remote than ever from the possibility of 
 j hearing of him. Sometimes a faint hope crossed 
 her that he had escaped the malice ofthis perse- 
 i cut or; but when she" considered the inveteracy 
 and power of the latter, and the heinous light in 
 which the law regards an assault upon a superior 
 officer, even this poor hope vanished, and left her 
 to tears and anguish, such as this reverie, which 
 began with a sensation of only gentle melan- 
 choly, now led to. She continued to muse till 
 the moon arose from the bosom of the ocean, and 
 shed her trembling lustre upon the waves, dif- 
 fusing peace, and making silence more solemn; 
 beaming a soft light on the white sails, and 
 throwing upon the waters the long shadow or 
 the vessel, which now seemed to glide aAvay 
 unopposed by any current. Her tears had some- 
 what relieved the anguish of her mind, and she 
 again reposed in placid melancholy, when a strain 
 
346 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 of such tender and entrancing sweetness stole on 
 the silence of the hour, that, it seemed more like 
 celestial than mortal music— so soft, so soothing it 
 sunk upon her ear, that it recalled her from mi- 
 sery to hope and love. She wept again but 
 
 these were tears which she would not have ex- 
 changed for mirth and joy. She looked round, 
 but perceived neither ship or boat; and as the 
 undidating sounds swelled on the distant air, she 
 thought they came from the shore. Sometimes 
 the breeze wafted them away, and again returned 
 them In tones of the most languishing softness. 
 The links of the ah thus broken, it was music ra- 
 ther than melody that she caught, till, the pilot 
 gradually steering nearer the coast, she distin- 
 guished the notes of a song familiar to her ear. 
 She endeavoured to recollect where she had 
 heard it, but in vain; yet her heart beat almost 
 unconsciously with a something resembling hope. 
 Still she listened till the breeze again stole the 
 soimds. With regret she now perceived that 
 the vessel was moving from them, and at length 
 they trembled faintly on the waves, sunk away at 
 a distance, and were heard no more. She remained 
 upon the deck a considerable time, unwilling to 
 relinquish the expectation of hearing them again, 
 and their sweetness still vibrating on her fancy, 
 and at length retired to the cabin oppressed by a 
 degree of disappointment which the occasion did 
 not appear to justify. 
 
 La Luc grew better during the voyage; his 
 spirits revived, and when the vessel entered'that 
 part of the Mediterranean called the Gulf of 
 Lyons, he was sufficiently animated to enjoy from 
 the. deck the noble prospect which the sweeping 
 shores of Provence, terminating in the far dis- 
 tant ones of Languedoc, exhibited. Adeline and 
 Clara, who anxiously watched his looks, rejoiced 
 in their amendment; and the fond wishes of the 
 latter already anticipated his perfect recovery. 
 Disappointment had too often checked the ex- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 347 
 
 pectations of Adeline, to permit her now to in- 
 dulge an equal degree of hope with that of her 
 friend, yet she confided much in the effect of this 
 voyage, 
 
 La Luc amused himself at intervals with dis- 
 coursing, and pointing out the situations of con- 
 siderable ports on the coast, and the mouths of 
 the rivers that, after wandering through Pro- 
 vence, disembogue themselves into the Medi- 
 terranean. The Rhone, however, was the only 
 one of much consequence which he passed. On 
 this object, though it was so distant, that fancy 
 perhaps rather than the sense beheld it, Clara 
 gazed with peculiar pleasure, for it came from 
 the banks of Savoy; and the wave which she 
 thought she perceived, had washed the feet of 
 her dear native mountains. The time passed 
 with mingled pleasure and improvement as La 
 Luc described to his attentive pupils the manners 
 and commerce of the different inhabitants of the 
 coast, and the natural history of the country; 01 
 as he traced in imagination the remote wander- 
 ings of rivers to then' source, and delineated the 
 characteristic beauties of their scenery. 
 
 After a pleasing voyage of a few days, the 
 shores of Provence receded, and that of Langue- 
 doc, which had long bounded the distance, be- 
 came the grand object of the scene, and the sai- 
 lors drew near the port. They landed in the af- 
 ternoon at a small town situated at the foot of a 
 woody eminence, on the right overlooking the 
 sea, and on the left the rich plains of Languedoc, 
 gay with the purple vine. La Luc determined 
 to defer his journey till the following day, and 
 was directed to a small inn at the extremity of 
 the town, where the accommodation, such as it 
 was, he endeavoured to be contented with. 
 
 In the evening the beauty of the hour, and the 
 desire of exploring new scenes, invited Adeline 
 to walk. La Luc was fatigued, and did not go 
 out, and Clara remained with him. Adeline took 
 
348 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 her way to the woods that rose from the margin 
 of the sea, and climbed the wild eminence on 
 which they hung. Often as she went she turned 
 her eyes to catch between the dark foliage the 
 blue waters of the bay, the white sail that flitted 
 by, and the trembling gleam of the setting sun. 
 When she reached the summit, and looked down 
 over the dark tops of the woods on the wide and 
 various prospect, she was seized with a kind of 
 still rapture impossible to be expressed, and 
 stood unconscious of the flight of time, till the 
 sun had left the scene, and twilight threw its so- 
 lemn shade upon the mountains. The sea alone 
 reflected the fading splendour of the west; its 
 tranquil surface was partially disturbed by the 
 low wind that crept in tremulous lines along the 
 waters, whence rising to the woods, it shivered 
 their light leaves, and died away. 
 
 Adeline quitted the heights, and followed a 
 narrow path that wound to the beach below: her 
 mind was now particularly sensible to fine im- 
 pressions, and the sweet notes of the nightingale 
 amid the stillness of the woods again awakened 
 her enthusiasm. 
 
 The spreading dusk at length reminded Ade- 
 line of her distance from the inn, and that she 
 had her way to find through a wild and lonely 
 wood : she bade adieu to the syren that had so 
 long detained her, and pursued the path with 
 quick steps. Having followed it for some time, 
 she became bewildered among the thickets, and 
 the increasing darkness did not allow her to 
 judge of the direction she was in. Her appre- 
 hensions heightened her difficulties: she thought 
 she distinguished the voices of men at some little 
 distance, and she increased her speed till she 
 found herself on the sea sands, over which the 
 woods impended. Her breath was now exhaust- 
 ed — she paused a moment to recover herself, and 
 fearfully listened; but, instead of the voices of 
 men, she heard faintly swelling in the breeze 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 349 
 
 the notes of mournful music— her heart, ever 
 sensible to the impressions of melody, melted 
 with the tones, and her fears were for a moment 
 hilled in sweet enchantment. Surprise was soon 
 mingled with delight, when, as the sounds ad- 
 vanced, she distinguished the tone of that in- 
 strument, and the meiod}- of that well-known ah-, 
 she had heard a few preceding evenings from the 
 shores of Provence. But she had no time for 
 conjecture— footsteps approached, and she re- 
 newed her speed. She was now emerged from 
 the darkness of the woods, and the moon, which 
 shone bright, exhibited along the level sands the 
 town and port in the distance. The steps that 
 had followed now came up with her, and she 
 perceived two men, but they passed in conver- 
 sation without noticing her; and as they passed 
 she was certain she recollected the voice of him 
 who was then speaking. Its tones were so fami- 
 liar to her ear, that she was surprised at the im- 
 perfect memory which did not suffer her to be 
 assured by whom they were uttered. Another 
 step noAv followed, and a rude voice called to her 
 to stop. As she hastily turned her eyes she say/ 
 imperfectly by the moonlight a man in a sailor's 
 habit pursuing, while be renewed the call. Im- 
 pelled by terror she fled along the sands, but her 
 steps were short and trembling — these of her pur- 
 suer strong and cjuick. 
 
 She had just strength sufficient to reach the 
 men who had before passed her, and to implore 
 their protection, when her pursuer came up with 
 them, but suddenly turned into the woods on the 
 left and disappeared. 
 
 She had no breath to answer the inquiries of 
 the strangers who supported her, till a sudden 
 exclamation, and the sound of her oayu name, 
 drew her eyes attentively upon the person who 
 uttered them, and in the rays which shone strong 
 upon his features, she distinguished M. Verneuil! 
 — Mutual satisfaction and explanation ensued, 
 
350 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 aud when lie learned that La Luc and his daugh- 
 ter were at the inn, he felt an increased pleasure 
 in conducting her thither. He said that he had 
 accidentally met with an old friend in Savoy, 
 whom he now introduced by the name of Mau- 
 ron, and who had prevailed on him to change his 
 route and accompany him to the shores of the 
 Mediterranean. They had embarked from the 
 coast of Provence only a few preceding days, and 
 had that evening lauded in Lauguedoc, on the 
 estate of M. Mauron. Adeline had now no doubt 
 that it was the flute of M. Verneuil, which had 
 so often delighted her at Lelencourt, that she 
 had heard on the sea. 
 
 When they reached the inn they found La Luc 
 under great anxiety for Adeline, in search of 
 whom he had sent several people. Anxiety 
 yielded to surprise and pleasure, when he per- 
 ceived her with M. Verneuil, whose eyes beamed 
 with unusual animation on seeing Clara. After 
 mutual congratulations, M. Verneuil observed, 
 and lamented, the very indifferent accommoda- 
 tion which the inn afforded his friends, and M. 
 Mauron immediately invited them to his cha- 
 teau, with a warmth of hospitality that overcame 
 every scruple which delicacy or pride could op- 
 pose. The woods that Adeline had traversed 
 formed a part of his domain, which extended 
 almost to the inn; but he insisted that his car- 
 riage should take his guests to the chateau, and 
 departed to give orders for their reception. The 
 presence of M. Verneuil, and the kindness of his 
 friend, gave to La Luc an unusual flow of spirits; 
 he conversed with a degree of vigour and liveli- 
 ness to which he had long been unaccustomed, and 
 the smile of satisfaction that Clara gave to Ade- 
 line, expressed how much she thought he was 
 already benefited by the voyage. Adeline an- 
 swered her look with a smile of less confidence, 
 for she attributed his present animation to a 
 more temporary cause. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 351 
 
 About half an hour after the departure of M. 
 Mauron, a boy, who served as waiter, brought a 
 message from a chevalier then at the inn, re- 
 questing permission to speak with Adeline. The 
 man who had pursued her along the sands in- 
 stantly occurred to her, and she scarcely doubted 
 that the stranger was some person belonging to 
 the Marquis de Montalt, perhaps the Marquis 
 himself; though that he should have discovered 
 her accidentally, in so obscure a place, and so 
 immediately upon her arrival, seemed very 
 improbable. With trembling lips, and a coun- 
 tenance pale as death, she inquired the name of 
 the chevalier. The boy was not acquainted with 
 it. La Luc asked what sort of a person he was; 
 but the boy, who understood little of the art of 
 describing, gave such a confused account of him, 
 that Adeline could only leam he was not large, 
 but of the middle stature. This circumstance, 
 however, convincing her it was not the Marquis 
 de Montalt who desired to see her, she asked, 
 whether it would be agreeable to La Luc to have 
 the stranger admitted. La Luc said, " By all 
 means;" and the waiter withdrew. Adeline sat 
 in trembling expectation till the door opened, 
 and Louis de la Motte entered the room. He 
 advanced with an embarrassed and melancholy 
 air, though his countenance had been enlightened 
 with a momentary pleasure when he first beheld 
 Adeline— Adeline, who was still the idol of his 
 heart. After the first salutations were over, all 
 apprehensions of the Marquis being now dissi- 
 pated, she inquired when Louis had seen Mon- 
 sieur and Madame la Motte. 
 
 " I ought rather to ask you that question," said 
 Louis in some confusion, " for I believe you have 
 seen them since I have; and the pleasure of 
 meeting you thus is equalled by my surprise. I 
 have not heard from my father for some time, 
 owing probably to my regiment being moved to 
 new quarters." 
 
3&2 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 He looked as if lie wished to be informed with, 
 whom Adeline now was; but as this was a sub- 
 ject upon which it was impossible she should 
 speak in the presence of La Luc, she led the con- 
 versation to general topics, after having said that 
 Monsieur and Madame La Motte were well when 
 she left them. Louis spoke little, and often 
 looked anxiously at Adeline, while his mind 
 seemed labouring under strong oppression. She 
 observed this, and recollecting the declaration 
 he had made her on the morning of his departure 
 from the Abbey, she attributed his present em- 
 barrassment to the effect of a passion yet unsub- 
 dued, and did not appear to notice it. After he 
 had sat near a quarter of an hour under a strug- 
 gle of feelings which he could neither conquer or 
 conceal, he rose to leave the room, and as he 
 passed Adeline, said, in a low voice, " Do permit 
 me to speak with you alone for five minutes." 
 She hesitated in some confusion, and then say- 
 ing they were none but friends present, begged 
 he would be seated. — "Excuse me," said he, 
 in the same low accent; "what I would say 
 nearly concerns you, and you only. Do favour 
 me with a few moments' attention." He said 
 this with a look that surprised her; and having 
 ordered candles into another room, she went 
 thither. 
 
 Louis sat for some moments silent, and seem- 
 ingly in great perturbation of mind. At length 
 he said, " I know not whether to rejoice or to 
 lament at this unexpected meeting, though, if 
 you are in safe hands, I ought certainly to re- 
 joice, however hard the task that now falls to 
 'my lot. I am not ignorant of the dangers and 
 persecutions you have suffered, and cannot for- 
 bear expressing my anxiety to know how you 
 are now circumstanced. Are you indeed with 
 friends?" " I am," said Adeline; " M. La Motte 
 has informed you." " No," replied Louis with a, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 353 
 
 deep sigh, " not my father."— He paused. — * But 
 
 I do indeed rejoice," resumed he, " 0! how sin- 
 cerely rejoice! that you are in safety. Could you 
 
 know, lovely Adeline, what I have suffered!" • 
 
 He checked himself. " I understood you had 
 something of importance to say, Sir," said Ade- 
 line; "you must excuse me if I remind you that 
 I have not many moments to spare." 
 
 "It is indeed of importance," replied Louis; 
 "yet I know not how to mention it— how to 
 soften— this task is too severe. Alas! my poor 
 friend!" 
 
 "Who is it you speak of, Sir?" said Adeline^ 
 with quickness. Louis rose from his chair, and 
 walked about the room. " I would prepare you 
 for what I have to say," he resumed, " but upon, 
 my soul I am not equal to it." 
 
 " I entreat you to keep me no longer in sus- 
 pense," said Adeline, who had a wild suspicion; 
 that it was Theodore he would speak of. Louis 
 still hesitated. "Is it — is it? — I conjure 3-ou 
 tell me the worst at once," said she, in a voice of 
 agony. " I can bear it — indeed I can." 
 
 "My unhappy friend!" exclaimed Louis! "O 
 Theodore! Theodore!" faintly articulated Ade- 
 line, "he lives then!" " He does," said LouiSj. 
 
 "but — "he stopped. "But what?" cried Ade- 
 line, trembling violently; "if he is living, you 
 cannot tell me worse than my fears suggest ; I 
 entreat you, therefore, not to hesitate." Louis 
 resumed his' seat, and, endeavouring to assume a 
 collected air, said, " He is living, Madam; but he 
 is a prisoner, and — for Avhy should I deceive, 
 you? I fear he has little to hope in this world." 
 
 " I have long feared so, Sir,"' said Adeline, 
 in a voice of forced composure, "you Iiave 
 something more terrible than this to relate, and 
 I again entreat you will explain yourself." 
 
 " He has every thing to apprehend from the 
 Marquis de Montalt," said Louis. <*Alas! why 
 
354 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 do I say to apprehend? His judgment is already 
 fixed — he is condemned to die." 
 
 At this confirmation of her fears, a death-like 
 paleness diffused itself over the countenance of 
 Adeline; she sat motionless, and attempted to 
 sigh, but seemed almost suffocated. Terrified at 
 her situation, and expecting to see her faint, 
 Louis would have supported her, but with her 
 hand she waved him from her, unable to speak. 
 He now called for assistance, and La Luc and 
 Clara, with M. Verneuil, informed of Adeline's 
 indisposition, were quickly by her side. 
 
 At the sound of their voices she looked up, and 
 seemed to recollect herself; when uttering a 
 heavy sigh, she burst into tears. La Luc re- 
 joiced to see her weep, encouraged her tears, 
 which after some time relieved her, and when 
 she was able to speak, she desired to go back to 
 La Luc's parlour. Louis attended her thither; 
 when she was better he would have withdrawn, 
 but La Luc begged he would stay. 
 
 "You are, perhaps, a relation of this young lady, 
 Sir," said he, " and may have brought news of her 
 father?" — "Not so, Sir," replied Louis, hesita- 
 ting. " This gentleman," said Adeline, who had 
 now recollected her dissipated thoughts, " is the 
 son of the M. La Motte, whom you may have heard 
 me mention." Louis seemed shocked to be de- 
 clared the son of a man that had once acted so 
 unworthily towards Adeline, who, instantly per- 
 ceiving the pain her words occasioned, endea- 
 voured to soften their effect, by saying that La 
 Motte had saved her from imminent danger, and 
 had afforded her an asylum for many months. 
 Adeline sat in a state of dreadful solicitude to 
 know the particulars of Theodore's situation, 
 yet could not acquire courage to renew the sub- 
 ject in the presence of La Luc; she ventured, 
 however, to ask Louis if his own regiment was 
 quartered in the town. 
 
 He replied, that his regiment lay at Vaceau, a 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 355 
 
 French, town on the frontiers of Spain; that he 
 had just crossed a part of the Gulf of Lyons, 
 and was on his way to Savoy, whither he should 
 set out early in the morning. 
 
 " We are" lately come from thence," said Ade- 
 line; "may I ask to -what part of Savoy you are 
 going?" — "To Lelencourt!" he replied. "To 
 Lelencourt !" said Adeline, in some surprise. 
 "I am a stranger to the country," resumed 
 Louis; " but I go to serve my friend. You seem 
 to know Lelencourt." " I do, indeed," said 
 Adeline. " You probably know then that M. 
 La Luc lives there, and will guess the motive of 
 my journey." 
 
 " heaven! is it possible!" exclaimed Adeline 
 — " is it possible that Theodore Peyrou is a rela- ' 
 tion of M. La Luc!" 
 
 " Theodore ! what of my son !" asked La Luc, 
 in surprise and apprehension. — " Your son!" said 
 Adeline, in a trembling voice, " your son!" The 
 astonishment and anguish depicted on her coun- 
 tenance increased the apprehensions of his un- 
 fortunate father, and he renewed his question. 
 But Adeline was totally unable to answer him ; 
 and the distress of Louis on thus unexpectedly 
 discovering the father of his unhappy friend, 
 and knowing that it was his task to disclose the 
 fate of his son, deprived him for some time of all 
 power of utterance; and La Luc and Clara, 
 whose fears were every instant heightened by 
 this dreadful silence, continued to repeat their 
 questions. 
 
 At length a sense of the approaching suffer- 
 ings of the good La Luc overcoming every other 
 feeling, Adeline recovered strength of mind suf- 
 ficient to try to soften the intelligence Louis had 
 to communicate, and to conduct Clara to another 
 room. Here she collected resolution to tell her, 
 and with much tender consideration, the circum- 
 stances of her brother's situation, concealing 
 only her knowledge of bis sentence being aU 
 
355 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 
 
 ready pronounced. This relation necessarily in- 
 cluded the mention of their attachment, and in 
 the friend of her heart, Clara discovered the 
 innocent cause of her brother's destruction. Ade- 
 line also learned the occasion of that circum- 
 stance which had contributed to keep her igno- 
 rant of Theodore's relationship to La Luc; she 
 was told the former had taken the name of 
 Peyrou, with an estate which had been left him 
 about a year before, by a relation of his mother's, 
 upon that condition. Theodore had been de- 
 signed for the church, but his disposition inclined 
 him to a more active life than the clerical habit 
 would admit of; and on his accession to the 
 estate, he had entered into the service cf the 
 French king. 
 
 In the few and interrupted interviews which 
 had been allowed them at Caux, Theodore had 
 mentioned his family to Adeline only in general 
 terms; and thus, when they were so suddenly 
 separated, had, without designing it, left her in 
 ignorance of his father's name and place of resi- 
 dence. 
 
 The sacredness and delicacy of x\deline's grief, 
 which had never permitted her to mention the 
 subject of it even to Clara, had since contributed 
 to deceive her. 
 
 The distress of Clara, on learning the situation 
 of her brother, could endure no restraint; Ade- 
 line, who, by a strong effort of mind, h.id com- 
 manded her feelings so as to impart this intelli- 
 gence witn tolerable composure, was now almost 
 overwhelmed by her own and Clara's accumu- 
 lated sufferings. While they wept forth the an- 
 guish of their hearts, a scene, if possible, more 
 affecting, passed between La Luc and Louis, who 
 perceived it was necessary to inform him, though 
 cautiously and by degrees, of the full extent of 
 his calamity. He therefore told La Luc, that 
 though Theodore had been first tried for the of- 
 fence of having quitted his post, he was now 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 357 
 
 condemned on a charge of assault made upon his 
 general officer, the Marquis de Montalt, who had 
 
 brought witnesses to prove, that his life had been 
 endangered by the circumstance; and who hav- 
 ing pursued the prosecution with the most bitter 
 rancour, had at length obtained the sentence 
 which the law could net withhold, but which 
 every officer of the regiment deplored. 
 
 Louis added, that the sentence was to be exe- 
 cuted in less than a fortnight, and that Theodore 
 being very unhappy at receiving no answers to 
 the letters he had sent to his father, wishing, to 
 see him once more, and knowing that there was 
 now no time to be lost, had requested him to go 
 to Lelencourt, and acquaint his father with his 
 situation. 
 
 La Luc received the account of his son's condi- 
 tion with a distress that admitted neither of tears 
 or complaint. He asked where Theodore was, 
 and desiring to be conducted to him, he thanked 
 Louis for all his kindness, and ordered post- 
 : horses immediately. 
 
 A carriage was soon ready, and this unhappy 
 father, after taking a mournful leave of M. 
 Yerneuil, and sending a compliment to M. 
 Mauron, attended by his family, set out for the 
 prison of his son. The journey was a silent one ; 
 each individual of the party endeavoured, in ecu • 
 sideration of the other, to suppress the expres- 
 sion of grief, but was unable to do more. La 
 Luc appeared calm and complacent: he seemed 
 frequently to be engaged in prayer; but a strug- 
 gle for resignation and composure was sometimes 
 visible upon his countenance, notwithstanding 
 the efforts of his mind to conceal it. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 We now return to the Marquis de Montalt t 
 who having seen La Motte safely lodged in the 
 23 
 
358 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 prison of D y, and learning that the trial 
 
 would not come on immediately, had returned 
 to his villa on the borders of the forest, where he 
 expected to hear news of Adeline. It had heen 
 his intention to follow his servants to Lyons; but 
 he now determined to wait a few days for letters, 
 and he had little doubt that Adeline, since her 
 flight had been so quickly pursued, would be 
 overtaken, and probably before she could reach 
 that city. In this expectation he had been 
 miserably disappointed; for his servants inform* 
 ed him, that though they traced her thither, 
 they had neither been able to follow her route 
 beyond, nor to discover her at Lyons. This 
 escape she probably owed to having embarked 
 on the Rhone; for it does not appear that the 
 Marquis's people thought of seeking her on the 
 course of that river. 
 
 His presence was soon after required at Vaceau, 
 where'the court-martial was then sitting; thither, 
 therefore, he went, with passions still more exas- 
 perated by his late disappointment, and procured 
 the condemnation of Theodore. The sentence 
 was universally lamented, for Theodore was 
 much beloved in his regiment; and the occa- 
 sion of the Marquis's personal resentment to- 
 wards him being known, every heart was inter- 
 ested in his cause. 
 
 Louis de la Motte happening at this time to be 
 stationed in the same town, heard an imperfect 
 account of his stoiy; and being convinced that 
 the prisoner was the young chevalier whom he 
 had formerly seen with the Marquis at the abbey, 
 he was induced, partly from compassion, and 
 partly with a hope of hearing of his parents, to 
 visit him. The compassionate sympathy which 
 Louis expressed, and the zeal with which he 
 tendered his services, affected Theodore, and 
 excited in him a warm return of friendship. 
 Louis made him frequent visits, did every 
 thing that kindness could suggest to alleviate 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 359 
 
 his sufferings, and a mutual esteem and confi- 
 dence ensued. 
 
 Theodore at length communicated the chief 
 subject of his concern to Louis, who discovered, 
 with inexpressible grief, that it was Adeline 
 whom the Marquis had thus cruelly persecuted, 
 aud Adeline for whose sake the generous Theo- 
 dore was about to suffer. He soon perceived also 
 that Theodore was his favoured rival; but he gen- 
 erously suppressed the jealous pang this discove- 
 ry occasioned, and determined that no prejudice of 
 passion should withdraw him from the duties of 
 humanity and friendship. He eagerly inquired 
 where Adeline then resided. "She is yet, 1 fear, 
 in the power of the Marquis," said Theodore, 
 sighing deeply. "O God! — these chains!" — and 
 he threw an agonizing glance upon them. Louis 
 sat silent and thoughtful; at length, starting from, 
 his reverie, he said he would go to the Marquis, 
 and immediately quitted the prison. The Mar- 
 quis was, however, already set off for Paris, where 
 he had been summoned to appear at the approach- 
 ing trial of La Motte; and Louis, yet ignorant of 
 the late transactions at the abbey, returned to 
 the prison, where he endeavoured to forget that 
 Theodore was the favoured rival of his love, and 
 to remember him only as the defender of Adeline. 
 So earnestly he pressed his offers of service, that 
 Theodore, whom the silence of his father equally 
 surprised and afflicted, and who was very anx- 
 ious to see him once again, accepted his proposal 
 of going himself to Savoy. " My letters I strong- 
 ly suspect to have been intercepted by the Mar- 
 quis," said Theodore, " if so, my poor father 
 will have the whole weight of his calamity to 
 sustain at once, unless I avail myself of your 
 kindness, and I shall neither see him or hear 
 from him before I die. Louis! there are mo- 
 ments when my fortitude shrinks from the con- 
 flict, and my senses threaten to desert me." 
 
 No time was to be lostj the warrant for hia 
 
360 THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST, 
 
 execution had already received the king's signa- 
 ture, and Louis immediately set forward for 
 Savoy. The letters of Theodore had, indeed, 
 been intercepted hy order of the Marquis, -who 
 in the hope of discovering the asylum of Adeline, 
 had opened and afterwards destroyed them. 
 
 But to return to La Luc, who now drew near 
 Vaceau, and whom his family observed to be 
 greatly changed in his looks since he had heard 
 the late calamitous intelligence; he uttered no 
 complaint; but it was too obvious that his dis- 
 order had made a rapid progress. Louis, who 
 during his journey, proved the goodness of his 
 disposition by the delicate attention he paid this 
 unhappy party, concealed his observation of the 
 decline of La Luc, and, to support Adeline's 
 spirits, endeavoured to convince her that her ap- 
 prehensions on this subject were groundless. 
 Her spirits did indeed require support, for she 
 •was now within a few miles of the town that 
 contained Theodore; and while her increasing 
 perturbation almost overcame her, yet she tried 
 to appear composed. When the carriage en- 
 tered the town, she cast a timid and anxious 
 glance from the window in search of the prison; 
 but having passed through several streets with- 
 out perceiving any building which corresponded 
 with her idea with that she looked for, the coach 
 stopped at the inn. The frequent changes in La 
 Luc's countenance betrayed the violent agita- 
 tion of his mind, and when he attempted to 
 alight, feeble and exhausted, he was compelled 
 to accept the support of Louis, to whom he 
 faintly said, as he passed to the parlour, " I am 
 indeed sick at heart, but I trust the pain will not 
 be long." Louis pressed his hand without speak- 
 ing, and hastened back for Adeline and Clara, 
 who were already in the passage. La Luc wiped 
 the tears from his eyes (they were the first he 
 had shed) as they entered the room. " I would 
 go immediately to my poor boy," said he to 
 
THE "ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 381 
 
 Louis; " your's, Sir, is a mournful office—lie so 
 good as to conduct me to him." He rose to go, 
 but, feeble and overcome with grief, again sat 
 down. Adeline and Clara united in entreating 
 i that he would compose himself, and take some 
 refreshment; and Louis, urging the necessity of 
 preparing Theodore for the interview, prevailed 
 with him to delay it till his son should be inform- 
 ed of his arrival, and immediately quitted the inn 
 for the prison of his friend. When he was gone, 
 La Luc, as a duty he owed those he loved, tried 
 to take some support; but the convulsions of his 
 throat would not suffer him to swallow the wine 
 he held to his parched lips, and he was now so 
 much disordered, that he desired to retire to his 
 chamber, where alone, and in prayer, he passed 
 the dreadful interval of Louis's absence. 
 
 Clara, on the bosom of Adeline, who sat in 
 calm but deep distress, yielded to the violence 
 of her grief. " I shall lose my dear father too,' 7 
 said she; " I see it; I shall lose my father and 
 my brother together." Adeline wept with her 
 friend for some time in silence; and then at- 
 tempted to persuade her that La Luc was not so 
 ill as she apprehended. 
 
 " Do not mislead me with hope," she replied, 
 " he will not survive the shock of this calamity — 
 I saw it from the first." Adeline, knowing that 
 La Luc's distress would be heightened by the 
 observance of his daughter's, and that indulgence 
 would only increase its poignancy, endeavoured 
 to rouse her to an exertion of fortitude, by urging 
 the necessity of commanding her emotion in the 
 presen ce of her father. "This is possible," added 
 she, " however painful may be the effort. Yon 
 must know, my dear, that my grief is not inferior 
 to your own, yet I have hitherto been enabled 
 to support my sufferings in silence; for M. La 
 Luc I do, indeed, love and reverence as a parent." 
 
 Louis meanwhile reached the prison of Theo- 
 dore, who received him with an air of mingled 
 
362 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 surprise and impatience. " What brings you 
 back so soon?" said lie; "have you heard news 
 of my father?" Louis now gradually mrfolded 
 the circumstances of their meeting, and La Luc's 
 arrival at Vaceau. A various emotion agitated 
 the countenance of Theodore on receiving this 
 intelligence. "My poor father!" said he, "he 
 has then followed his son to this ignominious 
 place! Little did I think when last we parted 
 he would meet me in a prison, under condemna- 
 tion!" This reflection roused an impetuosity of 
 grief which deprived him for some time of speech. 
 " But where is he?" said Theodore, recovering 
 himself; "now he is come I shrink from the 
 interview I have so much wished for. The sight 
 of his distress will be dreadful to me. Louis! 
 ■when I am gone — comfort my poor father." His 
 voice was again interrupted by sobs; and Louis, 
 •who had been fearful of acquainting him at the 
 same time of the arrival of La Luc, and the dis- 
 covery of Adeline, now judged it proper to ad- 
 minister the cordial of this latter intelligence. 
 
 The glooms of a prison, and of calamity, van- 
 ished for a transient moment; those who had 
 seen Theodore, would have believed this to be 
 the instant which gave him life and liberty. 
 When his first emotions subsided, " I will not 
 repine;" said he, "since I know that Adeline is 
 preserved, and that I shall once more see my 
 father, I will endeavour to die with resignation." 
 He inquired if La Luc was then in the prison; 
 and was told he was at the iuu with Clara and 
 Adeline. "Adeline! — Is Adeline there too! — 
 This is beyond my hopes. Yet why do I rejoice? 
 I must never see her more: this is no place for 
 Adeline!" Again he relapsed into an agony of 
 distress — and again repeated a thousand ques- 
 tions concerning Adeline, till he was reminded 
 by Louis that his father was impatient to see 
 him — when, shocked that he had so long detained 
 his friend, he entreated him to conduct La Luc 
 
S63 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 to the prison, and endeavoured to collect forti- 
 tude for the approaching interview. 
 
 When Louis returned to the inn, La Luc was 
 still in his chamber; and Clara quitting the room 
 to call him, Adeline seized with trembling impa- 
 tience the opportunity to inquire more particu- 
 larly concerning Theodore, than she cnose to do 
 iu the presence of his unhappy sister. Louis 
 represented him to be much more tranquil than 
 fee really was: Adeline was somewhat soothed 
 fey the account; and her tears, hitherto restrained, 
 flowed silently and fast, till La Luc appeared 
 His countenance had recovered its serenity, but 
 was impressed with a deep and steady sorrow, 
 which excited in the beholder a mingled emotion 
 of pity and reverence. " How is my son, bir J 
 said he as he entered the room. " We will go to 
 him immediately." 
 
 Clara renewed the entreaties that had been 
 already rejected, to accompany her father, who 
 persisted in a refusal. " To-morrow you shall 
 see him," added he; "but our first meeting must 
 be alone. Stay with your friend, my dear; she 
 has need of consolation." When La Luc was 
 gone, Adeline, unable longer to struggle against 
 the force of grief, retired to her chamber and 
 
 e La 6 Luc walked silently towards the prison, 
 resting on the arm of Louis. It was now night: 
 a dim lamp that hung above showed them the 
 gates, and Louis rung a bell; La Luc, almost 
 overcome with agitation, leaned against the pos- 
 tern till the porter appeared. He inquired for 
 Theodore, and followed the man: but when he 
 reached the second court-yard, he seemed reaciy 
 to faint, and again stopped. Louis desired the 
 porter would fetch some water; but La J^ac, 
 recovering his voice, said he should soon be bet- 
 ter, and would not suffer him to go. In a few 
 minutes he was able to follow Louis, who led 
 him through several dark passages, and up a 
 
364 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 flight of steps to a door, which being unbarred 
 disclosed to him the prison of his son. He was 
 seated at a small table, on which stood a lamp 
 that threw a feeble light across the place, suffi- 
 cient only to show its desolation and wretched- 
 ness. When he perceived La Luc he sprung 
 from his chair, and in the next moment was in 
 his arms. " My father!" said he, in a tremulous 
 voice. — "My son!" exclaimed La Luc; and they 
 were for some time silent, and locked in each 
 other's embrace. At length Theodore led him 
 to the only chair the room afforded, and seating 
 himself with Louis at the foot of the bed, had 
 leisure to observe the ravages which illness and 
 calamity had made on the features of his parent. 
 La Luc made several efforts to speak, but unable 
 to articulate, laid his hand upon his breast, and 
 sighed deeply. Fearful of the consequence of so 
 affecting a scene on his shattered frame, Louis 
 endeavoured to call off his attention from the 
 immediate object of his distress, and interrupted 
 the silence; but La Luc shuddering, and com- 
 plaining he was very cold, sunk back in his chair. 
 His condition roused Theodore from the stupor 
 of despair; and while he flew to support his 
 father, Louis ran out for other assistance.—" I 
 shall soon be better, Theodore," said La Luc 
 unclosing his eyes, " the faint ness is already 
 gone off. I have not been well of late; and this 
 sad meeting!" — Unable any longer to command 
 himself, Theodore wrung his hands, and the 
 distress which had long struggled for utterance, 
 burst in convulsive sobs from his breast. La Luc 
 gradually revived, and exerted himself to calm 
 the transports of his son; but the fortitude of the 
 latter had now entirely forsaken him, and he 
 could only utter exclamation and complaint. 
 "Ah! little did I think we should ever meet 
 under circumstances so dreadful as the present! 
 But I have not deserved them, my father! the 
 motives of my conduct have still been iust " 
 
THE ROMANCE OS THE FOREST. 365 
 
 " That is my supreme consolation," said La 
 Lac, " and ought to support you in this hour of 
 trial. The Almighty God, who is the judge of 
 hearts, will reward you hereafter. Trust in him, 
 my son; I look to him with no feeble hope; with 
 a firm reliance on his justice!" La Luc's voice 
 faltered; he raised his eyes to heaven with an 
 expression of meek devotion, while the tears of 
 humanity fell slowly on his cheek. 
 
 Still more affected by his last words, Theodore 
 turned from him, and paced the room with quick 
 steps: the entrance of Louis was a very seasona- 
 ble relief to La Luc, who, taking a cordial he 
 had brought, was soon sufficiently restored to 
 discourse on the subject most interesting to him. 
 Theodore tried to attain a command of his feel- 
 ings, and succeeded. He conversed with tolera- 
 ble composure for above an hour, during which 
 La Luc endeavoured to elevate, by religious 
 hope, the mind of his son, and to enable him to 
 to meet with fortitude the awful hour that ap- 
 proached. But the appearance of resignation 
 which Theodore attained, always vanished when 
 he reflected that he was going to leave his father 
 a prey to grief, and his beloved Adeline for ever. 
 When La Luc was about to depart, lie again 
 mentioned her. w Afflicting as an interview must 
 be in our present circumstances," said he, " I 
 cannot bear the thought of quitting the world 
 without seeing her once again; yet I know not 
 how to ask her to encounter, for my sake, the 
 misery of a parting scene. Tell her that my 
 thoughts never, for a moment, leave her; that" 
 ~ — La Luc interrupted, and assured him, that 
 since he so much wished it he should see her, 
 though a meeting could serve only to heighten 
 the mutual anguish of a final separation. 
 
 " I know it— I know it too well," said Theo- 
 dore; "yet I cannot resolve to see her no more, 
 and thus spare her the pain this interview must 
 inflict. O my father! when I think of thosa 
 
366 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 whom I must soon leave for ever, my heart 
 breaks. But I will indeed try to profit by your 
 precept and example, and show that your pater- 
 nal care lias not been in vain. My good Louis, 
 
 go with my father he has need of support. 
 
 How much I owe this generous friend," added 
 Theodore, " you well know, Sir." — " I do, in 
 truth," replied La Luc, " and can never repay 
 his kindness to you. He has contributed to sup- 
 port us all; but you require comfort more than 
 mvself — he shall remain with you — I will go 
 alone." 
 
 Tins Theodore would not suffer; and La Luc 
 no longer opposing him, they affectionately em- 
 braced and separated for the night. 
 
 When they reached the inn, La Luc consulted 
 with Louis on the possibility of addressing a 
 petition to the sovereign time enough to save 
 Theodore. His distance from Paris, and the 
 short interval before the period fixed for the 
 execution of the sentence, made this design diffi- 
 cult; but believing it was practicable, La Luc, 
 incapable as he appeared of performing so long a 
 journe}', determined to attempt it. Louis think- 
 ing that the undertaking would prove fatal to the 
 father, without benefiting the son, endeavoured, 
 though faintly, to dissuade him from it — but his 
 resolution was fixed. — " If I sacrifice the small 
 remains of my life in the service of my child," 
 said he, "I shall lose little: if I save him, I 
 shall gain every thing. There is no time to be 
 lost — I will set off immediately." 
 
 He would have ordered post-horses, but Louis, 
 and Clara, who was now come from the bed-side 
 of her friend, urged the necessity of his taking 
 a few hours' repose; he was at length compelled 
 to acknowledge himself unequal to the immedi- 
 ate exertion which parental anxiety prompted, 
 and consented to seek rest. 
 
 When he had retired to his chamber Clara 
 lamented the condition of her father.—" He will 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 367 
 
 riot bear the journey," said she; "he is greatly 
 changed within these few days." — — Louis "was 
 so entirely of her opinion, that he could not 
 disguise it, even to flatter her with a hope. She 
 added, what did not contribute to raise bis spi- 
 rits, that Adeline was so much indisposed by her 
 grief for the situation of Theodore, and the suf- 
 ferings of La Luc, that she dreaded the con- 
 sequence. 
 
 It has been seen, that the passion of young La 
 Motte had suffered no abatement from time or 
 absence; on the contrary, the persecution and 
 the dangers which had pursued Adeline awaken- 
 ed all his tenderness, and drew her nearer to his 
 heart. When he had discovered that Theodore 
 loved her and was beloved again, he experienced 
 all the auguish of jealousy and disappointment; 
 for though she had forbade him to hope, he 
 found it too painful an effort to obey her, and 
 had secretly cherished the flame which he ought 
 to have stifled. His heart was however too no- 
 ble to suffer his zeal for Theodore to abate be- 
 cause he was his favoured rival, and his mind too 
 strong not to conceal the anguish this certainty 
 occasioned. 
 
 The attachment which Theodore had testified 
 towards Adeline even endeared him to Louis, 
 when he had recovered from the first shock of 
 disappointment; and that conquest over jealousy 
 which originated in principle, and was pursued 
 with difficulty, became afterwards his pride and 
 his glory. When, however, he again saw Ade- 
 line — saw her in the mild dignity of sorrow more 
 interesting than ever — saw her, though sinking 
 beneath its pressure, yet tender and solicitous to 
 soften the afflictions of those around her — it was 
 with the utmost difficulty he preserved his reso- 
 lution, and forbore to express the sentiments she 
 inspired. When he farther considered that her 
 acute sufferings arose from the strength of her 
 affection, he more than ever wished himself the 
 
368 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 object of a heart capable of so tender a regard; 
 and Theodore in prison, and in chains, was a 
 momentary object of envy. 
 
 In the morning, when La Luc arose from short 
 and disturbed slumbers, he found Louis, Clara, 
 and Adeline, whom indisposition could not pre- 
 vent from paying him this testimony of respect 
 and affection, assembled in the parlour of the 
 inn to see him^ depart. After a slight breakfast, 
 during which His feelings permitted him to say 
 little, he bade his friends a sad farewell, and 
 stepped into the carriage, followed by their tears 
 and prayers. — Adeline immediately retired to her 
 chamber, which she was too ill to quit that day. 
 In the evening Clara left her friend, and con- 
 ducted by Louis, went to visit her brother, whose 
 emotions, on hearing of his father's departure, 
 were various and strong. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 We return now to Pierre de la Motte, who, 
 after remaining some weeks in the prison of 
 
 D y, was removed to take his trial in the 
 
 courts of Paris, whither the Marquis de Montalt 
 followed to prosecute the charge. Madame de 
 la Motte accompanied her husband to the prison 
 of the Chatelet. His mind sunk under the weight 
 of his misfortunes, nor could all the efforts of his 
 wife rouse him from the torpidity of despair 
 which a consideration of his circumstances occa- 
 sioned. Should he even be acquitted of the 
 charge brought against him by the Marquis 
 (which was very unlikely), he was now in the 
 scene of his former crimes, and the moment that 
 should liberate him from the walls of his prison, 
 would probably deliver him again into the hands 
 of offended justice. 
 
 The prosecution of the Marquis was too well 
 founded, and its object of a nature too serious. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 369- 
 
 not to justify the terror of La Motte. Soon after 
 thp latter had settled at the abbey of St. Clan, 
 the malLstock of money which fta emergency 
 of his circumstances had left him being n early -ex- 
 hausted, his mind became corroded with the most 
 cruel anxiety concerning the means of his luture 
 subs stenee. As he was one evening riding alone 
 in a remote part of the forest, musing on Ins dis- 
 tressed circumstances, and meditating plans to 
 relieve the exigencies which he saw approaching, 
 he pei ce ived among the trees, at some distance, a 
 chevalier on horseback, who was riding deliber- 
 ately along, and seemed wholly unattended A 
 thought darted across the mind of La Motte that 
 he might be spared the evils which threatened 
 nun "by robbing this stranger. H s former prac- 
 kes had passed the boundary of hones ty-fi and 
 was in some degree familiar to hmi-^d tLc 
 thought was not dismissed. He hesitated— 
 every moment of hesitation increased he power 
 of temptation-the opportunity was such as might 
 never occur again. He looked round, and as far 
 as the trees opened saw no person but the chev- 
 alier, who seemed by his air to be a man of ^Unc- 
 tion. Summoning all his courage. La ^odeiodci 
 forward and attacked him. The Marquis De Men- 
 talt for it was he, was unarmed, but knowing thai 
 lis attendants were not far off, he refused to 
 yield.' While they were struggling ior victory 
 La Motte saw several horsemen enter the extre- 
 mity of the avenue, and rendered desperate by 
 opposition and delay, he drew from his pocket a 
 p so (which an apprehension of banditti made 
 him usually carry when he rode to a distance 
 from the abbey) and fired at the Marquis, who 
 staeffered, and fell senseless to the ground. La 
 Motte had time to steal from his coat a brilliant 
 star, some diamond rings from his fingers, and to 
 rifle his pockets, before his attendants came up. 
 Instead of pursuing the robber, they all, in then' 
 
S70 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 confusion, flew to assist their lord, and La Motte 
 escaped. 
 
 He stopped before he reached the abbey at a 
 little ruin, the tomb formerly mentioned, to ex- 
 amine his booty. It consisted of a pnrse, con- 
 taining seventy louis-d'ors; of a diamond star, 
 three rings of great value, and a miniature set 
 with brilliants, of the Marquis himself, which 
 he had intended as a present for his favourite 
 mistress. To La Motte, who but a few hours 
 before had seen himself nearly destitute, the 
 view of this treasure excited an almost ungovern- 
 able transport; but it Avas soon checked, when 
 he remembered the means he had employed to 
 obtain it, and that he had paid for the wealth he 
 contemplated the price of blood. Naturally vio- 
 lent in his passions, this reflection sunk him from 
 the summit of exultation to the abyss of despond- 
 en cy. He considered himself a murderer, and, 
 startled as one awakened from a dream, would 
 have given half the world, had it been his, to 
 have been as poor, and comparatively as guilt- 
 less, as a few preceding hours had seen him. On 
 examining the portrait, he discovered the resem- 
 blance, and believing that his hand had deprived 
 the original of life, he gazed upon the picture 
 with unutterable anguish. To the horrors of re- 
 morse succeeded the perplexities of fear. Appre- 
 hensive of he knew not what, he lingered at the 
 tomb, where he at length deposited his treasure, 
 believing, that if his offence should aAvaken jus- 
 tice, the abbey might be searched, and these 
 jewels betray him. From Madame La Motte it 
 was easy to conceal his increase of wealth; for, 
 as he had never made her acquainted with the 
 exact state of his finances, she had ri&t suspected 
 the extreme poverty which menaced him; and 
 as they continued to live as usual, she believed 
 that their expenses were drawn from the usual 
 supply. But it was not so easy to disguise the 
 workings of remorse and horror: his manner be- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 371 
 
 came gloomy and reserved, and his frequent 
 visits to the tomb, where he went partly to ex- 
 amine his treasure, hut chiefly to indulge in the 
 dreadful pleasure of contemplating the picture of 
 the Marquis, excited curiosity. In the solitude 
 of the forest, where no variety of objects occur- 
 red to renovate his ideas, the horrible one of 
 having committed murder was ever present to 
 him. When the Marquis arrived at the abbey, 
 the astonishment and terror of La Motte (for at 
 first he scarce knew whether he beheld the sha- 
 dow or the substance of a human form) were 
 quickly succeeded by apprehension of the pun- 
 ishment due to the crime he had really commit- 
 ted. When his distress had prevailed on the 
 Marquis to retire, he informed him that he was by 
 birth a chevalier: he then touched upon such 
 parts of his misfortunes as he thought would ex- 
 cite pity, expressed such abhorrence of his guilt, 
 and voluntarily uttered such a solemn promise of 
 returning the jewels he had yet in his possession, 
 (for he had ventured to dispose only of a smali 
 part), that the Marquis at length listened to him 
 with some degree of compassion. This favour- 
 able sentiment, seconded by a selfish motive, in- 
 duced the Marquis to compromise with La Motte. 
 Of quick and inflammable passions, he had ob- 
 served the beauty of Adeline with an eye of no 
 common regard, and he resolved to spare the life 
 of La Motte upon no other condition than the 
 sacrifice of this unfortunate girl. La Motte had 
 neither resolution or virtue sufficient to reject 
 the terms— the jewels were restored, and he con- 
 sented to betray the innocent Adeline. But as 
 he was too well acquainted with her heart to be- 
 lieve that she would easily be won to the prac- 
 tice of vice, and as he still felt a degree of pity 
 and tenderness for her, he endeavoured to pre- 
 vail on the Marquis to forbear precipitate mea- 
 sures, and to attempt gradually to undermine 
 her principles by seducing her affections. He 
 
372 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 approved and adopted this plan: the failure of 
 his first scheme induced him to employ the stra- 
 tagems he afterwards pursued, and thus to mul- 
 tiply the misfortunes of Adeline. 
 
 Such were the circumstances which had Drought 
 La Motte to his present deplorable situation. The 
 day of trial was now come, and he was led from 
 prison into the court, where the Marquis appear- 
 ed as his accuser. When the charge was de- 
 livered, La Motte, as is usual, pleaded Not 
 Guilty, and the Advocate Nemours, who had un- 
 dertaken to plead for him, after-wards endea- 
 voured to make it appear that the accusation, on 
 the part of the Marquis de Montalt, was false 
 and malicious. To this purpose he mentioned 
 the circumstance of the latter having attempted 
 to persuade his client to the murder of Adeline: 
 he farther urged that the Marquis had lived in 
 habits of intimacy with La Motte for several 
 months immediately preceding his arrest, and 
 that it was not till he had disappointed the de- 
 signs of his accuser, by conveying beyond his 
 reach the unhappy object of his vengeance, that 
 the Marquis had thought proper to charge La 
 Motte with the crime for which he stood indict- 
 ed. Nemours urged the improbability of one 
 man's keeping up a friendly intercourse with 
 another from whom he had suffered the double 
 injury of assault and robbery; yet it was certain 
 that the Marquis had observed a frequent inter- 
 course with la Motte, "for some months following 
 the time specified for the commission of the 
 crime. If the Marquis intended to prosecute, 
 why w r as it not immediately after his discovery 
 of La Motte % and if not then, what had in- 
 fluenced him to prosecute at so distant a period? 
 
 To this nothing was replied on the part of the 
 Marquis; for as his conduct on this point had 
 been subservient to his designs on Adeline, he 
 could not justify it but by exposing schemes 
 which would betray the darkness of his charac- 
 
TIIE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 373 
 
 ter; and invalidate his cause. He therefore con- 
 tented himself with producing several of his 
 servants as witnesses of the assault and robbery, 
 
 who swore without scruple to the person of La 
 Motte, though not one of them had seen him 
 otherwise than through the gloom of evening 
 and riding off at fall speed. On a cross examina- 
 tion most of them contradicting each other, their 
 evidence was of course rejected; but, as the 
 Marquis had yet two other witnesses to produce, 
 whose arrival at Paris had been hourly expected 
 the event of the trial was postponed, and the 
 court adjourned. 
 
 La Motte was re-conducted to his prison under 
 the same pressure of despondency with winch 
 he had quitted it. As he walked through one of 
 the avenues, he passed a man who stood by to 
 let him proceed, and who regarded him with a 
 fixed and earnest eye. La Motte thought he had 
 seen him before; but the imperfect view he 
 caught of his features through the duskiness of 
 the place, made him uncertain as to this, and his 
 mind was in too perturbed a state to suffer him 
 to feel an interest on the subject. When he was 
 gone, the stranger inquired of the keeper of the 
 brison who La Motte was; on being told, and re- 
 ceiving answers to some farther questions he put, 
 he desired lie might be admitted to speak with 
 him. The request, as the man was only a debtor, 
 was granted; but as the doors were now shut for 
 the night, the interview was deferred till the 
 morrow. 
 
 La Motte found Madame in his room, whore 
 she hadjjeeu waiting for some hours to hear the 
 svent of the trial. They now wished more ear- 
 restly than ever to see their son; but they were, 
 is he had suspected, ignorant of his change of 
 auarters, owing to the letters which he had as 
 isual addressed to them, under an assumed name, 
 .•emaining at the post-house of Auboine. This 
 
374 THE ROMANCE OE THBFOREST. 
 
 circumstance oco^oned ]£*»» {* *£$£ 
 
 address her letters to the place ^oi 
 
 ""EM?!* approaching fete was never ah- 
 
 at this dreadful period. p ; L 
 
 While these scenes were passing a ? "-'»■ ^ 
 Luc arrived there without any accident, after 
 
 Unorted •*fi*«^}gJ?iE2l at the. 
 
 iSriS#c|^« 
 
 Sometimes she ventured to flatteil^eiseu^ii 
 comfort seemed only to brighten to .coata* U 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 375 
 
 more torturing than that produced either by the 
 sharp sting of unexpected calamity, or the sullen, 
 pain of settled despair. 
 
 When she was well enough, she came down to 
 the parlour to converse with Louis, who brought 
 her frequent accounts of Theodore, and who 
 passed every moment he could snatch from the 
 duty of his profession in endeavours to support 
 and console his afflicted friends. Adeline and 
 Theodore both looked to him for the little com- 
 fort allotted them, for he brought them intelli- 
 gence of each other; and whenever he appeared, 
 a transient melancholy kind of pleasure played 
 round their hearts. He could not conceal from 
 Theodore Adeline's indisposition, since it was 
 necessary to account for her not indulging the 
 earnest wish he repeatedly expressed to see her' 
 again. To Adeline he spoke chiefly of the forti- 
 tude and resignation of his friend, not however 
 forgetting to mention the tender affection he 
 constantly expressed for her. Accustomed to 
 derive her sole consolation from the presence 
 of Louis, and to observe his unwearied friend- 
 ship towards him whom she so truly loved, she 
 found her esteem for him ripen into gratitude, 
 and her regard daily increase. 
 
 The fortitude with which he had said Theodore 
 f supported his calamities was somewhat exagger- 
 ated. He could not sufficiently forget those ties 
 i which bound him to life, to meet his fate with 
 firmness; but though the paroxysms of grief 
 | were acute and frequent, he sought and often at- 
 tained, in the presence of his friends, a manly 
 i composure. From the event of his father's jour- 
 »ney he hoped little, yet that little was sufficient 
 ( to keep his mind in the torture of suspense till 
 the issue should appear. 
 
 On the day preceding that fixed for the execu- 
 tion of the sentence, La Luc reached Vaceau. 
 Adeline was at her chamber window when the 
 carriage drew up to the inn; she saw him alight, 
 
376 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 
 
 and with feeble steps, supported by Peter, enter 
 the house. From the languor of his air she drew 
 no favourable omen, and, almost sinking under 
 the violence of her emotion, she went to meet 
 him. Clara was already with her father when 
 Adeline entered the room. She approached him, 
 but, dreading to receive from his lips a confir- 
 mation of the misfortune his countenance seemed 
 to indicate, she looked expressively at him, and 
 sat down, unable to speak the question she would 
 have asked. He held out his hand to her in si- 
 lence, sunk back in his chair, and seemed to be 
 fainting under oppression of heart. His manner 
 confirmed all her fears; at this dreadful convic- 
 tion her senses failed her, and she sat motionless 
 and stupified. 
 
 La Luc and Clara were too much occupied by 
 their own distress to observe h r situation; after 
 some time she breathed a heavy sigh, and burst 
 into tears. Relieved by weeping, her spirits 
 gradually returned, and she at length said to La 
 Luc, " It is unnecessary, Sir, to ask the event of 
 your journey; yet, when you can bear to men- 
 tion the subject, I wish 
 
 La Luc waved his hand — "Alas I" said he, " I 
 have nothing to tell but what you already guess 
 too well. My poor Theodore!" — His voice was 
 convulsed with sorrow, and some moments of 
 unutterable anguish followed. 
 
 Adeline was the first who recovered sufficient 
 recollection to notice the extreme languor of La 
 Luc, and attend to his support. She ordered him 
 refreshments, and entreated he would retire to 
 his bed, and suffer her to send for a physician, 
 adding, that the fatigue he had suffered made 
 repose absolutely necessary. u Would that I 
 could find it, my dear child," said he; " it is not 
 in this world that I must look for it, but in a bet- 
 ter, and that better, I trust, I shall soon attain. 
 But where is our good friend Louis La Motte? 
 He must lead me to my son."— Grief again in- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 377 
 
 terrupted his utterance, and the entrance of 
 Louis was a very seasonable relief to tliem all. 
 Their tears explained the question he would 
 have asked; La Luc immediately inquired for 
 his son, and thanking Louis for all his kindness 
 to him, desired to he conducted to the prison. 
 Louis endeavoured to persuade him to defer his 
 visit till the morning, and Adeline and Clara 
 joined their entreaties with his; hut La Luc had 
 determined to go that night. " Ris time is shorty"' 
 said he; "a few hours, and I shall see him no 
 more, at least in this world; let me not neglect 
 these precious moments. Adeline! I had pro- 
 mised my poor hoy that he should see you once 
 more; you are not now equal to the meeting — I 
 will try to reconcile him to the disappointment; 
 but if I fail, and you are better in the morning, 
 I know you will exert yourself to sustain the in- 
 terview." — Adeline looked impatient, and at- 
 tempted to speak. La Luc rose to depart, but 
 could only reach the door of the room, where, 
 faint and feeble, he sat down in a chair. " I must 
 submit to necessity,-*' said he; "I find I am not 
 able to go farther to-night. Go to him, La Motte, 
 and tell him I am somewhat disordered by my 
 journey, but that I will be with him early in tho 
 morning. Do not flatter him with a hope; pre- 
 pare him for the worst." There was a pause 
 
 of silence; La Luc at length recovering himself, 
 desired Clara would order his bed to be got 
 ready, and she willingly obeyed. When he with- 
 drew, Adeline told Louis, what was indeed un- 
 necessary, the event of La Luc's journey; " I 
 own," continued she, " that I had sometimes suf- 
 fered myself to hope, and I now feel this calami- 
 ty with double force. I fear, too, that M. La 
 Luc will sink under its pressure; he is much 
 altered for the worse since he set out for Paris. 
 Tell me your opinion sincerely." 
 
 The change was so obvious, that Louis could 
 not deny it; but he endeavoured to soothe her 
 
378 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 apprehension, by ascribing this alteration, in a 
 great measure, to the temporary fatigue of tra- 
 velling. Adeline declared her resolution of ac- 
 companying La Luc to take leave of Theodore in 
 the morning. " I know not how I shall support 
 the interview," said she; "but to see him once 
 more is a duty I owe both to him and myself. 
 The remembrance of having neglected to give 
 him this last proof of affection, would pursue me 
 with incessant remorse." 
 
 After some farther conversation on this subject, 
 Louis withdrew to the prison, ruminating on the 
 best means of imparting to his friend the fatal 
 intelligence he had to communicate. Theodore 
 received it with more composure than he had 
 expected; but he asked with impatience, why he 
 did not see his father and Adeline ; and on being 
 informed that indisposition withheld them, his 
 imagination seized on the worst possibility, and 
 suggested that his father was dead. It was a 
 considerable time before Louis could convince 
 him of the contrary, and that Adeline was not 
 dangerously ill ; when, however, he was assured 
 that he should see them in the morning, he be- 
 came more tranquil. He desired his friend would 
 not leave him that night. " These are the last 
 hours we can pass together," added he; "I can- 
 not sleep ! Stay with me and lighten these heavy 
 moments. I have need of comfort, Louis. Young 
 as I am, and held Iry such strong attachments, I 
 cannot quit the world with resignation. I know 
 not how to credit those stories we hear of philo- 
 sophic fortitude; wisdom cannot teach us cheer- 
 fully to resign a good — and life in my circum- 
 stances is surely such!" 
 
 The night was passed in embarrassed conver- 
 sation; sometimes interrupted by long fits of si- 
 lence, and sometimes by the paroxysms of des- 
 pair; and the morning of that day which was to 
 lead Theodore to death, at length dawned through 
 the grates of his prison. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 379 
 
 La Luc meanwhile passed a sleepless and 
 dreadful night. He prayed for fortitude and 
 resignation both for himself and Theodore; but 
 the pangs of nature were powerful in his heart, 
 and not to be subdued. The idea of his lamented 
 wife, and of what she would have suffered, had 
 she lived to witness the ignominious death which 
 awaited her son, frequently occurred to him. 
 
 It seemed as if a destiny had hung over the 
 life of Theodore, for it is probable that the king 
 might have granted the petition of the unhappy 
 father, had it not happened that the Marquis de 
 Montalt was present at court when the paper 
 was presented. The appearance and singular 
 distress of the petitioner had interested the mo- 
 narch, and, instead of putting by the paper, he 
 opened it. As he threw his eyes over it, observ- 
 ing that the criminal was of the Marquis de 
 Montalt's regiment, he turned to him, and in- 
 quired the nature of the offence for which the 
 culprit was about to suffer. The answer was 
 such as might have been expected from the Mar- 
 quis, and the king was convinced that Theodore 
 was not a proper object of mercy. 
 
 But to return to La Luc, who was called, ac- 
 cording to his order, at a very early hour. Hav- 
 ing passed some time in prayer, he went down 
 to the parlour, where Louis, punctual to the mo- 
 ment, already waited to conduct him to the pri- 
 son. He appeared calm and collected; but his 
 countenance was impressed with a fixed despair 
 that sensibly affected his young friend. While 
 they waited for Adeline he spoke little, and 
 seemed struggling to attain the fortitude neces- 
 sary to support him through the approaching 
 scene. Adeline not appearing, he at length sent 
 to hasten her, and was told she had been ill, but 
 was recovering. She had, indeed, passed a night 
 of such agitation, that her frame had sunk under 
 it, and she was now endeavouring to recover 
 strength and composure sufficient to sustain her 
 
300 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 in this dreadful hour. Every moment that 
 brought her nearer to it had increased her emo- 
 tion, and the apprehension of being prevented 
 seeing Theodore had alone enabled her Lo struggle 
 against the united pressure of illness and grief. 
 
 She now, with Clara, joined La Luc, who ad- 
 vanced as they entered the room, and took a 
 hand of each in silence. After some moments he 
 proposed to go, and they stepped into a carriage 
 which conveyed them to the gates of the prison. 
 The crowd had already begun to assemble there, 
 and a confused murmur arose as the carriage 
 moved forward; it was a grievous sight to the 
 friends of Theodore. Louis supported Adeline 
 when she alighted; she was scarcely able to walk, 
 and with trembling steps she followed La Luc, 
 whom the keeper led towards that part of the 
 prison where his son was confined. It was now 
 eight o'clock; the sentence was not to be exe- 
 cuted till twelve, but a guard of soldiers was 
 already placed in the court, and as this unhappy 
 party passed along the narrow avenues, they 
 were met by several officers who had been to 
 take a last farewell of Theodore. As they ascended 
 the stairs that led to his apartment, La Luc's ear 
 caught the clink of chains, and heard him walk- 
 ing above with a quick, irregular step. The un- 
 happy father, overcome by the moment which 
 now pressed upon him, stopped, and was obliged 
 to support, himself by the banister. Louis, fear- 
 ing that the consequence of his grief might be 
 fatal, shattered as his frame already Avas, would 
 have gone for assistance, but he made a sign to 
 him to stay. " I am better," said La Luc;" O 
 God! support me through this hour!*' and in a 
 few minutes he was able to proceed. 
 
 As the warder unlocked the door, the harsh 
 grating of the key shocked Adeline, but in the 
 next moment she was in the presence of Theo- 
 dore, who sprung to meet her, and caught her in 
 his arms before she sunk to the ground. As her 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE EOHEST. 381 
 
 head reclined on his shoulder, he again viewed 
 that countenance so dear to him, which had so 
 often lighted rapture in his heart, and which, 
 though pale and inanimate as it now was, 
 awakened him to momentary delight. When 
 at length she unclosed her eyes, she fixed them 
 in long and mournful gaze upon Theodore, who 
 pressing her to his heart could answer her only 
 with a smile of mingled tenderness and despair; 
 the tears he endeavoured to restrain trembled in 
 his eyes, and he forgot for a time every thing hut 
 Adeline. La Luc, who had seated himself at the 
 foot of the bed, seemed unconscious of what 
 passed around him, and entirely absorbed in his ' 
 own grief; but Clara, as she clasped the hand of 
 her brother, and hung weeping on his arm, ex- 
 pressed aloud all the anguish of her heart, and at 
 length recalled the attention of Adeline, who, in 
 a voice scarcely audible, entreated she would 
 spare her father. Her words roused Theodore, 
 and, supporting Adeline to a chair, he turned to 
 La Luc. " My dear child!" said La Luc, grasp- 
 ing his hand, and bursting into tears, " My dear* 
 child!" They wept together. After a long inter- 
 val of silence, he said, " I thought I could have 
 supported this hour, but I am old and feeble. 
 God knows my efforts for resignation, my faith in 
 his goodness!" 
 
 Theodore, by a strong and sudden exertion as- 
 sumed a composed and firm countenance, and en- 
 deavoured, by every gentle argument, to soothe 
 and comfort his weeping friends. La Luc at 
 length seemed to conquer his sufferings; drying 
 his eyes, he said, ' mi - My son, I ought to have set 
 yon a better example, and practised the precepts 
 of fortitude I have so often given you. But it is 
 over; I know, and will perform, my duty. Ade- 
 line breathed a heavy sigh, and continued to 
 weep. " Be comforted, my love, we part but for 
 a time," said Theodore, as he kissed the tears 
 from her cheek: and uniting her hand with that 
 
382 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 of his father, he earnestly recommended her to 
 his protection. " Receive her," added he, "as 
 the most precious legacy I can bequeath; consider 
 her as your child. She will console you when 1 
 am gone, she will more than supply the loss of 
 your son." ,,,-,.-, , 
 
 La Luc assured him that he did now, and 
 should continue, to regard Adeline as his daugh- 
 ter During these afflicting hours he endea- 
 voured to dissipate the terrors of aproaching 
 death bv inspiring his son with religious confi- 
 dence "His conversation was pious, rational, 
 and consolatory: he spoke not from the cold dic- 
 tates of the head, but from the feelings of a heart 
 which had long loved and practised the pure pre- 
 cepts of Christianity, and which now drew from 
 them a comfort, such as nothing earthly could 
 
 " You are young, my son," said he, " and are 
 vet innocent of any great crime; you may, there- 
 fore, look on death without terror, for to the 
 guilty only fe its approach dreadful. I feel that 
 I shall not long survive you, and I trust in a 
 merciful God, that we shall meet in a state where 
 sorrow never comes; where the Sun oj ttightcous- 
 ness shall rise with healing in his wings!" Ashe 
 spoke he looked up; the tears still trembled in 
 his eyes, which beamed with meek vet fervent 
 devotion, and his countenance glowed with the 
 dignity of a superior being. 
 
 « Let us not neglect these awful moments,' said 
 La Luc, rising; " let our united prayers ascend to 
 Him who alone can comfort and support us! 
 They all knelt down, and he prayed with that 
 simple and sublime eloquence which true piety 
 inspires. When he rose he embraced his chil- 
 dren senarately, and when he came to Theodore, 
 he paused, gazed upon him with an earnest, 
 mournful expression, and was for some time un- 
 able to speak. Theodore could not bear this; he 
 drew his hand before his eyes, and vainly endea- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 383 
 
 voured to stifle the deep sobs which convulsed his 
 frame. At length recovering his voice, he en- 
 treated his father would leave him. " This mi- 
 sery is too much for us all," said he, " let us not 
 
 prolong it. The time is now drawing on leave 
 
 me to compose myself. The sharpness of death 
 consists in parting with those who are dear to us; 
 when that is passed, death is disarmed." 
 
 " I will not leave you, my son," replied La 
 Lnc, " my poor girls shall go, but for me, I will 
 be with you in your last moments." Theodore 
 felt that; this would be too much for them both, 
 and urged every argument which reason could 
 suggest to prevail with his father to relinquish 
 his design. But he remained firm in his determi- 
 nation, " I will not suffer a selfish consider- 
 ation of the pain I may endure," said La Luc, 
 " to tempt me to desert my child when he will 
 most require my support. It is my duty to 
 attend you, and nothing shall withhold me." 
 
 Theodore seized on the words of La Luc — " As 
 you would that I should be supported in my last 
 hour," said he , " I entreat that you will not be wit- 
 ness of it. Your presence, my dear father, would 
 subdue all my fortitude— would destroy what lit- 
 tle composure I may otherwise be able to attain. 
 Add not to my sufferings the view of your dis- 
 tress, but leave me to forget, if possible, the dear 
 parent I must quit for ever." His tears flowed 
 anew. La Luc continued to gaze on him in silent 
 agony; at length he said, " Well, be it so. If, 
 indeed, my presence would distress you, I will 
 go." His voice was broken and interrupted. 
 After a pause of some moments, he again em- 
 braced Theodore—" We must part," said he, 
 " we must part, but it is only for a time— we shall 
 
 soon be re-united in a higher world! O God! 
 
 thou seest my heart — thou seest ail its feelings in 
 this bitter hour!" Grief again overcame him. 
 He pressed Theodore in his arms; and at length, 
 seeming to summon all his fortitude, he again 
 
384 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 said, (f We must part — Oh! my son, farewell for 
 ever in this world! — The mercy of Almighty God 
 support and bless you." 
 
 He turned away to leave the prison, but, quite 
 worn out with grief, sunk into a chair near the 
 door he would have opened. Theodore gazed, 
 with a distracted countenance, alternately on his 
 father, on Clara, and on Adeline, whom he pressed 
 to his throbbing heart, and their tears flowed 
 together. " And do I then," cried he, "for the 
 last time, look upon that countenance? — Shall I 
 
 never — never more behold it? 0! exquisite 
 
 misery! Yet once again — once more," continued 
 he, pressing her cheek — but it was insensible, 
 and cold as marble. 
 
 Louis, who had left the room soon after La Luc 
 arrived, that his presence might- not interrupt 
 their farewell grief, now returned. Adeline 
 raised her head, and perceiving who entered, it 
 again sunk on the bosom of Theodore. 
 
 Louis appeared much agitated. La Luc arose, 
 " We must go," said he: " Adeline, my love, exert 
 yourself— Clara — my children, let us depart. — 
 
 Yet one last — last embrace, and then!" Louis 
 
 advanced, and took his baud: " My dear Sir, I 
 have something to say; yet I fear to tell it." — 
 t( What do you mean?" said La Luc, with quick- 
 ness: " No new misfortune can have power to 
 afflict me at this moment. Do not fear to speak " 
 " I rejoice that I cannot put you to the proof/' 
 replied Louis; "I have seen you sustain the 
 most trying affliction with fortitude. Can you 
 support the transports of hope?" — La Luc gazed 
 eagerly on Louis—" Speak," said he, in a faint 
 voice. Adeline raised her head, and, trembling 
 between hope and fear, looked at Louis as if she 
 would have searched his soul. He smiled cheer- 
 fully upon her. "Is it — 0! is it possible!" she 
 exclaimed, suddenly re-animated — "He lives! 
 He lives!" — She said no more, but ran to La Luc, 
 who sunk in his chair, while Theodore and Clara, 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. S85 
 
 with one voice, called on Louis to relieve them 
 from the tortures of suspense. 
 
 Ke proceeded to inform them, that he had ob- 
 tained, from the commanding' officer, a respite 
 for Theodore, till the king's farther pleasure 
 could be known; and this in consequence of a 
 letter received that morning from his mother, 
 Madame de la Motte, in which she mentioned 
 some very extraordinary circumstances that had 
 appeared in the course of a trial lately conducted 
 at Paris, and which so materially affected the 
 character of the Marquis de Montalt, as to ren- 
 der it possible a pardon might be obtained for 
 Theodore. 
 
 These words darted with the rapidity of light- 
 ning upon the hearts of his hearers. La Luc re- 
 vived, and that prison, so lately the scene of des- 
 pair, now echoed only to the voices of gratitude 
 and gladness. La Luc, raising his clasped hands 
 to Heaven, said, " Great God! support me in this 
 moment as thou hast already supported me I — If 
 my son lives, I die in peace." 
 
 He embraced Theodore, and remembering the 
 anguish of his last embrace, tears of thankfulness 
 and joy flowed to the contrast. So powerful, 
 indeed, was the effect of this temporary reprieve, 
 and of the hope it introduced, that if an absolute 
 pardon had been obtained, it could scarcely, for 
 the moment, have diffused a more lively joy. 
 But when the first emotions were subsided, the 
 uncertainty of Theodore's fate once more ap- 
 peared. Adeline forbore to express her sense of 
 this, but Clara, without scruple, lamented the 
 possibility that her brother might yet be taken 
 from them, and all their joy be turned to sorrow. 
 A look from Adeline checked her. Joy was, 
 however, so much the predominant feeling of the 
 present moment, that the shade which reflection 
 threw upon then- hopes passed away like the 
 cloud that is dispelled by the strength of the sun* 
 
386 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 beam; and Louis aloue was pensive and ab- 
 stracted. 
 
 When they were sufficiently composed, he in- 
 formed them that the contents of Madame de la 
 Motte's letter obliged him to set out for Paris 
 immediately; and that the intelligence he had to 
 communicate intimately concerned Adeline, who 
 would undoubtedly judge it necessary to go 
 thither also as soon as her health would permit. 
 He then read to his impatient auditors such pas- 
 sages in the letter, as were necessary to explain 
 his meaning; but as Madame de la Motte had 
 omitted to mention some circumstances of im- 
 portance to be understood, the following is a 
 relation of the occurrences that had lately hap- 
 pened at Paris. 
 
 It may be remembered, that on the first day 
 of his trial, La Motte, in passing from the courts 
 to his prison, saw a person, whose features, 
 though imperfectly seen through the dusk, he 
 thought he recollected; and that this same per- 
 son, after inquiring the name of La Motte, de- 
 sired to be admitted to him. On the following 
 day the warder complied with his request, and 
 the surprise of La Motte maybe imagined, when, 
 in the stronger light of his apartment, he distin- 
 guished the countenance of the man from whose 
 hands he had formerly received Adeline. 
 
 On observing Madame de la Motte in the room, 
 he said he had something of consequence to im- 
 part, and desired to be left alone with the pri- 
 soner. When she was gone, he told De la Motte 
 that he understood he was confined at the suit of 
 the Marquis de Montalt. La Motte assented.— 
 " I know him for a villain !" said the stranger 
 boldly. — " Your case is desperate. Do you wish 
 for life?"'—" Need the question be asked?" 
 
 w Your trial, I understand, proceeds to-morrow. 
 I am now under confinement in this place for 
 debt; but if you can obtain leave for me to go 
 with you into the courts, and a condition from 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 387 
 
 the judge, that what I reveal shall not criminate 
 myself, I will make discoveries that shall con- 
 found that same Marquis; I will prove him a 
 villain; and it shall then be judged how far his 
 word ought to be taken against you." 
 
 La Motte, whose interest was now strongly ex- 
 cited, desired he would explain himself; and 
 the man proceeded to relate a long history of 
 the misfortunes and consequent poverty which 
 had tempted him to become subservient to the 
 schemes of the Marquis, till he suddenly checked 
 himself, and said, " When I obtain from the 
 court the promise I require, I will explain my- 
 self fully; till then I cannot say more on the 
 subject." 
 
 La Motte could not forbear expressing a doubt 
 of his sincerky, and a curiosity concerning the 
 motive that had induced him to become the Mar- 
 quis's accuser. " As to my motive, it is a very 
 natural one," replied the man; "it is no easy 
 matter to receive ill-usage without resenting it, 
 particularly from a villain whom you have 
 served."— La Motte, for his own sake, endea- 
 voured to check the vehemence with which this 
 was uttered. " I care not who hears me." con- 
 tinued the stranger, but at the same time he 
 lowered his voice; " I repeat it — the Marquis 
 has used me ill — I have kept his secret long 
 enough. He does not think it worth while to 
 secure my silence, or he would relieve my neces- 
 sities. I am in prison for debt, and have applied 
 to him for relief; since he does not choose to give 
 it, let him take the consequence. I warrant he 
 shall soon repent that he has provoked me, aud 
 'tis fit he should." 
 
 The doubts of La Motte were now dissipated; 
 the prospect of life again opened upon him, and 
 he assured Du Bosse (which was the stranger's 
 name) with much warmth, that he would com- 
 mission his Advocate to do all in his power to 
 obtain leave for his appearance on the trial, and 
 
388 THE ROMANCE OF THE forest, 
 
 to procure the necessary condition. After some 
 farther conversation they parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Leave was at length granted for the appear- 
 ance of Du Bosse, with a promise that his words 
 should not criminate him, and he accompanied 
 La Motte into court. 
 
 The confusion of the Marquis de Montalt, on 
 perceiving this man, was observed by many per- 
 sons present, and particularly by La Motte, who 
 drew from this circumstance a favourable pre- 
 sage for himself. 
 
 When Du Bosse was called upon, he informed 
 the court, that, on the night of the twenty-first 
 of April, in the preceding year, one Jean D'Au- 
 noy, a man he had known many years, came 
 to his lodging. After they had discoursed for 
 some time on their circumstances, D'Aunoy said, 
 he knew a way by which Du Bosse might change 
 all his poverty to riches, but that he would not 
 say more till he^was certain he would be willing 
 to follow it. The distressed state in which Du 
 Bosse then was, made him anxious to learn the 
 means which would bring him relief; he eagerly 
 inquired what his friend meant, and, after some 
 time, D'Aunoy explained himself. He said he 
 was employed by a nobleman, (whom he after- 
 wards told Du Bosse was the Marquis de Mon- 
 talt), to carry off a young girl from a convent, 
 and that she was to be taken to a house a few 
 leagues distant from Paris, K I knew the house 
 he described Avell," said Du Bosse, " for I had 
 been there mairy times with D'Aunoy, who 
 lived there to avoid his creditors, though he often 
 passed his nights at Paris. He would not tell me 
 more of the scheme, but said he should want as- 
 sistants, and if I and my brother, who is since 
 dead, would join him, his employer would 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 389 
 
 grudge no money, and we should be well re- 
 warded. I desired him again to tell me more 
 of the plan; but he was obstinate; and after I 
 had told him I would consider of what he said, 
 and speak to my brother, he went away. 
 
 " When he called the next night for his 
 answer, my brother and I agreed to engage, and 
 accordingly we went home with him. He then 
 told us, that the young lady he was to bring 
 thither was a natural daughter of the Marquis 
 de Montalt, and of a nun belonging to a convent 
 of Ursalines: that his wife had received the 
 child immediately on its birth, and had been 
 allowed a handsome annuity to bring it up as her 
 own, which she had done till her death. The 
 child was then placed in a convent, and designed 
 for the veil; but when she was of an age to re- 
 ceive the vows, she had steadily persisted in re- 
 fusing them. This circumstance had so much 
 exasperated the Marquis, that in his rage he 
 ordered, that if she persisted in her obstinacy, 
 she should be removed from the convent, and 
 got rid of any way; since if she lived in the 
 world, her birth might be discovered, and, in 
 consequence of this, her mother, for whom he 
 had yet a regard, would be condemned to expi- 
 ate her crime by a terrible death." 
 
 Du Bosse was interrupted in his narrative by 
 the counsel of the Marquis, who contended that 
 the circumstances alleged tending to criminate 
 his client, the proceeding was both irrelevant 
 and illegal. He was answered, that it was not 
 irrelevant, and therefore not illegal; for that the 
 circumstances which threw light upon the cha- 
 racter of the Marquis, affected his evidence 
 against La Motte. Du Bosse was suffered to 
 proceed. 
 
 "D'Aunoy then said, that the Marquis had 
 ordered him to despatch her, but that as he had 
 been used to see her from her infancy, lie could 
 25 
 
390 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 not find in his heart to do it, and wrote to tell 
 him so. The Marquis then commanded him to 
 find those who would; and this was the business 
 for which he wanted us. My brother and I were 
 not so wicked as this came to, and so we told 
 D'Aunoy; and I could not help asking wiry the 
 Marquis resolved to murder his own child, 
 rather than expose her mother to the risk of 
 suffering death. He said the Marquis had never 
 seen his child, and that, therefore, it could not he 
 supposed he felt much kindness towards it, and 
 still less that he could love it better than he 
 loved its mother." 
 
 Du Bosse proceeded to relate how much he 
 and his brother had endeavoured to soften the 
 heart of D'Aunoy towards the Marquis's daugh- 
 ter, and that the} 7 prevailed with him to write 
 again and plead for her. D'Aunoy went to Paris 
 to await the answer, leaving them and the young 
 girl at the house on the heath, where the former 
 had consented to remain, seemingly fGr the pur- 
 pose of executing the orders they might receive, 
 but really with a design to save the devoted 
 victim from the sacrifice. 
 
 It is probable that Du Bosse, in this instance, 
 gave a false account of his motive, since, if he 
 really was guilty of an intention so atrocious as 
 that of murder, he would naturally endeavour to 
 conceal it. However this might be, he affirmed 
 that, on the night of the twenty-sixth of April, 
 he received an order from D'Aunoy for the de- 
 struction of the girl, whom he had afterwards 
 delivered into the hands of La Motte. 
 
 La Motte listened to this relation in astonish- 
 ment; when he knew that Adeline was the 
 daughter of the Marquis, and remembered the 
 crime to which he had once devoted her, his 
 fiame thrilled with horror. He now took up the 
 story, and added an account of what had passed 
 at the abbey, between the Marquis and himself, 
 ksQncern,iBg a design pf t^he fipraief-uppf) th§ U» 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 391 
 
 of Adeline; urging, as a proof of the present 
 prosecution originating in malice, that it had 
 commenced immediately after he had effected 
 lier escape from the Marquis. He concluded, 
 however, with saying, that as the Marquis had 
 immediately sent his people in pursuit of her, it 
 %vas possible she might have yet fallen a victim 
 to his vengeance. 
 
 Here the Marquis's counsel again interfered, 
 and their objections were again over-ruled by 
 the court. The uncommon degree of emotion 
 which his countenance betrayed during the nar- 
 rations of Du Bosse and De la Motte, was gene- 
 rally observed. The court suspended the sen- 
 tence of the latter, ordered that the Marquis' 
 should be put under immediate arrest, and that 
 Adeline, (the name given by her foster-mother), 
 and Jean D' Annoy, should be sought for. 
 
 The Marquis was accordingly seized at the 
 suit of the crown, and put under confinement 
 till Adeline should appear, or proof could be 
 obtained that she died by his order, and till 
 D'Auuoy should confirm or destroy the evidence 
 of De la Motte. 
 
 Madame, who at length obtained intelligence 
 of her son's residence from the town where he 
 was formerly stationed, had acquainted him 
 with his father's situation, and the proceedings 
 of the trial; and as she believed that Adeline, if 
 she had been so fortunate as to escape the Mar- 
 quis's pursuit, was still in Savoy, she desired 
 Louis would obtain leave of absence, and bring 
 her to Paris, where her immediate presence was 
 requisite, to substantiate the evidence, and pro- 
 bably to save the life of La Motte. 
 
 On the receipt of her letter, which happened 
 on the morning appointed for the execution of 
 Theodore, Louis went immediately to the com- 
 manding officer, to petition for a respite till the 
 twigs farther pleasure liquid ha known/ 63 
 
392 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 and showed the letter he had just received. The 
 commanding officer readily granted a reprieve, 
 and Louis, who, on the arrival of this letter, had 
 forborne to communicate its contents to Theo- 
 dore, lest it should torture him with false hope, 
 now hastened to him with this comfortable news. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 On learning the purpose of Madame de la 
 Motte's letter, Adeline saw the necessity of her 
 immediate departure for Paris. The life of La 
 Motte, who had more than saved her's, the life, 
 perhaps, of her beloved Theodore, depended on 
 the testimony she could give. And she, who had 
 so lately been sinking under the influence of illness 
 and despair, who could scarcely raise her languid 
 head, or speak but in the faintest accents, now, 
 reanimated with hope, and invigorated by a 
 sense of the importance of the business before 
 her, prepared to perform a rapid journey of some 
 hundred miles. 
 
 Theodore tenderly entreated that she would so 
 far consider her health as to delay this journey 
 for a few days; but with a smile of enchanting 
 tenderness she assured him that she was now too 
 happy to be ill, and that the same cause which 
 would confirm her happiness would confirm her 
 health. So strong was the effect of hope upon 
 her mind, now that it succeeded to the misery of 
 despair, that it overcame the shock she suffered 
 on believing herself a daughter of the Marquis, 
 and every other painful reflection. She did not 
 even foresee the obstacle that circumstance 
 might produce to her union with Theodore, 
 should he at last be permitted to live. 
 
 It was settled that she should set off for Paris 
 in a few hours with Louis, and attended by Pe- 
 ter. These hours were passed by La Lue and 
 his family in the prison* 
 
THE ROMANCE OF XHEvPOBEST. 393 
 
 When the time of" her departure arrived, the 
 spirits of Adeline again forsook her, and the illu- 
 sions of joy disappeared. She no longer heheld 
 Theodore as one respited from death, but took 
 leave of him with a mournful pre-sentiment that 
 she should see him no more. So strongly was this 
 presage impressed upon her mind, that it was long 
 before she could summon resolution to bid him 
 farewell; and when she had done so, and even 
 left the apartment, she returned to take of him a 
 last look. As she was once more quitting the 
 room, her melaucholy imagination represented 
 Theodore at the place of execution, pale, and 
 convulsed in death ; she again turned her linger- 
 ing eyes upon him, hut fancj' affected her sense, 
 for she thought as she now gazed, that his coun- 
 tenance changed, and assumed a ghastly hue. 
 All her resolution vanished, and such was the 
 anguish of her heart, that she resolved to defer 
 her journey till the morrow, though she must by 
 this means lose the protection of Louis, whose 
 impatience to meet his father would not suffer 
 pie delay. The triumph of passion, however, 
 was transient; soothed by the indulgence she 
 promised herself, her grief subsided, reason 
 assumed its influence; she again saw the neces- 
 sity of her immediate departure, and re-collected 
 sufficient resolution to submit. La Luc would 
 have accompanied her for the purpose of again 
 soliciting the king in behalf of his son, had not 
 the extreme weakness and lassitude to which he 
 was reduced made travelling impracticable. 
 
 At length, Adeline, with a heavy heart, quitted 
 Theodore, notwithstanding his entreaties that 
 she would not undertake the journey in her 
 present weak state, and was accompanied by 
 Clara and La Luc to the inn. The former parted 
 from her friend with many tears, and much 
 anxiety for her welfare, but under a hope of soon 
 meeting again. Should a pardon be granted to 
 Theodore, La Luc designed to fetch Adeline from 
 
&S4 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 Paris; but should this be refused, she was to re- 
 turn with Peter. He hade her adieu with a 
 father's kindness, which she repaid with a filial 
 affection, and in her last words conjured him to 
 attend to the recovery of his health; the languid 
 smile he assumed seemed to express that her 
 solicitude was vain, and that he thought his 
 health past recovery. 
 
 Thus Adeline quitted the friends so justly dear 
 to her, and so lately found, for Paris, where she 
 was a stranger, almost without protection, and 
 compelled to meet a father who had pursued her 
 with the utmost cruelty, in a public court of jus- 
 tice. The carriage, in leaving Vaceau, passed by 
 the prison; she threw an eager look towards it 
 as she passed: its heavy black walls, and narrow- 
 grated windows, seemed to frown upon her hopes 
 
 but Theodore was there, and leaning from 
 
 the window, she continued to gaze upon it till an 
 abrupt turning in the street concealed it from her 
 view. She then sunk back in the caiTiage, and 
 yielding to the melancholy of her heart, wept in 
 silence. Louis was not disposed to interrupt it; 
 his thoughts were anxiously employed on his 
 father's situation, and the travellers proceeded 
 many miles without exchanging a word. 
 
 At Paris, whither we shall now return, the 
 search after Jean D'Aunoy was prosecuted with- 
 out success. The house on the heath, described 
 by Du Bopse, was found uninhabited, and to the 
 places of his usual resort in the city, where the 
 officers of the police awaited him, he no longer 
 came. It even appeared doubtful whether he 
 was living, for he had absented himself from the 
 houses of his customary rendezvous some time 
 before the trial of La Motte; it was therefore 
 certain that his absence was not occasioned by 
 any thing which had passed in the courts. 
 
 In the solitude of his confinement the Marquis 
 do Montalt had leisure to reflect on the past. 
 Slid to repent of his crimes; but reflection and 
 
THE HOUANCE OF THE FOREST. 395 
 
 repentance formed as yet no part of his disposi- 
 tion. He turned with impatience from recollec 
 tions which produced only pain, and looked for 
 ward to the future with an endeavour to avert 
 the disgrace and punishment which he saw im- 
 pending. The elegance of his manners had so 
 effectually veiled the depravity of his heart, that 
 he was a favourite with his sovereign; and on 
 this circumstance he rested his hope of security. 
 He, however, severely repented that he had in 
 dulged the hasty spirit of revenge which, had 
 urged him to the prosecution of La Motte, and 
 had thus unexpectedly involved him in a situa- 
 tion dangerous — if not fatal — since, if Adeline 
 could not he found, he would he concluded 
 guilty of her death/ But the appeai'ance of 
 D' Annoy was the circumstance he most dreaded; 
 and to oppose the possibility of this he employed 
 secret emissaries to discover his retreat, and to 
 bribe him to his interest. These were, however, 
 as unsuccessful in their research as the officers of 
 police, and the Marquis at length began to hope 
 the man was really dead. 
 
 La Motte, meanwhile, awaited with trembling 
 impatience the arrival of his son, when he should 
 be relieved, in some degree, from his uncertainty 
 concerning Adeline. On her appearance he 
 rested his only hope of life, since the evidence 
 against him would lose much of its validity from 
 the confirmation she would give of the bad cha- 
 racter of his prosecutor; and if the parliament 
 even condemned La Motte, the clemency of the 
 king might yet operate in his favour. 
 
 Adeline arrived at Paris after a journey of 
 several days, during which she was chiefly sup- 
 ported by the delicate attention of Louis, whom 
 she pitied and revered, though she could not 
 love. She was immediately visited at the hotel 
 by Madame La Motte: the meeting was affect- 
 ing on both sides. A sense of her past conduct 
 excited in the latter an embarrassment which the 
 
336 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 delicacy and goodness of Adeline would willingly 
 have spared her; but the pardon solicited was 
 given with so much sincerity, that Madame 
 gradually became composed and re-assured. 
 This forgiveness, however, could not have been 
 thus easily granted, had Adeline believed her 
 former conduct was voluntary; a conviction of 
 the restraint and terror under which Madame 
 had acted alone induced her to excuse the past. 
 In this first meeting they forbore dwelling on 
 particular subjects; Madame La Motte proposed 
 that Adeline should remove from the hotel to 
 her lodgings near the Chatelet, and Adeline, for 
 whom a residence at a public hotel was very 
 improper, gladly accepted the offer. 
 
 Madame there gave her a circumstantial ac- 
 count of La Motte'e situation, and concluded with 
 saying, that as the sentence of her husband had 
 ~heen suspended till some certainty could be ob- 
 tained concerning the late criminal designs of the 
 Marquis, and Adeline could confirm the chief 
 part of La Motte's testimony, it was probable 
 that now she was arrived, the court would pro- 
 ceed immediately. She now learnt the full ex- 
 tent of her obligation to La Motte; for she was 
 till now ignorant, that when he sent her from the 
 forest, he saved her from death. Her horror of 
 the Marquis, whom she could not bear to consi- 
 der as her father, and her gratitude to her deli- 
 verer, redoubled, and she became impatient to 
 five the testimony so necessary to the hopes of 
 er preserver. Madame then said she believed 
 it was not too late to gain admittance that night 
 to the Chatelet; and as she knew how anxiously 
 her husband wished to see Adeline, she entreated 
 her consent to go thither. Adeline, though much 
 harassed and fatigued, complied. When Louis 
 returned from M. Nemours, his father's advocate, 
 whom he had hastened to inform of her arrival, 
 they all set out for the Chatelet. The view of the 
 prison into which they were now admitted so for- 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOXIEST. 397 
 
 cibly recalled to Adeline's mind the situation of 
 Theodore, that she with difficulty supported her- 
 self to the apartment of La Motte. When he 
 saw her a gleam of joy passed over his counte- 
 nance; hut again relapsing into despondency, he 
 looked mournfully at her, and then at Louis, and 
 groaned deeply. Adeline, in whom all remem- 
 brance of his former cruelty was lost in his sub- 
 sequent kindness, expressed her thankfulness for 
 the life he had preserved, and her anxiety to 
 serve him, in warm and repeated terms. But her 
 gratitude evidently distressed him; instead of re- 
 conciling him to himself, it seemed to awaken a 
 remembrance of the guilty designs he had once 
 assisted, and to strike the fangs of conscience 
 deeper in his heart. Endeavouring to conceal 
 his emotions, he entered on the subject of his 
 present danger, and informed Adeline what testi- 
 mony would be required of her on the trial. Af- 
 ter above an hour's conversation with La Motte. 
 she returned to the lodgings of Madame, where, 
 languid and ill, she withdrew to her chamber, 
 and tried to obliviate her anxieties in sleep. 
 
 The Parliament which conducted the trial re- 
 assembled in a few days after the arrival of Ade- 
 line, and the two remaining witnesses of the Mar- 
 quis, on whom he now rested his cause against 
 La Motte, appeared. She was led trembling into 
 the court, where almost the first object that met 
 her eyes was the Marquis de Montalt, whom she 
 now beheld with an emotion entirely new to her, 
 and which was strongly tinctured with horror. 
 When Du Bosse saw her he immediately swore 
 to her identity; his testimony was confirmed by 
 her manner; for on perceiving him she grew pale, 
 and a universal tremor seized her. Jean D' An- 
 noy could no where be found, and La Motte was 
 thus deprived of an evidence which essentially 
 affected his interest. Adeline, when called upon, 
 gave her little narrative with clearness and pre- 
 cision; and Peter, who had conveyed her from 
 
3$8 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the Abbey, supported the testimony she offered. 
 The evidence produced was sufficient to crimi- 
 nate the Marquis of the intention of murder, in 
 the minds of most people present; but it was not 
 sufficient to affect the testimony of his two last 
 witnesses, who positively swore to the commis- 
 sion of the robbery, and to the person of La 
 Motte, on whom sentence of death was accord- 
 ingly pronounced. On receiving this sentence 
 the unhappy criminal fainted, and the compas- 
 sion of the assembly, whose feelings had been 
 unusually interested in the decision, was ex- 
 pressed in a general groan. 
 
 Their attention was quickly called to a new 
 object— it was Jean D'Aunoy who now entered 
 the court, But his evidence, if it could ever in- 
 deed have been the means of saving La Motte, 
 came t^oo late. He was re-conducted to prison; 
 but Adeline, who, extremely shocked by his sen- 
 tence, was much indisposed, received orders to 
 remain in court during the examination of D'Au- 
 noy. This man had been at length found in the 
 prison of a provincial town, where some of his 
 creditors had thrown him, and from which even 
 the money which the Marquis had remitted to 
 him for the purpose of satisfying the craving im- 
 portunities of Du Bosse, had been insufficient to 
 release him. Meanwhile the revenge of the lat- 
 ter had been roused against the Marquis by an 
 imaginary neglect, and the money which was de- 
 signed to relieve his necessities was spent by 
 D'Aunoy in riotous luxury. 
 
 He was confronted with Adeline and with Du 
 Bosse, and ordered to confess all he knew con- 
 cerning this mysterious affah', or to undergo the 
 torture. D'Aunoy, who was ignorant how far the 
 suspicions concerning the Marquis extended, and 
 who was conscious that his own words might 
 condemn him, remained for some time obsti- 
 nately silent; but when the question was adminis- 
 tered his resolution gave way, and he confessed 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 699 
 
 a crime of -which he had not even been sus- 
 pected. 
 
 It appeared, that in the year 1642. D'Aunoy, 
 together with one Jacques Martigny, ana Fran- 
 cis Balliere, had waylaid, and seized, Henry 
 Marquis de Montalt, half brother to Phillipe; and 
 after having robbed him, and bound his servant 
 to a tree, according to the orders they had re- 
 ceived, they conveyed him to the abbey of St. 
 Clair, in the distant forest of Fontanville. Here 
 he was confined for some time, till farther direc- 
 tions were received from Phillipe de Montalt, the 
 present Marquis, who was then on his estates in 
 a northern province of France. These orders 
 were for death, and the unfortunate Henry was 
 assassinated in his chamber, in the third week of 
 his confinement at the abbey. 
 
 On hearing this Adeline grew faint: she re- 
 membered the MS. she had found, together with 
 the extraordinary circumstances that had attend- 
 ed the discovery; every nerve thrilled with hor- 
 ror, and raising her eyes she saw the countenance 
 of the Marquis overspread with the livid paleness 
 of guilt. She endeavoured, however, to arrest 
 her fleeting spirits while the man proceeded in 
 his confession. 
 
 When the murder was perpetrated D'Aunoy 
 had returned to his employer, who gave him the 
 reward agreed upon, and in a few months after 
 delivered into his hands the infant daughter of 
 the late Marquis, whom he conveyed to a distant 
 part of the kingdom, where, assuming the name 
 of St. Pierre, he brought her up as his own child, 
 receiving from the present Marquis a consider- 
 able annuity for his secrecy. 
 
 Adeline, no longer able to struggle with the 
 tumult of emotions that now rushed upon her 
 heart, uttered a deep sigh, and fainted away. 
 She was carried from the court, and, when the 
 confusion occasioned by this circumstance sub- 
 sided, Jean D'Aunoy went on. He related, that 
 
400 Tgg ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 on the death of his wife, Adeline was placed in a 
 convent, from whence she was afterwai'ds remo- 
 ved to another, where the Marquis had destined 
 her to receive the vows. That her determined 
 rejection of them had occasioned him to resolve 
 upon her death, and that she had accordingly 
 been removed to the house on the heath. D'Ati- 
 noy added, that by the Marquis's order, he had 
 misled Du Bosse with a false story of her birth. 
 Having, after sometime, discovered that his com- 
 rades had deceived him concerning her death, 
 D'Aunoy separated from them in enmity; but 
 they unanimously determined to conceal her es- 
 cape from the Marquis, that they might enjoy 
 the recompense of their supposed crime. Some 
 months subsequent to this period, however, 
 D'Aunoy received a letter from the Marquis, 
 charging him with the truth, and promising him 
 a large reward if he would confess where he had 
 placed Adeline. In consequence of this letter, 
 he acknowledged that she had been given into 
 the hands of a stranger; but who he was, or 
 where he lived, was not known. 
 
 Upon these depositions Phillipe de Montalt 
 was committed to take his trial for the murder of 
 Henry, his brother; D'Aunoy was thrown into a 
 dungeon of the Chatelet, and Du Bosse was bound 
 to appear as evidence. 
 
 The feelings of the Marquis, who, in a prose- 
 cution stimulated by revenge, had thus unex- 
 pectedly exposed his crimes to the public eye, 
 and betrayed himself to justice, can only be ima- 
 gined. The passions which had tempted him to 
 the commission of a crime so horrid as that of 
 murder — and what, if possible, heightened its 
 atrocity, the murder of one connected with him 
 by the ties of blood and by habits of even infan- 
 tine association— the passions which had stimu- 
 lated him to so monstrous a deed, Avere ambition, 
 and the love of pleasure. The first was more 
 immediately gratified by the title of his brother; 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST, 401 
 
 the latter by the riches which Avould enable him 
 to indulge his voluptuous inclinations. 
 
 The late Marquis de Mont alt, the father of 
 Adeline, received from his ancestors a patrimony 
 very inadequate to support the splendour of his 
 rank ; but he had married the heiress of an illustri- 
 ous family, -whose fortune amply supplied the de- 
 ficiency of his own. He had the misfortune to 
 lose her, for she was amiable and beautiful, soon 
 after the birth of a daughter; and it was then 
 that the present Marquis formed the diabolical 
 design of destroying his brother. The contrast 
 of their characters prevented that cordial regard 
 between them which their near relationship 
 seemed to demand. Henry was benevolent, mild, 
 and contemplative. In his heart reigned the love 
 of virtue; in his manners the strictness of justice 
 was tempered, not weakened, by mercy; his 
 mind was enlarged by science, and adorned by 
 elegant literature. The character of Phiilipe has 
 been already delineated in his actions; its nicer 
 shades were blended with some shining tints; 
 but these served only to render more striking by 
 contrast, the general darkness of the portrait. 
 
 He had married a lady, who by the death of 
 her brother inherited considerable estates, of 
 which the abbey of St. Clair, and the villa on the 
 borders of the forest of Fontanville, were the 
 chief. His passion for magnificence and dissi- 
 pation, however, soon involved him in difficulties, 
 and pointed out to him the conveniency of pos- 
 sessing his brother's wealth. His brother and 
 his infant daughter only stood between him and 
 his wishes; how he removed the father has been 
 already related: why he did not employ the 
 same means to secure the child, seems somewhat 
 surprising, unless we admit that a destiny hung 
 over him on this occasion, and that she was 
 suffered to live as an instrument to punish the 
 murderer of her parent. When a retrospect is 
 taken of the vicissitudes and dangers to which 
 
402 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 she had been exposed from her earliest infancy, 
 it appears as if her preservation was the effect of 
 something more than human policy, and affords 
 a striking instance, that justice, however long 
 delayed, will overtake the guilty. 
 
 While the late unhappy Marquis was suffering 
 at the abbey, his brother, who to avoid suspicion 
 remained in the north of France, delayed the 
 execution of his horrid purpose from a timidity 
 natural to a mind not yet inured to enormous 
 guilt. Before he dared to deliver his final orders, 
 he waited to know whether the story he con- 
 trived to propagate of his brother's death, would 
 veil his crime from suspicion. It succeeded but 
 too well; for the servant, whose life had been 
 spared that he might relate the tale, naturally 
 enough concluded that his lord had been mur- 
 dered by banditti; and the peasant, who a few 
 hours after, found the servant wounded, bleed- 
 ing, and bound to a tree, and knew also that this 
 spot was infested by robbers, as naturally believ- 
 ed him, and spread the report accordingly. 
 
 From this period the Marquis, to whom the 
 abbej T of St. Clair belonged, in right of his wife, 
 visited it only twice, and that at distant times, 
 till after an interval of several years he acci- 
 dentally found La Motte its inhabitant. He re- 
 sided at Paris, and on his estate in the north, ex- 
 cept that once a year he usually passed a month 
 at his delightful villa on the borders of the 
 forest. In the busy scenes of the court, and in 
 the dissipations of pleasure, he tried to lose the 
 remembrance of his guilt; but there were times 
 when the voice of conscience would be heard, 
 though it was soon again lost in the tumult of the 
 world. 
 
 It is probable, that on the night of his abrupt 
 departure from the abbey, the solitary silence 
 and gloom of the hour, in a place which l;ad 
 been the scene of his former 'crime, called up 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 403 
 
 powerful for fancy, and awakened horrors which 
 compelled him to quit the polluted spot. If it 
 was so, it is however certain that the spectres of 
 conscience vanished with the darkness; for, on 
 the following day, he returned to the abbey, 
 though it may he observed, he never attempted 
 to pass another night there. But though terror 
 was roused for a transient moment, neither pity 
 or repentance succeeded; since, when the dis- 
 covery of Adeline's birth excited apprehension 
 for his own life, he did not hesitate to repeat the 
 crime, and would again have stained his soul 
 with human blood. This discovery was effected 
 by means of a seal, bearing the arms of her 
 mother's family, which was impressed on the 
 note his servant had found, and had delivered to 
 him at Caux. It may be remembered, that hav- 
 ing read this note he was throwing it from him 
 in the fury of jealousy; but that, after examin- 
 ing it again, it was carefully deposited in his 
 pocket-book. The violent agitation which a sus- 
 picion of this terrible truth occasioned, deprived 
 him. for a while of all power to act. When he 
 was well enough to write, he despatched a letter 
 to D'Aunoy, the purport of which has been 
 already mentioned. From D'Aunoy he receiv- 
 ed the confirmation of his fear. Knowing that 
 his life must pay the forfeiture of his crime, 
 should Adeline ever obtain a knowledge of her 
 birth, and not daring again to confide in the 
 secrecy of a man who had once deceived him, he 
 resolved, after some deliberation, on her death. 
 He immediately set out for the abbey, and gave 
 those directions concerning her, which terror for 
 his own safety, still more than a desire of retain- 
 ing her estates, suggested. 
 
 As the history of the seal which revealed the 
 birth of Adeline is rather remarkable, it may 
 not be amiss to mention, that it was stolen from 
 the Marquis, together with a gold watch, by 
 Jean D'Aunoy; the watch, wgs £,• -%:■ iirr^yd of 
 
401 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 
 
 but the seal had been kept as a pretty trinket by 
 his wife, and at her death went with Adeline 
 among iier clothes to the convent. Adeline had 
 carefully preserved it, because it had once be- 
 longed to the woman whom she believed to have 
 been her mother. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 We now return to the course of the narrative, 
 and to Adeline, who was carried from the court 
 to the lodging of Madame de la Motte. Madame 
 was, however, at the Chatelet with her husband, 
 suffering all the distress which the sentence pro- 
 nounced against him might be supposed to inflict. 
 The feeble frame of Adeline, so long harassed 
 by grief and fatigue, almost sunk under the agi- 
 tation which the discovery of her birth excited. 
 Her feelings on this occasion were too complex 
 to be analyzed. From an orphan, subsisting on 
 1he bounty of others, without family, with few 
 friends, and pursued by a cruel and powerful 
 enemy,' she saw herself suddenly transformed to 
 the daughter of an illustrious house, and the heir- 
 ess of immense wealth. But she learned also 
 that her father had been murdered — murdered 
 in the prime of his days — murdered by means of 
 his brother, against whom she must now appear, 
 and in punishing the destroyer of her parent, 
 doom her uncle to death. 
 
 When she remembered the manuscript so sin- 
 gularly found, and considered that when she wept 
 to the sufferings it described, her tears had flow- 
 ed for those of her father, her emotion cannot 
 easily be imagined. The circumstances attend- 
 ing the discovery of these papers no longer ap- 
 peared to be a work of chance, but of a Power 
 whose designs are great and just. a my father!" 
 she would exclaim, M j-cur last wish is fulfilled — 
 the pitying heart you wished might trace your 
 sufferings, shall avenge them." 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 405 
 
 On the return of Madame La Motte, Adeline 
 endeavoured, as usual, to suppress her own emo- 
 tions, that she might soothe the affliction of her 
 friend. She related what had passed in the 
 court after the departure of La Motte, and thus 
 caused even in the sorrowful heart of Madame a 
 momentary gleam of satisfaction. Adeline de- 
 termined to recover, if possible, the manuscript. 
 On inquiry she learned that La Motte, in the 
 confusion of his departure, had left it among 
 other things at the abbey. This circumstance 
 much distressed her; the more so, because she 
 believed its appearance might be of importance 
 on the approaching trial: she determined, how- 
 ever, if she should recover her rights, to have the 
 manuscript sought for. 
 
 In the evening Louis joined this mournful 
 party: he came immediately from his father, 
 whom he left more tranquil than he had been 
 since the fatal sentence was pronounced. After 
 a silent and melancholy supper they separated 
 for the night, and Adeline, in the solitude of her 
 chamber, had leisure to meditate on the dis- 
 coveries of this eventful day. The sufferings of 
 her dead father, such as she has read them re- 
 corded by his ow7i handy pressed most forcibly to 
 her thoughts. The narrative had formerly so 
 much affected her heart, and interested her 
 imagination, that her memory now faithfully re- 
 flected each particular circumstance there dis- 
 eioa- ■;. But v" ti she considered that she had 
 been in the very chamber where her parent had 
 suffered, where even his life had been sacrificed, 
 and that she had probably seen the very dagger, 
 seen it stained with rust, the rust of blood! by 
 which he had fallen, the anguish and horror of 
 her mind defied all control. 
 
 On the following day Adeline received orders 
 to prepare for the prosecution of the Marquis de 
 Montalt, which was to commence as soon us the 
 
406 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 
 
 requisite witnesses could be collected. Among 
 these were the Abbess of the Convent who had 
 received her from the hands of D' Annoy; Ma- 
 dame La Motte, who was present when Du Bosse 
 compelled her husband to receive Adeline; and 
 Peter, who had not only been witness to this cir- 
 cumstance, but who had conveyed her from the 
 abbey, that she might escape the designs of the 
 Marquis. La Motte and Theodore La Luc were 
 incapacitated by the sentence of the law from 
 appealing on the trial. 
 
 When La Motte was informed of the discovery 
 of Adeline's birth, and that her father had been 
 murdered at the abbey of St. Clair, he instantly 
 remembered, and mentioned to his wife, the 
 skeleton lie found in the stone room leading to 
 the subterranean cells. Neither of them doubted, 
 from the situation in which it lay, hid in a chest 
 in an obscure room strongly guarded, that La 
 Motte had seen the remains of the late Marquis. 
 Madame, however, determined not to shock 
 Adeline with the mention of this circumstance till 
 it should be necessary to declare it on the trial. 
 
 As the time of this trial drew near, the distress 
 and agitation of Adeline increased. Though 
 justice demanded the life of the murderer, and 
 though the tenderness and pity which the idea of 
 her father called forth urged her to avenge his 
 death, she could not without horror consider her- 
 s^ l f as the instrument of dispensing that justice 
 which would deprive a fellow-being of existence; 
 and there were times when she wished the secret 
 of her birth had never been revealed. If this 
 sensibility was, in her peculiar circumstances, a 
 weakness, it was at least an amiable one, and as 
 such deserves to be reverenced. 
 
 The accounts she received from Vaceau of the 
 health of M, La Luc did not contribute to tran- 
 quillize her mind. The symptoms described by 
 Clara seemed to say that he was in the last stage 
 fcf a consumption, and the grief of Theodore and 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 407 
 
 herself oa this occasion -was expressed in her' 
 letters with the lively eloquence so natural to 
 her. Adeline loved and revered La Luc for his 
 own worth, and for the parental tenderness he- 
 had shown her; but he was still dearer to her as 
 the father of Theodore, and her concern for his 
 declining state was not inferior to that of his 
 children. It was increased by the reflection that 
 she had probably been the means of shortening* 
 his life; for she too well knew that the distress 
 occasioned him by the situation in which it had. 
 been her misfortune to involve Theodore, had 
 shattered his frame to its present infirmity. The 
 same cause also withheld him from seeking in. 
 the climate of Montpellier the relief he had 
 formerly been taught to expect there. When 
 she looked round on the condition of her friends, 
 her heart was almost overwhelmed with the 
 prospect; it seemed as if she was destined to in- 
 volve all those most dear to her in calamity. 
 With respect to La Motte, whatever were his 
 vices, and whatever the designs in which he 
 had formerly engaged against her, she forgot them 
 all in the service he had finally rendered hei, 
 and considered it to be as much her duty, as she 
 felt it to be her inclination, to intercede in his 
 behalf. This, however, in her present situation, 
 she could not do with any hope of success; but if 
 the suit, upon which depended the re-establish- 
 ment of her rank, her fortune, and consequently 
 ber influence, should be decided in her favour, she 
 determined to throw herself at the king's feet, 
 and, when she pleaded the cause of Theodore, ask 
 the life of La Motte. 
 
 A few days preceding that of the trial, Adeline 
 was informed a stranger desired to speak with 
 her, and on going to the room where he was, she 
 found M. Verneuil. Her countenance expressed 
 both surprise and satisfaction at this unexpected 
 meeting, and she inquired, though with little ex- 
 pectation of an affirmative, if he had heard of M. 
 
408 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 La Lttc. " I have seen him," said M. Verneuil, 
 " I am jnst come from Vaceau. But I am sorry 
 I caanot give you a better account of his health. 
 He is greatly altered since I saw him before. 
 
 Adeline could scarcely refrain from tears at the 
 recollection these words revived of the calamities 
 whicli had occasioned this lamented change. M. 
 Verneuil delivered her a packet from Clara; as 
 he presented it he said, " Beside this introduc- 
 tion to your notice, I have a claim of a different 
 kind, which I am proud to assert, and which will, 
 perhaps, justify the permission I ask of speaking 
 upon vour affairs."— Adeline bowed, and M. 
 Verneuil, with a countenance expressive of the 
 most tender solicitude, added, that he had heard 
 of the late proceedings of the parliament of Pans, 
 and of the discoveries that so intimately con- 
 cerned her. "I know not," continued he, 
 " whether I ought to congratulate or condole 
 with vou, on this trying occasion. That I sin- 
 cerely sympathize in all that concerns you, I 
 hope vou will believe, and I cannot deny myself 
 the pleasure of telling you, that I am related, 
 though distantly, to the late Marchioness your 
 mother; for that she was your mother, I cannot 
 
 Adeline rose hastily and advanced towards M. 
 Verneuil; surprise and satisfaction re-animated 
 her features. " Do I indeed see a relation?" said 
 she in a sweet aud tremulous voice, " and one 
 whom I can welcome as a friend?" Tears trem- 
 bled in her eyes; and she received M. Verneuil s 
 embrace in silence. It was some time before her 
 emotion would permit her to speak. 
 
 To \deline, who from her earliest mlancy had 
 been abandoned to strangers, a forlorn aud help- 
 less orphan, who had never till lately known a 
 relation, and who then found one in the person of 
 an inveterate enemy, to her this discovery was as 
 delightful as was unexpected. But after strug- 
 gling for some time with the various emotions 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 409 
 
 that pressed upon her heart, she begged M. Ver- 
 neuil's permission to -withdraw till she could 
 recover composure. He would have taken leave, 
 but she entreated him not to go. 
 
 The interest which M. Verneuil took in the 
 concerns of La Luc, which was strengthened by 
 his increasing regard for Clara, had drawn him to 
 Vaceau, where he was informed of the family and 
 peculiar circumstances of Adeline. On receiving 
 this intelligence he immediateh r set out for 
 Paris, to offer his protection and assistance to his 
 newly-discovered relation, and to aid, if possible, 
 the cause of Theodore. 
 
 Adeline in a short time returned, and could 
 then bear to converse on the subject of her 
 family. M. Verneuil offered her his support and 
 assistance if they should be found necessary. 
 "But I trust," added he, "to the justness of 
 your cause, and hope it will not require any ad- 
 ventitious aid. To those who remember the late 
 Marchioness, your features bring sufficient evi- 
 dence of your birth. As a proof that my judg- 
 ment in this instance is not biassed by prejudice, 
 the resemblance struck me when 1 was in Savoy, 
 though I knew the Marchioness only by her 
 portrait; and 1 believe I mentioned to M. La 
 Luc, that you often reminded me of a deceased 
 relation. You may form some judgment of this 
 yourself," added M. Verneuil, taking a minia- 
 ture from his pocket. " This was your amiable 
 mother." 
 
 Adeline's countenance changed; she received 
 the picture eargerly, gazed on it for a long time 
 in silence, and her eyes filled with tears. It was 
 not the resemblance she studied, but the coun- 
 tenance — the mild and beautiful countenance of 
 her parent, whose blue eyes, full of tender sweet- 
 ness, seemed bent upon her's, while a soft smile 
 played on her lips. Adeline pressed the picture 
 to her's, and again gazed in silent reverie. At 
 length, with a deep sigh, she said, IJ This surely 
 
4'iO THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 was my mother. Had Bhe bid lived, O my poor 
 father! you had been spared." This reflection 
 quite overcame her, and she burst into tears. M. 
 Verneuil did not interrupt her grief, but took her 
 hand and sat by her, without speaking, till she 
 became more composed. Again kissing the pic- 
 ture, she held it out to him with a hesitating 
 look. " No," said he, " it is already with its true 
 owner." She thanked him with a smile of ineffa- 
 ble sweetness, and after some conversation on 
 the subject of the approaching trial, on which 
 occasion she requested M. Verneuil would sup- 
 port her by his presence, he withdrew, having beg- 
 ged leave to repeat his visit on the following day. 
 
 Adeline now opened her packet, and saw once 
 more the well-known characters of Theodore ; for 
 a moment she felt as if in his presence, and the 
 conscious blush overspread her cheek; with a 
 trembling hand she broke the seal, and read the 
 tenderest assurances and solicitudes of his love; 
 she often paused, that she might prolong the 
 sweet emotions which these assurances awaken- 
 ed: but while tears of tenderness stood trembling 
 on her eye-lids, the bitter recollection of his sit- 
 uation would return, and they fell in anguish on 
 her bosom. 
 
 He congratulated her, and with peculiar deli- 
 cacy, on the prospects of life which were opening 
 to her; said every thing that might tend to ani- 
 mate and support her, but avoided dwelling on 
 his own circumstances, except by expressing his 
 sense of the zeal and kindness of his commanding 
 officer; and adding, that he did not despair of 
 finally obtaining a pardon. 
 
 This hope, though but faintly expressed, and 
 written evidently for the purpose of consoling 
 Adeline, did not entirely fail of the desired 
 effect. She yielded to its enchanting influence, 
 and forgot for a while the many subjects of care 
 and anxiety which sin-rounded her. Theodore 
 said little of his father's health; what he d ; d say 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, 411 
 
 was by no means so discouraging as the accounts 
 of Clara, who, less anxious to conceal a truth that 
 must give pain to Adeline, expressed, without 
 reserve, all her apprehension and concern, 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 The day of the trial so anxiously awaited, and 
 on which the fate of so many persons depended, 
 at length arrived. Adeline, accompanied by M. 
 Verneuil and Madame La Motte, appeared as 
 the prosecutor of the Marquis de Montalt; and 
 D'Aunoy, Du Bosse, Louis De la Motte, and 
 several other persons, as witnesses in her cause. 
 The judges were some of the most distinguished 
 in France; and the advocates on both sides men 
 of eminent abilities. On a trial of such impor- 
 tance, the court, as may be imagined, was crowd- 
 ed with persons of distinction, and the spectacle 
 it presented was strikingly solemn, yet magnifi- 
 cent. 
 
 When she appeared before the tribunal, Ade- 
 line's emotion surpassed all the arts of disguise; 
 but adding to the natural dignity of her air an 
 expression of soft timidity, and to her downcast 
 eyes a sweet confusion, it rendered her an object 
 still more interesting; and she attracted the uni- 
 versal pity and admiration of the assembly. 
 When she ventured to raise her eyes, she per- 
 ceived that the Marquis was not yet in the court, 
 and while she awaited his appearance in trem- 
 bling expectation, a confused murmuring rose in 
 a distant part of the hail. Her spirits now al- 
 most forsook her; the certainty of seeing imme- 
 diately, and consciously, the murderer of her 
 father, chilled her with horror, and she was with 
 difficulty preserved from fainting. A low sound 
 now ran through the court, and an air of confu- 
 sion appeared, which was soon communicated to 
 the tribunal itself. Several of the members 
 arose: some left the hall; the whole place exhi- 
 
412 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 bited a scene of disorder, and a report at length 
 reached Adeline that the Marquis de Montalt 
 was dying. A considerable time elapsed in un- 
 certainty, but the confusion continued; the Mar- 
 quis did not appear; and at Adeline's desire M. 
 Verneuil went in quest of more positive infor- 
 mation. 
 
 He followed a crowd which was hurrying 
 towards the Chatelet, and with some difficulty 
 gained admittance into the prison; but the por- 
 ter at the gate whom lie had bribed for a pass- 
 port, could give him no certain information on 
 the subject of his inquiry, and not being at 
 liberty to quit his post, furnished M. Yerneuil 
 with only a vague direction to the Marquis's 
 apartment. The courts were silent and deserted, 
 but as he advanced, a distant hum of voices led 
 him on, till perceiving several persons running 
 towards a staircase which appeared beyond the 
 archway of a long passage, he followed thither, 
 and learned that the Marquis was certainly dy- 
 ing. The staircase was filled with people; he 
 endeavoured to press through the crowd, and 
 after much struggle and difficulty, he reached 
 the door of an ante-room which communicated 
 with the apartment where the Marquis lay, and 
 Whence several persons now issued. Here lie 
 learned that the object of his inquiry was already 
 dead. M. Verneuil, however, pressed through 
 the ante-room to the chamber, where lay the 
 Marquis on a bed surrounded by officers of the 
 law, and two notaries who appeared to have 
 been taking down depositions. His countenance 
 was suffused with a black and deadly hue, and 
 impressed with the horrors of death. M. Ver- 
 neuil turned away, shocked by the spectacle, and 
 on inquiry heard that the Marquis had died by 
 poison. 
 
 It appeared, that convinced he had nothing to 
 fiope from his trial, he had taken this method of 
 avoiding an ignominious death. In the last hours 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 413 
 
 of life, while tortured with the remembrance of 
 his crime, he resolved to make all the atonement 
 that remained for him, and having swallowed the 
 potion, he immediately sent for a confessor to 
 take a full confession of his guilt, and two nota- 
 ries; and thus established Adeline beyond dis- 
 pute in the rights of her birth; also bequeathing 
 her a considerable legacy. 
 
 In consequence of these depositions she was 
 soon after formally acknowledged as the daugh- 
 ter and heiress of Henry Marquis de Montalt, 
 and the rich estates of her father were restored 
 to her. She immediately threw herself at the 
 feet of the king in behalf of Theodore and of La 
 Motte. The character of the former, the cause 
 in which he had risked his life, and the occasion 
 of the late Marquis's enmity towards him, were 
 circumstances so notorious, and so forcible, that 
 it was more than probable the monarch would 
 have granted his pardon to a pleader less irresist- 
 ible than was Adeline de Montalt. Theodore La 
 Luc not only received an ample pardon, but in 
 consideration of his gallant conduct towards Ade- 
 line, he was soon after raised to a post of consid- 
 erable rank in the army. 
 
 - For La Motte, who had been condemned for 
 the robbery on full evidence, and who had been 
 also charged with the crime which had formerly 
 compelled him to quit Paris, a pardqn could not 
 be obtained; but at the earnest supplication of 
 Adeline, and in consideration of the service he 
 had finally rendered her, his sentence was sof- 
 tened from death to banishment. This indul- 
 gence, however, would have availed him little, i 
 had not the noble generosity of Adeline silenced 
 other prosecutions that were preparing against 
 him, and bestowed on him a. sum more than 
 sufficient to support his family in a foreign 
 country. This kindness operated so power- 
 fully upon his heart, which had been betrayed 
 ! through weakness rather than natural depra^ 
 
414 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 vity, and awakened so keen a remorse for 
 the injuries he had once meditated against a 
 benefactress so noble, that his former habits be- 
 came odious to him, and his character gradually 
 recovered the hue which it would probably al- 
 ways have worn, had he never been exposed to 
 the tempting dissipations of Paris. 
 
 On the eve of his departure La Motte and his 
 family took a very affecting leave of Adeline: he 
 left Paris for Englaud, where it was his design to 
 settle ; and Louis, who was eager to fl v from her 
 enchantments, set out on the same day for hia 
 regiment. 
 
 Adeline remained some time at Paris to set- 
 tle her affairs, where she was introduced by M. 
 V to the few and distant relations that re- 
 mained of her family. Among these were the 
 
 Count and Countess D , and the Mons. Amand 
 
 tvho had so much engaged her pity and esteem 
 it Nice. The lady, whose death he lamented, 
 was of the family of De Montalt ; and the resem- 
 blance which he" had traced between her features 
 and those of Adeline, her cousin, was something 
 more than the effect of fancy. The death of his 
 elder brother bad abruptly recalled him from 
 Italy; but Adeline had the satisfaction to ob- 
 serve, that the heavy melancholy which formerly 
 oppressed him, had yielded to a sort of placid 
 resignation, and that his countenance was often 
 enlivened by a transient gleam of cheerfulness. 
 
 The Count and Countess D , who were much 
 
 interested bj r her goodness and beauty, invited 
 her to make their hotel her residence while she 
 remained at Paris. 
 
 Her first care was to have the remains of her 
 parent removed from the abbey of St. Clair, and 
 deposited in the vault of his ancestors. — D'Aunoy 
 was tried, condemned, and hanged, for the mur- 
 der. At the place of execution he had described 
 the spot where the remains of the Marquis were 
 concealed, which was in the stone room already 
 
THE ROMANCE OF TRE FOREST. 415 
 
 mentioned, belonging to the abbey. M. V — — 
 accompanied the officers appointed for the search, 
 and attended the ashes of the Marquis to St. 
 Maur, an estate in one of the northern provinces. 
 There they were deposited -with the solemn fu- 
 neral pomp becoming his rank; Adeline attended 
 as chief mourner; and after this last duty paid to 
 the memory of her parent, she became more tran- 
 quil and resigned. The MS. that recorded his 
 sufferings had been found at the Abbey, and de- 
 livered to her by M. V , and she preserved 
 
 it with the pious enthusiasm so sacred a relic 
 deserved. 
 
 On her return to Paris, Theodore La Luc, who 
 was come from Montpellier, awaited her arrival. 
 The happiness of this meeting was clouded by 
 the account he brought of his father, whose ex- 
 treme danger had alone withheld him from has- 
 tening, the moment he obtained his liberty, to 
 thank Adeline for the life she had preserved. 
 She now received him as the friend to whom she 
 was indebted for her preservation, and as the 
 lover who deserved and possessed her tenderest 
 affection. 
 
 Her affection for Theodore had induced Ade- 
 line to reject several suitors, which her goodness, 
 beauty, and wealth, had already attracted, and 
 who, though infinitely his superiors in point of 
 fortune, were many of them inferior to him in 
 family, and all of them in merit. 
 
 M. La Luc's very precarious state was a source 
 of incessant disquietude to Adeline, and she de- 
 termined to accompany M. V——, who was now 
 the declared lover of Clara, to Montpellier, 
 whither La Luc had immediately gone on the 
 liberation of his son. For this journey she was 
 preparing when she received from her friend a 
 flattering account of his amendment : and as some 
 farther settlement of her affairs required her 
 presence at Paris, she deferred her design, and 
 I M, Y departed alone, 
 
41C THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 When Theodore's affairs assumed a more fa- 
 vourable aspect, M. Verneuil had written to La 
 Luc, and communicated to him the secret of his 
 heart respecting Clara. La Luc, "who admired 
 and esteemed M. V , and who was not igno- 
 rant of his family connexions, was pleased with 
 the proposed alliance; Clara thought she had 
 never seen the person whom she was so much 
 
 inclined to love; and M. V received an 
 
 answer favourable to his wishes, and which en- 
 couraged him to undertake the present journey 
 to Montpellier. 
 
 The restoration of his happiness and the cli- 
 mate of Montpellier, did. all for the health of La 
 Luc that his most anxious friends could wish, and 
 he was at length so far recovered as to visit Ade- 
 line at her estate of St. Maur. Clara and M. 
 V accompanied him, and a cessation of hostili- 
 ties between France and Spain soon after per- 
 mitted Theodore to join this happy party. When 
 La Luc, thus restored to those most dear to him, 
 looked back on the miseries he had escaped, and 
 forward to the blessings that awaited him, his 
 heart dilated with emotions of exquisite joy and 
 gratitude; and his venerable countenance, soften- 
 ed by an expression of complacent delight, exhi- 
 bited a perfect picture of happy age. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Adeline, in the society of friends so beloved, 
 lost the impression of that melancholy which the 
 fate of her parent had occasioned; she recovered 
 all her natural vivacity; and when she threw off 
 the mourning habit which filial piety had re- 
 quired her to assume, she gave her hand to Theo- 
 dore. The nuptials, which were celebrated at St. 
 Maur, were graced by the presence of the Count 
 
 and Countess D , and La Luc had the supreme 
 
 felicity of confirming on the same day the natter* 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 417 
 
 iug destinies of both his children. When the 
 ceremony was over he blessed and embraced 
 them all with tears of fatherly affection. " I 
 thank thee, God! that I have been permitted 
 to see this hour," said he: "whenever it shall 
 please thee to call me hence, I will depart in 
 peace." 
 
 But the time now drew nigh when La Luc 
 thought it necessary to return to the duties of 
 his parish, from which he had so long been ab- 
 sent. Madame La Luc, too, who had attended 
 him during the period of his danger at Mont- 
 pellier, and thence returned to Savoy, complained 
 much of the solitude of her life; and this was with 
 hei brother an additional motive for his speedy 
 departure. Theodore and Adeline, who could 
 not support the thought of a separation from 
 this venerable parent, endeavoured to persuade 
 him to give up his chateau, and to reside with 
 them in France ; but he was held by strong ties to 
 Leleneourt. For many years he had constituted 
 the comfort and happiness of his parishioners; 
 they revered and loved him as a father — he re- 
 garded them with an affection little short of 
 parental. 
 
 They travelled leisurely, and frequently turned 
 out of their way to view whatever was worthy of 
 observation. After a long and pleasant journey 
 they came once more within view of the Swiss 
 mountains, the sight of which revived a thou- 
 sand interesting recollections in the mind of Ade- 
 line. 
 
 It was evening when thoy approached within 
 a few miles of Leleneourt, and the road winding 
 round the foot of a stupendous 'crag, presented 
 them a full view of the lake, and of the peaceful 
 dwelling of La Luc. An exclamation of joy from 
 the whole party announced the discovery, and the 
 glance of pleasure was reflected from every eye. 
 
 La Luc welcomed his family to his happy home, 
 and sent up a silent thanksgiving that he was 
 
418 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 permitted thus to return to it. Adeline con- 
 tinued to gaze upon each well-known object; and 
 agaiu reflecting en the vicissitudes of grief and 
 joy, and the surprising change of fortune which 
 she had experienced since last she saw them, her 
 heart dilated with gratitude and complacent de- 
 light. She looked at Theodore, whom in these 
 very scenes she had lamented as lost to her for 
 ever; who when found again, was about to be 
 torn from her by an ignominious death; but who 
 now sat by her side her secure and happy hus- 
 band, the pride of his family and herself; and 
 while the sensibility of her heart flowed in 
 tears from her eyes, a smile of ineffable tender- 
 ness told him all she felt. He gently pressed her 
 hand, and answered her with a look of love. 
 
 Peter, who jioav rode up to the carriage with a 
 face full of joy and of importance, interrupted a 
 course of sentiment which was becqme almost 
 too interesting. " Ah ! my dear master !" cried he, 
 li welcome home again. Here is the village, God 
 bless it! It is worth a million such places as 
 Paris. Thank St. Jacques, we are all come safe 
 back again." 
 
 This effusion of honest Peters joy was received 
 and answered with the kindness it deserved. As 
 they drew near the lake, music sounded over the 
 water, and they presently saw a large party of the 
 villagers assembled on a green spot that sloped 
 to the very margin of the waves, and dancing in 
 all their holiday finery. It was the evening of a 
 festival. The elder peasants sat under the shade 
 of the trees that crowned this little eminence, 
 eating milk and fruits, and watching their sons 
 and daughters frisk it away to the sprightly notes 
 of the tabor and pipe, which was joined by the 
 softer tones of a mandolin. 
 
 The scene, was highly interesting; and what 
 added to its picturesque beauty was a group of . 
 cattle that stood, some on the bank, some half in 
 the water, and others reposing on the green bank, v 
 
THE ROMANCE OP THE FOREST. 419 
 
 yhile several peasant girls, dressed in the ueat 
 
 : .iplicity of their country, were dispensing the 
 milky feast. Peter now rode on first, and a crowd 
 soon collected round him, who learning that their 
 beloved master was at hand, went forth to meet 
 and welcome him. Their warm and honest expres- 
 
 : - is of joy diffused an exquis^e satisfaction over 
 heart of the good La Luc, who met them with 
 the kindness of a father, and who could scarcely 
 forbear shedding tears to this testimony of attach- 
 ment. When the younger part of the peasants 
 heard the news of his arrival, the general joy was 
 isuch, that ; led by the tabor and pipe, they danced 
 before his carriage to the chateau/ where they 
 again welcomed him and his family with the en- 
 livening strains of music. At the gate of the 
 Kateau they were received by Madame La Luc, 
 aiid a happier party never met. 
 
 As the evening was uncommonly mild and 
 jeautiful, supper was spread in the garden, 
 when the repast was over, Clara, whose heart 
 vas all glee, proposed a dance by moonlight. 
 'It will be delicious," said she; "the moon- 
 beams are already dancing on the waters. See 
 mat a stream of radiance they throw across the 
 ake, and how they sparkle round that little pro- 
 Qontory on the left. The freshness of the hour* 
 po, invites to dancing." 
 
 tThey all agreed to the proposal— " And let 
 e gtfod people who have so heartily welcomed 
 home be called in too," said La Luc: " they 
 fell all partake our happiness. There is devo- 
 on in making others happy, and gratitude ought 
 ) make us devout. Peter, bring more wine, and 
 .}t some tables under the trees." 
 Peter, who could not move in a sober step, had 
 ready spread refreshments under the trees, and 
 j& short time the lawn was* "encircled with pea- 
 . Why. The rural pipe and tabor were placed 
 Uara s request, under the shade of her beloved 
 PJJJ& on the margin of the lake; the merrv 
 
420 THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST. 
 
 the fulness of aa exalted delight. 
 
 After passing some weeks witn J^a Ijul, ji. ■ 
 Vemeuil bought a chateau iu the village of L* ; 
 JSS and as it was the only one not already 
 occuped, Theodore looked out for a residence ^ 
 the Khhourhood. At the distance of a few 
 eagSon the beautiful banks of the .lake , of ^e- 
 neva where the waters retire into a small bay,] 
 
 te ^SS the ^«*«*W I 
 
 Theodore and Adeline La Luc pxamp l e of 
 
 iphai, farmer lives afforded an examy-- «■ 
 
 fitad&p, and their chil tan. in para. « hos. 
 Sample impresaed upon the., hearts th. pre 
 cents offered to their understandings. 
 
 J.JIINIEE BY RICBir.DSO" Aft) BOH, DERBY.