As I now gave up all expectation of the return of my servant, despair lent me courage to renew my entreaties to my father. I gave him all I had reserved of our miserable provision; I put him once more on horseback, and regained the high road, from which we had not wandered far; but having done so, I seemed to have obtained no advantage. We were equally desolate and forlorn, with hardly a probability that chance would befriend us.
“We had not been more than three quarters of an hour on the road side, when listening in the passage of the storm in the faint hope of hearing the return of my servant, I heard voices not far off, and horses and men approach. It was too dark to distinguish objects, but our condition admitted not of deliberation. Without waiting therefore to enquire whether they were friends or enemies, I called aloud as soon as they seemed to be near. They stopped and came up to us. I knew not at this moment what they really were, but plunder appeared to be their object. I represented our situation to them, and entreated, that if they could not themselves grant us the refuge of which we were so greatly in need that they would point out to us some place where we might obtain shelter for the night. One of them, who seemed to have the most authority, answered, that they were country people travelling to their houses at a great distance, and could not assist us otherwise than by suffering one of their number to conduct us to the next village, but for this they must be paid. As I knew they could, and was well convinced they would, take from me my pistols and sword, since I was entirely in their power, I thought it best to agree with them to give them these arms, as the price of a safe conduct to the village of Rosenheim, where I might probably be received. I was afraid by their manner that they would seize the price without performing the conditions. I was compelled, however, to take my chance as to their integrity, and having resigned to them all I had left, and agreed that they should also have our miserable horse on our arrival at Rosenheim, one of them dismounted, and placing my father before him, while I followed on horseback, we reached group of houses which I could just distinguish through the gloom, and which were, he told me, a part of the small hamlet in question. He then prepared to take leave, as having fulfilled his agreement; but I entreated him to remain till we could obtain admission into some house. To this I could not, however, persuade him. He left us! my father was yet alive, but that was all! for every moment threatened to be his last. In despite of my entreaties and representations, our unfeeling guide had made so much haste that the motion of the horse had occasioned the wound to bleed afresh, and I saw the moment when all my efforts appeared totally useless. We were, however, within hearing of human beings, and I still hoped for succour before it was too late! I seated my expiring parent on the ground, and approached the door of the nearest cottage; but all my attempts to make the inhabitants hear, if indeed there were any within it, were to no purpose. I left it and proceeded to a second, where, after calling and rapping at the doors and windows for a considerable time, a woman appeared at a fort of hole in the thatch, and with a voice strongly expressive of terror, demanded my business. I endeavoured to explain to her what we wanted, and to move her compassion by relating the situation of my father; but without attending to me, she hastily closed her wooden shutter, and disappeared, leaving me to make the same experiment on two other houses with little more success. At one I was told that they knew me to be an enemy, and would fire upon me if I did not immediately leave the place at the other, a woman said, that it was impossible for its inhabitants to admit a stranger, but that if I really was the person I called myself, and in the distress I represented, I should be sure of obtaining admission and relief at the castle above. I entreated her to shew me how I could find the castle? “There is a rising ground a little to the left,” said she, “from which you may distinguish the lights at the castle, and that will be your best guide.” I ran forward, and in effect I discovered from the place the mentioned, lights on the woody hill above the village. As there seemed no probability of procuring admittance at any of these cottages, I determined to attempt reaching the castle. With infinite difficulty, and at the hazard of seeing my father expire every step he took, we reached as it were by miracle the castle wall; but I mistook the path that led to the gate, and found we were in a part where a ditch filled with water from the mountains, and an high parapet, precluded all hopes of our being heard. The bitterest despair now took possession of my soul! I saw the death of my father was inevitable, and I repented that I had only lengthened and encreased his sufferings. In this dreadful condition we were, continued the Chevalier D’Alonville, when you, Madame, providentially heard, and most generously succoured us.
The young stranger having thus related the events that had brought him and the Viscount de Fayolles, his father, in such a situation, to the castle of Rosenheim, was prevailed upon by his generous hostess to retire to the mattress that was prepared near the bed of his father, who remained nearly in the same state of hopeless depression.
CHAPTER III.
“Sad spectacle of pain,
“The bitter dregs of fortune’s cup to drain:
“To fill with scenes of death these closing eyes.”
THE almoner Heurthofen, who had been present during the latter part of this narrative, had fixed on the countenance of Madame D’Alberg his keen enquiring eyes, as if to penetrate into the effect it had on her, and what interest she took in the narrator. Her mother had left the apartment to give some further orders for the accommodation of her unfortunate guests, but Madame D’Alberg remained pensively leaning against the wainscot; nor did the move from her reverie till the almoner cried, “A very affecting story indeed! This young Frenchman, it seems, is quite a modern Eneas!” “I know not” answered Madame D’Alberg, what you mean by an Eneas! he is certainly a young man of fashion; and from his filial affection highly interesting.” “Oh! yes,” repeated Heurthofen, “highly interesting, certainly.” “His unfortunate situation,” said Madame D’Alberg, “should surely move every good mind in his favor, even if he were without merit.” “Undoubtedly,” replied Heurthofen, in the same sneering tone; “and the inhabitants of this house particularly, who ought to feel for misfortunes they are so soon likely to share. Probably before to-morrow evening we shall be visited by his countrymen, and turned out to meet such adventures as he has related. There being two emigrants, known to have been in arms, found in the castle, will probably add something to the hostility of the treatment we may expect.” “And would you, therefore,” said Madame D’Alberg indignantly, “have refused admittance to these unhappy fugitives?” “I would have every body,” answered he, “consult their own security first; — it is the first law of nature.” “Go then, Sir,” cried the lady,” consult yours by quitting Rosenheim; and know that with me, at least, a man of sentiments such as yours, can at no time be a welcome resident.”
Madame D’Alberg then left the room, and returning to her own, endeavoured to obtain some repose after the alarms of such a night; and to acquire strength to encounter those which the next day threatened to bring with it; but to sleep was impossible. The certainty the Colonel D’Alberg was in an army which, after having suffered very great hardships, was retreating before an enemy intoxicated with unexpected success, was alone sufficient to have distracted her; but the animated account given by the young stranger had awakened more acute anxiety, by placing before her eyes all the variety of misery to which he might be liable. Descended from and connected with military men, she had learned from her earliest recollection to suppose man born only to acquire honor or die gloriously in the field; but when she now saw the reality of the evils of war, of which she had before been accustomed only to the parade and the splendor, and when to these evils the husband she adored was actually exposed, when she imagined him at the present moment wandering alone amid the tempest of the night, and perishing without the consolation of dying honorably with the arms in his hand; all other calamities of life seemed comparatively small, and even the danger which Heurthofen represented as so immediately approaching her mother, her chi
ldren, and herself, lost much of its effect on her mind.
Madame de Rosenheim was, however, more sensible of the hazard they were in, but equally undecided what to do to escape from it. She redoubled the guard around the castle, though she knew that to resist a regular force was impossible. She then visited her unhappy guest. The Viscount de Fayolles had again fallen into the stupor which accompanies extreme weakness. His son, in the fear that every sigh he heard might be his last, could not attempt to obtain the repose he so much wanted, but with eyes strongly expressive of the anguish of his soul, he watched the pale and convulsed countenance of his father, by the trembling light that was near him. The Baroness de Rosenheim in a low voice entreated him to take some rest; but he only shook his head in mournful silence. She thought it better to leave him; and being assured he had every thing near him that could contribute to the ease of the languishing patient while he yet lived, she went to her own room: it was, however, so near day, and her mind was in a state of such perturbation, that she did not attempt to sleep, but keeping two of her women with her, she directed them to make up the fire in her stove, and remain with her, while she employed herself and them in putting up, in such a manner as would enable her the most easily to remove, the most valuable effects in the castle. Engaged in this employment the melancholy morning found her, and she was preparing to go to her daughter’s room, for whose health she was very solicitous, when the Chevalier D’Alonville met her in the gallery leading from her chamber. His swollen eyes seemed no longer able to distinguish the objects around him; his countenance was wild and his manner eager. He caught her hand, apparently unable to speak, and led her into his father’s room. Madame D’Alberg was already there, gazing on the expiring object in the bed; for the Viscount de Fayolles was evidently dying, though he was still sensible, and the almoner, Heurthofen, had administered the last sacrements. Nobody else spoke. D’Alonville was apparently unable.
This mournful solemnity over, de Fayolles seemed to collect all his strength to express his gratitude to Madame de Rosenheim, and to give his last blessing to his son; but hardly in a low, broken, and tremulous voice, could he articulate his thanks to his benevolent host, his anguish at leaving his unhappy son. “But for the rest,” said he, “for the rest, I quit with pleasure a world where I seem to have no longer any business — and I perish under the ruins of France. — D’Alonville,” added he turning to his son, “I die in the consciousness of never having violated the allegiance I swore to my king. Remember, that to whatever fate you are destined, you father’s last hope is, that in you, his name will not be disgraced.” His voice then totally failed. The ladies, unable to bear so sad a spectacle, retired; and in a few moments the Viscount de Fayolles breathed his last.
Hardly had this mournful event drawn from the eyes of Madame de Rosenheim, and her daughter, those tears which a fate so deplorable excited, when their own danger became too pressing to allow them to indulge their humanity. The messenger who had so many days been expected form Vienna, returned without his despatches, and by his appearance bore testimony to the extreme difficulty with which he had returned at all. He had been detained several days by a party of Sans Culottes, among whom he had fallen, who had plundered him of every thing; and escaped only in consequence of a skirmish, which allowed them no time to attend to their prisoners. Since which he had fallen in with the advanced guard of the French army, who, believing him a peasant, as he was on foot and unarmed, had suffered him to pass unmolested. Madame de Rosenheim eagerly enquired what were the orders of the Baron, which, though his letters were lost, she hoped the messenger might have been acquainted with from himself. The man answered, that the Baron charged him to tell Madame, that he would be at the castle within ten days; but that if any thing during that interval should make her removal and that of her family necessary, she must act as she saw of her family necessary, she must act as she saw occasion. The Baroness then asked how near the army was, and what were the numbers of that part of it among whom he had fallen? He answered, “that of their number he was no judge; but that it seemed to be very considerable; and that they were then within eleven miles, and rapidly advancing. That they did not molest those who appeared willing to adopt their principles; and pretended great moderation and generosity towards all who would receive them. Heurthofen, who listened to the account of the messenger with evident symptoms of terror, ventured, as soon as he heard this, to advise that, instead of making any resistance, which he said was only inviting certain destruction, they should prepare to receive as friends, those who they could not repel as enemies. “Let us send,” said he, “proper persons to meet the commander of this advanced guard. Let us represent that we are willing to receive him, and a part of his men; and let us desire him to send proper persons to take possession of the castle, to secure it from the unlicenced soldiery.” Madame de Rosenheim regarded him while he spoke with a look of astonishment; while the countenance of her daughter expressed contempt mingled with indignation. “Is this really your advice, Sir?” said the former. “Really,” replied he, “and what other circumstanced as we are, can you follow?” “I had much rather perish” replied Madame de Rosenheim, “under the ruins, than entertain in the castle of Rosenheim the men who have rebelled against their king, imprisoned him, and murdered under various pretences number of innocent persons! The men against whom my husband, and my sons are in arms; and who have been, for aught I know, the death of some for those dearest to me upon earth!” “Let the Abbé Heurthofen go, Madame, to meet these monsters,” cried Madame D’Alberg, “and be the ambassador who shall treat for his own safety; but let us endeavour to defend this place against them.” “No,” answered the Baroness, “let us leave it to them, since it must be so! The Abbé Heurthofen is at liberty to provide for his own security in any way that he may prefer. Come, Adriana,” added she, “let us think of the children, and of our people. Not a moment is to be lost.” She then hastily left the room; and Madame D’Alberg was going out at another door, when the Chevalier D’Alonville met her. “What are the intentions of the Baroness, Madame,” said he; “Can I be of the least assistance? Employ me, I entreat you, and give me the consolation of dying in the service of the only persons who now are interested for me on earth.” “We are going instantly,” replied Madame D’Alberg, “but I know not whither.” “Will you not suffer me;” cried D’Alonville, in a voice equally agitated, “Ah! “will you not suffer me to attend you! Give me” added he, pausing and recollecting himself, “give me a moment only. The last mournful duties to my father are not paid. I cannot leave his ashes to the mercy of his persecutors. Will not your charity, best of women, give him a little ground?” His voice here failed him; Madame D’Alberg, distracted by her own apprehensions, could not be insensible to such sorrow; but she had no consolation to offer, and was not in a condition to attempt it. “Go to my mother,” was all she could say. She knew Madame de Rosenheim, with equal sensibility for the unhappy, had more presence of mind. D’Alonville obeyed her, though hardly knowing what he did. He found Madame de Rosenheim seated in the midst of her people giving, with apparent composure, the necessary orders to every one. When most of them had departed D’Alonville advanced, and throwing himself on his knees, he seized her hands and bathed them with tears. Greatly afflicted, the Baroness spoke to him soothingly, and would have bade him expect happier days, but her voice refused to articulate words of comfort to the hope of this her mind refused to admit. D’Alonville, sobbing, attempted to speak; “I would ask” said he “permission to bury my father, and then to follow you, Madame, if I can be of any service — if my feeble arm — if I may be employed.” He could not go on; yet, after a short pause regained his voice: “You have been more than a mother to me, Madam, in my extreme distress. Alas! I have now no parent; let me now call you my friend, my parent. Yet, why, why should I burthen you with my miseries. A wretched outcast — it is fit I submit to my fate! without a home, without even a country, — without even a spot of earth in which I may lay the cold remains
of my father!” Grief again overpowered him. Madame de Rosenheim summoned all her resolution. “You are welcome, dear Sir,” said she, “to remain with us wherever we may be, so long as it may be consistent with your own safety. Do not yield to despair, which unfits you for its preservation. Take any of my people to assist you as hastily as you can, for time presses, and let the last mournful offices be performed as decently as the circumstances admit. I will order my almoner to attend you.” Madame de Rosenheim then left him, and D’Alonville returned to the room where the corps of the Viscount de Fayolles lay. In the clothes the Viscount had on when he arrived at the castle, and wrapped in a sheet, the unhappy D’Alonville, assisted by some peasants who were in the house, carried these poor remains into the garden, where as deep a grave being made as the time admitted, they were laid in the ground; Heurthofen muttering a service reluctantly over them. He then retired with the peasants, and the grave getting filled up, D’Alonville threw himself upon it, and gave way for a few moments to excess of grief. He then arose from the ground, and looking round him marked the place. A few paces beyond it was a long row of elms, now half leafless, and a few old firs. The immediate spot was marked by two or three laurels. “I shall revisit this place again,” cried D’Alonville; “I shall again shed tears of eternal regret over the earth that conceals the reliques of the best of fathers!” He would have relapsed into one of those agonies of grief which render the sufferer incapable of attention to the circumstances of his own situation, but he was awakened from the indulgence of unavailing sorrow by a messenger from Madame de Rosenheim, desiring to see him, and informing him that they were ready to depart. He hastened into the house, and found the reluctant party arranged in order for their departure. An horse was provided for him, on which he followed, together with Heurthofen, and several domestics, the coach that contained Madame de Rosenheim, Madame D’Alberg, two female servants, and the three infant children.
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