“The ladies who inhabit this house, though they have not the honor of knowing the Chevalier D’Alonville, yet recollecting the name, and having no doubt of his having quitted France from the same unfortunate cause as drove them from it, cannot decline receiving the favor he offers them; it being some consolation in the present moment of their affliction to mingle their sorrows with those of one of their countrymen, whom they can yet call so.” The style of this note redoubled the impatient solicitude of D’Alonville, who with sensations as if he were sure of being introduced to two of the most interesting women he had ever seen, followed Miss Sanderson into a small parlour, where he found a woman of between fifty and sixty, in whose faded face there was an uncommon expression of penetration and sense, not unmingled with an air of haughty superiority. Her form and manners were such as instantly impressed the idea of her being a person of high fashion — she stood to receive D’Alonville, who made a speech he hardly knew what, expressive, however, of his gratitude for being permitted to “offer her his homage.” She answered him with perfect ease, though in a tone of voice the most mournful he had ever heard; and turning to a lady who sat near the fire, her head leaning against the wainscot, while a bonnet with a deep veil concealed her face, she said— “You will pardon, Sir, my daughter’s rising to receive you — she is too ill — the news of to-day has too much over-powered her.” A very deep convulsive sigh from the daughter was all that intimated, on her part, her having heard what the elder lady said. D’Alonville expressed extreme concern, and added, that he was almost afraid to enquire whether the painful news of which Madame spoke, was of a public or private nature.
“Is it possible, Sir,” said the elder lady, by whom D’Alonville was now seated, “that you cannot have heard it?” She then related, in terms which forcibly expressed all the sorrow and indignation she felt, the fatal event of the 21st of January.
D’Alonville was struck with horror and consternation, which, for a moment, deprived him of words; while the younger lady, by a burst of tears and sobs that seemed to shake her delicate frame (for eminently delicate it seemed to be attracted the attention of her mother to soothe and console her. It would be difficult to relate the whole conversation that now passed. On the part of the elder lady the desire of vengeance continued to weep, and D’Alonville attempted in vain to offer to them that consolation he himself wanted. — He no longer knew how time passed, and had no recollection of the reason of his first entering into the house. Nor would the conversation, vauge vague as it was, have been soon interrupted, if a female French servant had not entered the room, holding in her arms a beautiful boy about seven months old; at the sight of him different passions seemed anew to agitate both the ladies. The grandmother, with her eyes animated with all the energy of her character, expressed a wish that he was old enough to draw a sword, that he might assist in extirpating the banditti who had disgraced his country for ever, by so foul a crime; while the younger lady, his mother, then first lifting up the lace that had before concealed it, shewed a very lovely, though pale, countenance, and eyes dimmed by tears — the infant held out to her his little hands — she took him, and pressing him fondly to her bosom, a tear fell on his cheek, as she whispered, “O mon petit emigre que deviendra tu ?” Never in his life had D’Alonville felt himself so affected; he could not determine to go; he wanted to enquire if his new friends were as comfortably placed as there circumstances admitted, though he saw they had been accustomed to situations very different. He wanted to be of some use to them — he wished to make them friends among the English ladies of fashion with whom he was acquainted, the mother and sisters of his friend Ellesmere.
But if he became thus warmly interested for them, while he only knew them as women, who were, like him, unhappy in being torn from their connections, and compelled to wander helpless and desolate in a foreign country, his zeal to serve, befriend, and protect them to the utmost of his power was redoubled, when he learned that he had been conversing with the mother and the wife of de Touranges, a man for whom, though he could not love him, he felt the tenderest compassion; and who was entitled to every office of friendship; though it were only on the account of the Abbé de St. Remi. The rest of the day after this interesting discovery was passed in his relating to the elder Marchioness (while the younger retired overcome with the violence of her emotions) what he knew of her son; yet even to her, strong as her mind appeared to be, he did not then venture to disclose the purport of the last letter he had received from the Abbé. — It was a conversation which neither party were disposed to end. Madame de Touranges had a thousand questions to ask; and D’Alonville had no longer any recollection of the necessity of going back to the house from whence he came; but when it was settled that D’Alonville should see the ladies again the following day, it occurred to him, that it was then night; and that if he could not find his road to Fernyhurst in the light, it was somewhat improbable he should do it in the dark. This consideration compelled him to have recourse for advice to the fair Miss Sanderson (for her brother was not yet returned;) she seemed to have conceived the most flattering opinion of him. Indeed he was so very handsome a figure, and had a countenance so well corresponding with it, that Miss Sanderson, who was deeply read in novels, and who called herself Suzette, for unhappily her name was Susannah, (and it was impossible to make any thing of it in English,) really fancied him the subject of some famous story — Tancard of Normandy, or some chivalrous knight sung by the Troubadours. She had read, and even translated, some of the tales of D. Florian, and there was not one of the heroes to whom she did not compare the adventurer, who now, with more humble pretensions, solicited her to find for him, in the village, a man who could serve him as a guide to the habitation of Captain Caverly. This, as all the inhabitants were gone to bed, was by no means easy; and was the perplexity of the fair and generous Suzette; who did not dare send out her brother’s apprentice, or the horse which always stood in the stable ready to carry him out on those nocturnal visits to which he was so frequently summoned — but after a long prequisition, a man was found, who, for a crown D’Alonville readily promised him, mounted a cart horse, and led the way through many intricate windings and cross roads to Fernyhurst, at the distance of near six miles. D’Alonville did not arrive there till past eleven o’clock; but by his arrival he communicated great satisfaction both to Ellesmere and the honest Captain, who having in vain hunted for him in the woods will it was dark, had returned home in hopes that he might have got thither before them; but not finding him, they became uneasy, and had sent out people in search of him, who just before he came back had returned, without any tidings of him. On his appearance, their apprehensions being at an end, the Captain began to rally him on his long absence — but Ellesmere easily perceived that gaiety was misplaced. At that moment he recollected the melancholy news which their newspapers had only that day informed them of; and apologising to D’Alonville for his uncle’s ill-timed levity, he was disposed to mingle his tears with those which he perceived in the eyes of his friend.
CHAPTER XIX.
— Like the lily;
That once was mistress of the field, and flourished,
I’ll hang my head and perish.
WHEN Ellesmere learned the circumstances that had happened the evening before, he became as eager as D’Alonville, or if possible more so, to offer to the unhappy strangers every service he could render them. He proposed for this purpose a thousand projects in a moment. He would write to his mother and sister — he would carry the two ladies to Eddisbury. D’Alonville, who was not so sanguine as to the reception they might meet with, felt all the generosity of his friend, but did not seem in haste to avail himself of it. He readily, however, assented to Ellesmere’s wish of going with him to wait on them; and with a melancholy smile bade him beware of the fascinating eyes of the younger Madame de Touranges. “I know the influence of beauty in distress, my friend,” said he, “and I assure you, you will not find that of the young Marquisse less dangerous that that
of your fair Polonese.”
“Probably it might be much more,” replied Ellesmere “were I a Frenchman; but I have not been accustomed to consider married women as objects of gallantry, having had neither a foreign nor a fashionable education.”
“Well, then, let us go,” said D’Alonville, “for though I hope and believe that this wandering family of our luckless acquaintance de Touranges, is not so distressed as to need pecuniary assistance, yet it cannot but be advantageous to them to be known by people of consequence in England. They seem extremely sensible of the kindness they have received from a family of the name of — , I cannot now recollect the name — but I understand them to be related to the nobleman with whose hounds we were out, and to live about two miles from the village. It was this family who found the lodging for them, and who have with unwearied kindness visited them since. — I am sorry I cannot recollect the name.”
“Relations of Lord Aberdore’s are they,” answered Ellesmere. “I do not know any family of that description, but indeed this is a part of the country with which I am very slightly acquainted; and I only know Lord Aberdore by sight. If he has relations so liberal minded I am glad of it, for of his own liberality of mind one hears but little.”
“Suppose,” added Ellesmere, “ that I tell my uncle whither we are going. He would do any thing in the world to serve women in distress — and is a perfect knight-errant in their cause.”
“Perhaps it would be better,” replied D’Alonville, “to see the Ladies de Touranges first ourselves; — your uncle has no woman in his family, and perhaps we may only, by engaging his good humoured endeavours, be troublesome to him, without deriving any benefit to the parties for whom we are interested.” “I fear,” added he, “that in this country, people of mine, hate nothing to hope but protection and subsistence; for the great evils they suffer, the most generous efforts of strangers can do nothing to relieve. These poor women, who are now hid in a little lodging in a solitary village, have been accustomed to the highest degree of affluence. The elder of them has passed her life at court; the younger, with all the advantages that beauty and youth, fortune and birth could give her, was just entering on a most spendid splendid scene of life, all is vanished! but that they no longer are surrounded with whatever can glatter the imagination or gratify the taste, does not seem to be to them the subject of regret. It is de Touranges for whom his mother trembles, it is de Touranges that draw continual tears from the eyes of his wife, and the dreadful fate that has overwhelmed our country, and now our lamented monarch. The general evil, indeed, cannot be repaired, but their individual misfortune may. Would to heaven I knew where de Touranges is.” — D’Alonville now fell into a reverie, which lasted till they reached the hose they were going to, and Ellesmere did not interrupt him.
On their entering the shop they were received by Mr. Sanderson, to whom Ellesmere was known; and who, on their eager enquiry after the two French ladies, shook his head when he mentioned the younger. “The sweet creature,” said he, “ is so ill, so nervous, and, in short, her whole system so deranged, that Susy and I have been up all night.” “I hope,” said D’Alonville, extremely alarmed, “that there is no danger.” “I assure you I dont don’t half like the symptoms, and that languor and giving herself up, which she does to an excess I never saw. But however, our young ladies from Besthorpe will be here by and by, and I hope that this company, which always does Madame the Marchioness good, and seeing you Gentlemen, her friends, will altogether be of more use than my drugs.”
“And who,” enquired Ellesmere, “are the ladies from Besthorpe?” “The Denzil family,” replied Sanderson, “perhaps, Mr. Ellesmere, you may know them. — Excellent, worthy people, I can assure you they are, and nearly related, as I understand, to the Aberdone family, though how I cannot make out. Somehow though, the connection came by the late lady, though that you know” continued he, nodding significantly, “does not recommend them to the house now; but indeed the noble family is so seldom down, that I don’t imagine Mrs. Denzil and the family took a place in this neighbourhood on that account, so much as because it suited them in other respects. It was by their means that I was induced to let my house to these foreign ladies. I was at first rather averse to it; but on reflection, I thought the Denzil family would not recommend people the least improper; and Susy, who loves any thing that is uncommon, was mightily for receiving them. I cannot say I have repented it. The elder lady, who, I am told, lived always with the Queen, in her own country, is, to be sure, what we in England call haughty; but for the youngest, she is, as her confessor sometimes says, half an angel. A man must be a savage who would not undertake almost any thing to do her good. I assure you, she is too pretty and amiable not to be very dangerous; even a country apothecary, like me, who has enough to do to think of his patients, and to ride round the country from six in the morning to twelve at night, can find out that there would be no living near her without being in love with her, if it were not for the difference of religion and country, and her being married already, as I told her confessor.”
“Her confessor,” said Ellesmere, “and who is her confessor, is he here now?” “He is a French priest,” replied Sanderson, “who came over with them, and has been with them ever since they have been here, but he is now gone to London on the business of his order. A very honest, simple, good sort of man he seems to be. For my part, I am free to own, I had conceived a sort of a prejudice against Catholic priests. One has heard all on’s life time, ugly stories of them; but I am free to confess, that this gentleman seems to me to be as worthy a man as any clergyman of the church of England.” — While this dialogue was passing, D’Alonville, who had received a message from Madame de Touranges, that she would be glad to see him in a few moments, stood meditating on the strange reverse of fortune. The woman, who so lately had the most brilliant circles around her that Paris or Versailles could boast of, was now an object for the pity of a country apothecary. Whoever recollects the distance at which people of high rank in France were accustomed to keep even the most respectable professional men in that line, will pardon a remnant of involuntary pride in D’Alonville, who, notwithstanding the good-humoured manner in which Mr. Sanderson spoke of his guests, felt shocked that he should name them so familiarly; yet, in a moment remembering to what condition Marie Antoinette of Austria was reduced, he corrected himself, and was ashamed of the transitory emotion he had felt; and had he ever read Spencer in ours, or had he at that moment recollected any thing to the same purport in his own language, he would perhaps have said in the sense, if not in the words, of the author of the Fairy Queen.
“Such is the weakness of all mortal hope;
“So fickle is the state of earthly things,
“That, e’er they come into their aimed scope,
“And bring us bale and bitter sorrowings
“Instead of comfort which we should embrace.
“This is the state of Keasars and of kings.
“Let none, therefore, that is in meaner place,
“Too greatly gravest his unlucky case.”
Miss Sanderson now came and informed D’Alonville, that Madame de Touranges desired to see both him and the gentlemen his friend; they entered the small parlour he had been in the evening before, where only the elder lady appeared.
Perfectly mistress of herself, from her long intercourse with the world, she received Ellesmere as if she had known him from his infancy; and spoke of their affairs to D’Alonville with the same unreserved as if a stranger had not been present.” “My daughter,” said she, “has been so affected by what we have heard from the Chevalier D’Alonville, relative to our poor wanderer, though I endeavoured to alleviate the pain such intelligence must give her, as much as possible, that she is too ill to leave her bed. Had I not expected the favor of seeing you, my good Chevalier,” continued she, addressing herself to D’Alonville, “I believe I should have got our hosts here to have sent to you, for my daughter is restless, because she did not herself hear all the pa
rticulars relative to de Touranges, which she believes you can tell her. I endeavoured to evade this painful recital, but she persists in it; and will perhaps be easy when she has seen both you and this gentleman, your friend, who is the same, I conclude by his name, that passed through Germany from Vienna to Berlin, with Marquis.” Ellesmere bowed, and Madame de Touranges again spoke:
“As you have travelled,” said she, speaking to Ellesmere, “and as you,” addressing herself to D’Alonville, “are of a country where such things are customary, I shall make no apology to either of you, for desiring you to attend my daughter in her bed room - - - for I have insisted upon her not leaving her bed. I believe we may now go up.” Madame de Touranges led the way, and Ellesmere and D’Alonville followed.
In a small neat room they found the beautiful French woman in her bed, with her infant boy sleeping by her. If D’Alonville had thought her extremely lovely and interesting from what he had seen of her the day before, she now appeared infinitely more so: yet there was nothing studied, or coquettish, in her dishabille. Ellesmere gave D’Alonville a look, which seemed to say “you might well tell me there was danger in this service;” while the glance D’Alonville returned, intimated a sort of half-triumph, which expressed “have I then always a taste adulterated by French notions? Is here not a woman of my country, who is truly and simply beautiful.” The elder Marquise began the conversation, and did not wish that either Ellesmere or D’Alonville should conceal any part of what they knew as to the state of mind in which they had seen the unfortunate de Touranges, or his abruptly quitting friendly monitor St. Remi; and even by her own questions she drew from D’Alonville what he thought it necessary to conceal from them both — the purport of the Abbé last letter.
This conduct D’Alonville thought strange, after the fears Madame de Touranges had expressed for her daughter’s health and life; — and still more was he hurt, when having asked this letter of him, and then gave it to Gabrielle, as she sometimes familiarly called her daughter. Gabrielle did little else but weep — she tried to read the letter, but could not; and she was so visibly overcome, that is seemed almost cruel to remain with her. Far from seizing it with avidity, on the hopes that her husband would be restored to her, with which some how or other her mother-in-law had contrived to flatter herself, she seemed to consider the state of mind in which the Abbé de St. Remi described him to be, as tending to the most fatal consequences. She saw him rushing on destruction, by going back to France — already, perhaps he was the victim of his own despair, and the inhumanity of savages, who seemed to delight only in blood. Her own desolate situation affected her not; but when she spoke, her conversation expressed an inclination to abandon the asylum they had found in England, and go back, at all hazards, to France. The persuasion that she should there meet de Touranges, or death, was strengthened by what she now learned from the Abbe’s letter.
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