The circumstances which occasioned her death, heightened the grief of Madeline for it, and the flattering hopes she had conceived of her amendment, from her uninterrupted rest, also aggravated her feelings.
She continued alone a considerable time; at length Agatha entered with some coffee. "I see Mam'selle, (cried she) that like me you could not rest; I might indeed as well have staid up as gone to bed."
"No, (said Madeline, looking mournfully in her face) I could not rest."
"Pray Mam'selle, (cried Agatha, as she laid the coffee on a little table before her) pray Mam'selle, do not take on so badly; though you have lost a good friend, you have still a kind father to love and to protect you; not like me, who in losing my lady, have lost my only friend. Ah, Mam'selle! (dropping into a chair opposite Madeline) 'tis a grievous thing for a poor old soul like me, to be neglected and forlorn."
"You will never be deserted or forlorn, I trust, and believe (cried Madeline); the noble daughter of your dear departed lady will never, I am convinced, desert any one that she loved."
"She is a noble lady, indeed (said Agatha) but——"
"But what?" eagerly interrogated Madeline, on her suddenly pausing.
"Nothing, Mam'selle, (replied Agatha, sighing; then as if to change the discourse) do pray, Mam'selle (she continued) try and eat some breakfast; indeed, if you do not take more care of yourself, than you at present seem inclined to do, you will probably bring on a fit of sickness; and what a grievous thing would it be for my poor young lady on arriving, to find, not only her mother dead, but you unable to give her any comfort."
"Alas! (said Madeline) whether well or ill, I fear I shall be equally unable to give her comfort."—Agatha again pressed her to take some breakfast, but grief had destroyed all inclination for doing so, and the housekeeper soon left her to her melancholy meditations.—At the usual dinner hour they were again interrupted by the re-entrance of Agatha, who came to entreat her to descend to the dinner parlour. "Do, pray do, dear Mam'selle (she said); if you eat nothing, it will even do you good to stir a little."
Madeline had felt so forlorn whilst by herself, that she did not refuse this entreaty, and accordingly went down stairs; but when she entered the parlour—that parlour where she had first been welcomed to the chateau—where she had been embraced as the adopted child of the Countess—where she had passed with her so many happy hours, the composure she tried to assume vanished; she involuntarily started back, and bursting into tears, would have returned to her chamber, had not Agatha prevented her; the pathetic entreaties of the faithful creature at length prevailed on Madeline to sit down to the table, where she also insisted on Agatha's seating herself; but she could not eat—she could only weep.
The sorrowful looks of the servants—the solemn stillness which reigned throughout the chateau, so different from its former cheerfulness, augmented her tears. Agatha judged of Madeline by herself, and thinking those tears would be a relief to her overcharged heart, she did not attempt to stop them. They sat together till the close of day, when Agatha entreated her to retire to her chamber, and try and take that rest which she had been so long deprived of, and so materially wanted.
Madeline was convinced she could not sleep; but she did not hesitate to return to her chamber, at the door of which Agatha left her. Scarcely had she entered it, ere she resolved on going to her benefactress's, and indulging her sorrow by weeping over her remains. She accordingly proceeded thither; but when she reached the door, she paused, and shuddered at the solemn scene before her.
The chamber was hung with black, and a black velvet pall was thrown across the bed, which formed a melancholy contrast to the rich crimson curtains. Before the bed several rows of large wax tapers burned, and cast a gleam upon the face of the Countess that increased its ghastliness. Awe-struck, Madeline wanted resolution to enter; and it might perhaps have been many minutes ere she could have summoned sufficient for that purpose, had she not beheld Agatha and Floretta sitting in a remote corner of the room. She then, with light and trembling steps, approached the bed. The moment she cast her eyes upon the inanimate features of her friend, the composure, which sudden awe had inspired, gave way to her affliction.
"Is she gone? (she cried, looking round her with an eye of wildness, as if forgetting the scene of the morning—as if doubting the reality of what she saw); Oh! too surely—too surely she is (she continued, wringing her hands together); and who, in this wide world, can supply her loss to Madeline? Oh, most excellent of women! (kneeling beside the bed, while tears streamed in torrents down her cheeks); Thou—friend to the friendless—'tis now I feel the full extremity of grief; the sorrow, which I so lately deemed excruciating, seems light, seems trivial, in comparison of that which I now feel. Had you died (she went on, after a momentary pause, and as if the dull cold ear of death could have heard her pathetic lamentations), had you died according to the common course of nature, though my loss would have been equally great, my grief, I think, would not have been so poignant. To die by such horrible means (she added, with a kind of scream in her voice, and starting up as if she saw that very moment the poignard of the assassin pointed at her own breast); to die by such horrible means, is what overpowers me. Oh why—why did I not follow you the fatal night you went to the chapel?"
"Dear Mam'selle (said Agatha, rising and approaching her), try to compose yourself; no grief, no lamentations can recall my blessed lady."
"Oh! Agatha (cried Madeline), 'tis not a common friend; 'tis a mother I lament;—she was the only person from whom I ever experienced the tenderness of one. Do you not wonder (she continued, grasping the arm of Agatha) how any one could be so wicked as to injure such a woman—a woman who never, I am confident, in the whole course of her life, injured a mortal; whose hand was as liberal as her heart, and whose pity relieved, even when her reason condemned the sufferer? Would you not have thought, Agatha (again bending o'er the bed, from which she had a little retreated) that the innocence of that countenance might have disarmed the rage of a savage? What a smile is there still upon it; it seems to declare the happiness which is enjoyed by the spirit that once animated it!"
"My dear young lady (said Agatha, in a low voice), recollect yourself;—remember the promise you gave my lady in the chapel, never to mention or allude, by any means whatsoever, to the transaction that happened there."
"I thank you, Agatha (cried Madeline), for awakening me to recollection; never should I have forgiven myself, had I broken my promise. I will in future endeavour to have more command over my feelings." She still, however, remained by the bed, holding the arm of Agatha.
"And to this cold, this ghastly, this inanimate state, must we all, one day come!" she cried.
"Yes (replied a hollow voice behind her, the voice of Father Bertrand, who, unperceived, had entered some minutes before, accompanied by some of his brother monks, for the purpose of saying mass for the soul of the departed); the crime of disobedience has doomed us to that state, and the paths of fame and fortune lead but to the coffin and the grave."
He now proceeded to inform Madeline of the purpose for which he had entered.
"If (cried he) you think you can, without interrupting, attend to our solemn rites, and join in our orisons, remain; if not, retire to your chamber."
"I do think I can (replied Madeline); I also think, that, by staying, my mind will be composed."
Some of the most ancient of the domestics now entered, and the sacred service was begun, and ere concluded, the turbulence of Madeline's grief was abated: when over, Father Bertrand, who was tenderly interested about her, insisted on her retiring to her chamber, and gave her his benediction as she withdrew.
Overcome by fatigue, both of body and mind, she repaired to bed; but the sleep into which she sunk was broken and disturbed by frightful visions, and she arose pale and unrefreshed, at the first dawn of day, to seek some of her fellow-partners in affliction. To describe her feelings this day would be but to recapitulate those of the preceding one. They were no
w, as they were then, alternately perturbed, alternately calm; and Father Bertrand, whose sympathy and counsel alone caused that calm, was convinced time only could restore them to their wonted state. She this day performed the painful task of acquainting her father with the melancholy loss they had sustained, which she did as follows:—
To M. Clermont,
"WHERE shall I find words to soften the melancholy tidings I have to communicate. Oh! my father, vainly would I try for expressions to do so; no language, no preparation I could use would mitigate them to you; but what I find it impossible to do, your own reason and religion will, I trust, perform.
"Heaven has been pleased to recall our estimable friend, my dear and lamented benefactress, to itself. The dawn of yesterday saw the seal of death impressed upon those eyes which scarcely ever opened but to cheer her family, or witness some good deeds of her own performing. So short was her illness, so unexpected her dissolution, that I feel myself at times quite bewildered by the shock, and tempted to think, that what has lately happened is but the dream of my own disordered imagination.
"Is she dead? I repeatedly ask myself;—the Countess de Merville dead? she whom but a few days ago I beheld so apparently well and happy? Alas! the gloom of every surrounding object gives a fatal affirmative to those self-questions.
"I wander to her favourite apartments, as if to seek for her, who never more will re-enter them; and start back, chilled and affrighted by their neglect and desertion, as if it was unexpected. Oh, my father, what a change has a few days produced! The sound of social mirth no longer enlivens the Castle; a death-like stillness reigns throughout it, scarcely ever interrupted but by the wind sighing through its long galleries, as if in unison with the grief of its inhabitants.
"Things without appear almost as dreary as they do within. The fury of a late storm has scattered the lawn with broken boughs and fragments from the chateau, and thus given the place an appearance of desolation saddening in the extreme. The poor peasants, too, who are employed within the wood, appear (to me at least) quite altered. They seem to pursue their labours with reluctance, and, often suspending them, look towards the Castle with a melancholy air, as if to say the comforts that cheered their toils, and supported their strength, died with its honoured and lamented owner.
"Their loss, indeed, is unspeakable;—not content with relieving the objects chance threw in her way, she herself explored the recesses of poverty, and, like a ministering angel from heaven, dispensed charity and compassion wherever she went. She delighted too in contriving little pastimes which should give relaxation to labour, and smiled to see the rough brow of industry smoothed by pleasure, and the peasants sporting on the sod which they had cultivated.
"This morning, as I stood at an upper window, which overlooked the old trees that waved before it, and saw the distant fields already beginning to wear the yellow tinge of Autumn; I recollected the manner in which she had planned to celebrate the conclusion of the ensuing harvest: she was to have given a feast and a dance upon the lawn to all her tenants, and I was to have mixed in the latter with the peasant girls. Alas! little did I think, when she spoke to me about it, that, ere the period destined for it, she would be laid within the narrow house of clay.
"To quit this place directly, to return to you, my dear father, and mingle those tears with your's, which should embalm her memory, would be my wish, had she not requested, almost in her last moments, that I might continue here to receive Madame D'Alembert, who is shortly expected, and also to give her my company while she staid, or whenever she came to the chateau alone—a request which the gratitude of your heart will not, I am convinced, permit me to disobey;—yet, alas! little benefit can she derive from my society. How can I comfort—how try to reconcile her to a loss which I feel myself nothing earthly can supply to me? But, perhaps, she may derive a melancholy pleasure from the company of a person who is a real mourner; I feel myself, that those of the Countess's family who are the most afflicted, are those to whom I am the most attached.
"It will, I am sure, impart to you the same satisfaction it has done to me, to know that, to the last, my beloved, my estimable benefactress, bestowed upon me those proofs of affection and esteem, which long since excited a gratitude in my heart, death or the loss of reason only can remove. The very morning on which she died so unexpectedly, her generous intentions towards me were to have been put into execution; that they were unfulfilled will, I am confident, be to you, as to me, a small source of regret, compared to that which we feel for her death. I am not now worse with respect to fortune than when she took me under her protection: the luxuries I enjoyed with her have not vitiated my taste, or rendered me unable to support with contentment the humble situation I am destined to. No, my dear father, her lessons and my affection for you guarded me against such perversion of disposition; and as I will still strive to deserve the protection of heaven, so I trust I shall obtain it, and never feel the pressure of worldly want. Do not suffer any apprehensions about my health to disturb your mind; my body has not sympathized as much as you might have supposed with my mind; I am not ill, indeed, though a little fatigued; but there is nothing now (alas! I sigh as I say so) to prevent my taking repose.
"I now regret more than ever the departure of my good friends, Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter; had they continued at V——, I am sure, on the first intimation of the melancholy event which has happened, they would have flown to the castle; and their society, I think, would a little have alleviated my feelings. When I sat down, I did not imagine I could have written above a few lines; but now I find that in writing to, as well as in conversing with, a beloved friend, one is insensibly drawn on, and comforted by being so.
"I have now, however, written almost to the extent of my paper; and as I have nothing of sufficient consequence to say to make me begin a new sheet, I shall bid you, my dearest father, farewell. Write as soon as possible, I entreat you; if you say (which I know you will not, except it is the case) that you are well, and somewhat composed after our great loss, you will give ease to my heart.
"I shall receive pleasure from hearing that our faithful Jaqueline, and all our good neighbours, are well: to all who may be so kind as to inquire after me, present my best wishes. Once more farewell! and believe me
"Your truly dutiful and affectionate child,
"Madeline Clermont."
CHAPTER IX
It is the wretch's comfort still to have
Some small reserve of near and inward woe—
Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief,
Which they, unseen, may wail, and weep, and mourn.
-CONGREVE
In her letter to her father, Madeline carefully guarded against dropping any hint of the event which had accelerated the Countess's death, well knowing that, if she gave the most distant intimation of it, she should prompt inquiries from him, which it would be difficult for her to evade. The news of the Countess's decease soon spread throughout the neighbourhood, and several of her acquaintance sent to the castle to learn the particulars of it; how Mademoiselle Clermont was, and whether Madame D'Alembert was expected?
The respect of the servants to the commands of their lady did not expire with her; and, in conformity to the last she had issued, they answered the inquiries concerning the cause of her death, by saying that it was owing to a severe cold.
A dead calm now reigned throughout the castle; the domestics had nothing to do but to lament, and Madeline passed her time in wandering about the castle, like a ghost round the scene of its former happiness, or in watching by the pale remains of her friend, alternately wishing, alternately fearing the arrival of Madame D'Alembert. Ere she came, Father Bertrand determined to have the body of the Countess secured within its coffin, trusting by this measure to conceal for ever the injury it had suffered; convinced, from the strong affection Madame D'Alembert bore her mother, that to let her know the real cause of her death, would be upon the "quarry of that murdered deer," to add the death of her.
&nb
sp; Eight days elapsed without any tidings of Madame D'Alembert; and before their expiration, the remains of the Countess were consigned to the coffin, and hid for ever from every mortal eye. At the end of that period, a messenger came post one morning to the castle to announce the near approach of Madame D'Alembert, who came, he said, merely attended by a few domestics. Madeline was astonished to hear she was unaccompanied by Monsieur D'Alembert; but Agatha, to whom she expressed that astonishment, replied, that Monsieur was of a gay disposition, and did not, she supposed, choose to come to the castle till the grief of his lady had a little abated.
"But who (cried Madeline) so able to support her under the pressure of that grief as an affectionate husband."
Agatha shook her head, but did not answer; and Madeline descended to the hall (from the dressing-room of her departed friend, where she had been sitting) to receive Madame D'Alembert, whose carriage at that instant was heard. In the hall Madeline found Father Bertrand and most of the servants assembled, whom the good priest earnestly besought to command their feelings, in order, if possible, to prevent letting Madame D'Alembert know the melancholy event which had happened, until a little prepared for it.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 299