"How have you heard this?" asked count Byroff. "Why, monsieur, I have just been as far as the little inn," (a very constant practice with Jacques, who had been in habits of great intimacy with the landlord since the time of his residing at his house) "and whom should I meet there, monsieur, but a man, a stranger; so the landlord asked him what news; and so he told us, that a gang of robbers had been discovered in an old castle, not a day's journey from Inspruck. You may think I knew pretty well where he meant, monsieur. 'How were they found out?' said I; so he told us, that a gentleman that was travelling that way, had been attacked by them, and that his servants had managed to take one of the banditti prisoner, who had confessed all their tricks, and that the gentleman had had them all taken up, and that they had been condemned by the emperor, to be sold for galley slaves, and sent to the Turks. I wish, de toute ma vie, they had been sent to the Bastile."
Count Byroff immediately took measures for inquiring into the truth of this report; and to the excessive delight of Jacques, who, since his escape from the banditti, had stood in great fear, though he had endeavoured to hide it, of being fetched back by them and punished for his desertion,—and to the no small though suppressed satisfaction of count Byroff, who, from the threatened vengeance of Kroonzer, had thought himself in rather an unpleasant predicament,—the report proved to be a true one.
About this time Alphonsus employed a person recommended to his confidence by father Nicholas, to pass over into Italy, and ascertain whether count Arieno was still in existence; intending, if he was alive, to visit Venice himself, together with his Lauretta, whom he looked upon as entitled to become the heiress of count Arieno's property; and that it became him on this account to make her known to her grandfather; but the messenger returned with information, that count Arieno having been proved to be an accomplice with another senator who had embezzled some part of the public revenue, he had died on the scaffold, and his entire property been confiscated to the state.
Thus the wretch whose life had been a disgrace to humanity, was punished by a death equally shocking to the feelings of civilization.
The countess Anna lived but a few months in the seclusion in which she had chosen to end her days, and little doubtful of her forgiveness in a happier state, for the commission of an involuntary crime, Alphonsus could not lament, that her sorrows on earth were ended.
Some years after this, an accident introduced to each other's sight Alphonsus and the baron Smaldart; time had softened the resentment the baron had, immediately on the death of the chevalier D'Aignon, borne to Alphonsus; and Alphonsus had long wished a reconciliation to take place. Thus, though neither party proposed it, both visibly promoted it; and it was effected to their mutual satisfaction.
Shortly after the baron accepted an invitation given him by Alphonsus to visit Cohenburg castle, and beheld a scene that called forth in him the tenderest feelings; Alphonsus and his Lauretta, living in the splendor of rank, yet deriving their comforts from domestic happiness; count Byroff revered by his son and daughter; beloved and caressed by their offspring; that offspring growing up in the sanctioned felicity of innocence, sweetened by the indulgence of a fond grandfather, the endearments of a doting mother, and the instructions of a father, competent to give them. "Learn, above all, my children," Alphonsus would often repeat to them, "to avoid suspicion; for as it is the source of crimes, it is also the worst of crimes, attaching itself with equal mischief to the guilty and the innocent; it is an endless pang to him who harbours it; for it dies only when he dies, and then too often leaves a curse on those that follow him; it is the influence of evil that breeds suspicion, the noble spirit of charity that subdues it!"
THE END
CLERMONT
BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE
Editor's Note
Though Regina Maria Roche (1764-1845) is a largely obscure writer today, she was a best-selling novelist in her day. Her book The Children of the Abbey: A Tale, published in 1796, was extremely popular, and remained in print through most of the 19th Century. It is referenced by writers as far apart in time and space as Jane Austen (in her novel Emma, published 1815) and Lucy Maud Montgomery (in her novel Emily Climbs, published 1925).
It is, however, another of her books that made the list of the Northanger Horrid Novels: Clermont. Roche's third novel, Clermont features many of the hallmarks typical of the Gothic novel, including a female protagonist--Madeleine--, a family mystery, and a series of shadowy antagonists. Though not Roche's best work from a literary standpoint, the novel was quite popular during her lifetime.
CLERMONT
Contents
VOLUME ONE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
VOLUME TWO
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
VOLUME THREE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
VOLUME FOUR
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
Our Passions gone, and reason on her throne,
Amaz'd we see the mischiefs we have done:
After a tempest, when the winds are laid,
The calm sea wonders at the wrecks it made.
-WALLER
VOLUME ONE
CHAPTER I
————Far retired
Among the windings of a woody vale,
By solitude and deep surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty conceal'd,
Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn
Which virtue sunk to poverty would meet
From giddy passion and low-minded pride.
-THOMSON
In a retired part of the province of Dauphiny stood the cottage of Clermont; its remote obscurity was well suited to the mental solitude of its tenant, and its neat simplicity corresponded with his refined taste. Fifteen years he had been an inhabitant of it; and from the elegance of his manners and the dignity of his mien, his rustic neighbours were of opinion that he had once seen better days. To this impression, however, he studiously avoided giving any sanction; nay, it was evident he wished by every means in his power, to discourage the idea of opulence or greatness having ever been his portion.
His chief employment consisted in superintending a little farm, from which his principal support appeared to be derived, and his highest amusement and pleasure in studying the works of nature, and cultivating the mind of his daughter; who, with an elderly female servant whom he had hired after his arrival at the cottage, were the only human beings that shared with him the fruits of his retirement.
Madeline, but two years old at that period, could consequently recollect nothing previous to it; but, from the striking difference between her father and the surrounding rustics, she could not help adopting their opinion of him, and thinking that he had once moved in a circle very different from that in which he was then placed.
She more than once hinted this opinion, and enquired of her father the cause of their retirement, and whether they had no relatives, no friends, in that great world from which they were secluded? but she never received any satisfactory answer. The agitation he always betrayed at those enquiries, made her at last resolve to suppress a curiosity so painful to his feelings. It however confirmed her belief of his having experienced severe misfortunes; and from this conviction, she redoubled he
r attention, trusting that, if she could not obliterate, she might at least soften their remembrance.
But to do so in reality, was, alas! beyond her power. 'Tis true, he sometimes forced himself to wear the semblance of cheerfulness, although his heart was ever a stranger to it; oppressed by a sorrow which the boasted efficacy of time, the solicitude of filial attention, or the tenderness of sympathy could not mitigate;—a sorrow, which anticipated the work of time, had already faded his cheek and furrowed his brow, though yet in what might be termed the prime of man's life, not having attained his fortieth year; and sometimes so far overcame him, as to render him unable to bear even the society of his daughter, his only earthly comfort. At those periods he always wandered to the wildest and most sequestered spot that he could find in the neighbourhood of his residence,
——————'mid
thorns and mire;
all forlorn,
To muse at last, amid the ghostly gloom
Of graves, and hoary vaults, and cloistered cells,
To walk with spectres thro' the midnight shade,
And to the screaming owl's accursed song,
Attune the dreadful workings of his heart.
Though one of his chief sources of pleasure (as I have already said) was derived from the culture of his daughter's mind, he was often tempted to forego this gratification by reflecting on the inutility of accomplishments to her, who, like the desert rose, seemed born to waste her sweetness in obscurity. The task, however, was too delightful to be relinquished; and he at last rejoiced that he had persevered in it; for, as he carefully guarded her against all refinements which could render her dissatisfied with her humble station, he found that the expansion of her mind, by opening new sources of amusement, increased her happiness: he cultivated to the highest perfection that taste which the
Source divine of ever-flowing love,
And his unmeasur'd goodness, not content
With every food of life to nourish man,
Implants within his heart to make,
By kind illusions of the wand'ring sense,
All beauty to his eye,
And music to his ear; with which
Well pleased he scans
The goodly prospect, and with inward smiles,
Treads the gay verdure of the painted plains,
Beholds the azure canopy of heaven,
And living lamps that over-arch his head
With more than regal splendour.
Never did a pupil render the toils of an instructor less difficult than did Madeline those of her father; and as she grew up, her perfect knowledge of the historian's record, and just conception of the poet's beauty, rendered her a companion well qualified to diversify his lonely hours.
She possessed besides an exquisite taste for drawing and music, and accompanied the soft melody of her lute with a voice which, though not strong, was inexpressibly sweet; melodious as that which the rapt poet at the visionary hour of twilight sometimes thinks he hears chanting from the wood-crown'd hill, the deep'ning dale, or inmost sylvan glade.
The liveliness of her fancy was equal to the strength of her understanding, and often raised a visionary paradise around her; softness and animation were happily blended in her disposition; and with equal delight she could enjoy the gaiety of innocent mirth and the lonely hour of solitude: feeling and precept had early taught her pity for the woes of others; and with cheerfulness she could tax either convenience or comfort to supply the claims of poverty. To her person Nature had not been less liberal than to her mind; by her prodigality to both, it seemed indeed as if she had been anxious to make amends for the deficiency of fortune.
She was tall and delicately made; nor was the symmetry of her features inferior to that of her bodily form: but it was not to this symmetry that they owed their most attractive charm,—it was derived from the fascinating sweetness diffused over them. Her eyes, large and of the darkest hazel, ever true to the varying emotions of her soul, languished beneath their long silken lashes with all the softness of sensibility, and sparkled with all the fire of animation; her hair, a rich auburn, added luxuriance to her beauty, and by a natural curl, gave an expression of the greatest innocence to her face; the palest blush of health just tinted her dimpled, fair, and beautifully rounded cheek; and her mouth, adorned by smiles, appeared like the half-blown rose when moistened with the dews of early morn.
Such was Madeline Clermont, who, ignorant of the great world, neither practised its follies, sighed for its pleasures, or dreaded its vices; her highest wish was gratified when she could steal from the brow of her father its usual sadness, and render him for a moment forgetful of his sorrows.
Their house stood on a little eminence, in a deep, romantic, and verdant valley, which wound to a considerable extent between cultivated hills, where the vine spread her treasures to the sun, and the husbandman often gathered a luxuriant harvest; woods of variegated verdure stretched up many of their steep ascent, and the summit of one of the highest was crowned with the ruins of a once noble castle, the residence, according to tradition, of some of the ancient Counts of Dauphiny. This shattered pile, the record of departed greatness and the power of time, was carefully shunned by the peasant after sun-set, for the village legends were swelled with an account of the horrid noises, and still more horrid sights, heard and beheld within its dreary walls: but though feared by superstition, it was the favourite haunt of taste and sensibility; and thither, as the last beams of the sun glimmered o'er the scene, Clermont and Madeline often wandered; they loved to explore its grass-grown court and winding avenues, and picture to themselves the scenes that had once passed to all appearance within them: they also frequently ascended to its broken battlements, covered with wild vegetation, where the birds of night held their unmolested reign, startling by their melancholy cries those persons whom chance or necessity conducted near the spot, from thence to feast on the delicious prospect beneath; whilst the breeze sighed amongst the surrounding trees, (whose ponderous trunks and matted branches declared them long inhabitants of the soil) as if the genius of the pile still haunted their recesses and mourned its desolation. The hills were completely surrounded by a chain of mountains, bleak, barren, and desolate, except in the summer months, when the shepherd led thither his little flock to crop the sweet herbage that then grew amongst their interstices.
A narrow river run through the valley, whose calm current was in many places interrupted by projections of rocks, which served as rude bridges for the villagers to pass from one side to the other; numerous herds enlivened its banks, along which a low brushwood crept, intermingled with a few tall trees, weeping willows, and sweet-smelling shrubs, which formed embowered seats for the solitary angler. A number of neat cottages were scattered about the vale; and it was delightful of a fine evening to behold their young inhabitants dancing to pastoral music on the little grassy lawns before them;—
Like fairy elves,
Whose midnight revels by a forest side,
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
Or dreams he sees; while over head the moon
Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth
Wheels her pale course, they on their mirth and dance
Intent, with jocund music, charm his ear.
The cottage of Clermont was embosomed in a small grove, through which a broad grassy path, enclosed by a rude paling, led from the valley to the house; o'er the door honeysuckle and wild roses, during the summer, formed a kind of portico, and half shaded its latticed windows; its interior was as simple as its exterior, and it was ornamented, as Madeline grew up, by her fanciful drawings. Midway up the hill that rose at the rear of his cottage, Clermont had continued his garden, as the space which lay between it and his dwelling was too narrow to yield sufficient vegetables for his family, small as it was; a silvery stream descended from this hill that gave fertility to the flowers which Madeline cultivated; and immediately above the garden it projected into craggy points of rock, which allured thith
er, by the fragrant herbs that grew about them, not only the industrious bee, but the wild and adventurous goat; and though the garden, its fences being readily overleaped, sometimes suffered from having the latter in its vicinity, Clermont could not think of driving away a neighbour, whose appearance on the heights added to the romantic and picturesque scenery of the spot. On the southern side of the hill lay a small vineyard belonging to Clermont, which he diligently cultivated.
Unchequered by incident, unruffled by discontent, the days of Madeline glided away till she had attained her seventeenth year; at which period their calm current was interrupted.
CHAPTER II
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whisp'ring thro' the shade.
-BARBAULD
It was in a fine autumnal evening that Clermont, seized with one of his usual fits of melancholy, abruptly withdrew from the cottage, and left Madeline to amuse herself as fancy might direct. Habit had failed of its usual effect upon her mind; for, on every return of her father's dejection, she felt as much distressed as if she had never before witnessed it. To endeavour to alleviate this distress, she now walked out and pursued her course along the margin of the river till she reached the old castle, o'er which the last beams of the sun now glimmered; its gloom rather invited than deterred her from entering it: passing, therefore, through its dreary courts, she ascended a flight of half-broken stairs that led directly to a large chamber which opened to a kind of rude balcony that stretched along one wing of the building. This was a favourite seat of Madeline's. The landscape seen through the intervening trees which rose before it never satiated her eye; upon every view some new beauty, some new charm, if possible more lovely than the last, was discovered by her.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 279