Lafroy still remained in the service of the Marquis, who felt strongly attached to him from an idea of his having been a faithful and affectionate servant to his son. That unfortunate son recovered from his wound; and, as soon as he was able to bear a removal, was conveyed in the dead of the night by Josephe, Lafroy, and their partner in iniquity, Claude, to a lonely cottage at some distance from the castle, and well calculated, from its frightful solitude, for the purpose for which it was taken. Here, under the care of Josephe, he remained till after the death of Lord Dunlere; he was then re-conveyed to the castle, which Lafroy had art enough to prevail on D'Alembert to purchase, by pretending he should like it for a future habitation. In reality, he knew no place so well calculated for concealing the unhappy Philippe, no place in which he could so easily make away with him, when he should find his existence no longer necessary. As it was not possible to keep Josephe longer from his home without exciting suspicions and enquiries, he dispatched him to it, and placed in the castle a sister of their's and her husband, whose dispositions too much resembled his own to make him fear any thing from them.
Every thing now went smoothly on with D'Alembert: his wife, whom he had never loved, died shortly after the supposed death of the two brothers, and every one considered, and treated him with additional respect in consequence of that consideration, as the heir of Montmorenci. The unhappy Marquis, tortured with remorse, and anxious to expiate his crimes by atoning to those he had injured, made the most diligent enquiries after his eldest son—enquiries in which D'Alembert, with the warmest zeal appeared to join, but which in reality he baffled, wishing, for obvious reasons, to conceal from the Marquis every thing relative to him. The only drawback he had upon his happiness, was the idea of the degradation he should suffer by the union of his daughter with the supposed son of Josephe, a peasant upon the Montmorenci estate. But as he knew this was a measure which could not be avoided without the exposure of his iniquities, he tried to reconcile himself to it by a hope, that his rank and fortune would stifle at least the open censures of the world. The consequence which he knew he should lose by his daughter's connexion, he determined to try and re-acquire by the marriage of his son; and for this purpose, looked out amongst the most illustrious for a partner for him. His choice soon devolved upon the young and lovely heiress of the Count de Merville, who was then just presented at the French Court by her mother, and was the most admired object at it. Her heart was not gained without difficulty; but when gained, her hand soon followed it. The prize attained, the tendernesses and attentions by which it was won, were soon discontinued; and the mask of gentleness and sensibility cast aside, discovered to the unhappy mother and daughter features of the utmost deformity and horror. To reform, instead of reproach, was however the ardent wish of both—a wish which they were soon convinced was not to be accomplished; and with unutterable anguish, the Countess beheld her amiable and beloved child united to a hardened libertine. To try and alleviate her bitter destiny, she remained with her a considerable time after her marriage, till driven from her residence by the insulting treatment of D'Alembert, whose expenses far exceeded both the fortune of his wife, and the income allowed by his father, made him demand supplies from her, which she refusing, provoked him to language and conduct not more wounding to her as a woman to receive, than degrading to him as a man to use. She refused those supplies, not only because she thought it a sin to furnish vice with the means of gratifying itself, but because she wished to reserve something like an independence for her daughter, in case she was ever plunged into pecuniary distresses (of which she beheld every probability) by the thoughtless and unbounded extravagance of her husband.
During her own life this independence could only be acquired, for at her death her fortune, which, in right of her father she enjoyed, was entailed upon her daughter; and would, she was convinced, on devolving to her, be swept, like all her other possessions, into the vortex of dissipation.
To avoid the insults of D'Alembert, and to diminish her expenses, she was hastening to her chateau at the time she met with the accident which introduced her to the cottage of Clermont. No sooner was she acquainted with his situation, than she formed the resolution of taking his daughter under her protection, and dividing with her whatever she could save, and meant to have appropriated solely to Madame D'Alembert's use.
Her departure from the habitation of D'Alembert did not exempt her from his solicitations, or reproaches on finding those solicitations still unsuccessful. A letter from him, couched in a more insulting stile than any she had before received from him, was the occasion of the illness and dejection which shocked and alarmed Madeline so much on her return from Madame Chatteneuf's—an illness and dejection, for which the Countess would never assign the real cause. To conceal domestic troubles—troubles which could not be remedied, she always conceived to be the wisest plan; rightly considering, that the world always took a divided part; and, though convinced one side was culpable, never exempted the other entirely from blame.
Enraged, disappointed, and distressed by her continued refusals, D'Alembert formed the horrible resolution of assassinating her—a resolution which he scrupled not to avow to his father, who had ever been his abettor in all his villainous schemes and profligate pursuits. His father did more than sanction it by silence; he commended it as a proof of real spirit, which would not quietly submit to ill-treatment; and recommended Claude, who still continued in his service, as a proper person for assisting in such a scheme: of this young D'Alembert was already convinced, having before tried his abilities in one scarcely less iniquitous than the present. Disguised, they both travelled to the chateau, and in the ruined monastery acted the dreadful scene which has been already described. Notwithstanding her injuries, the just resentment she must have felt for them, the Countess determined never to reveal their author; the consequence of doing so would, she was convinced, be either death or distraction to her daughter. She died, imploring heaven to forgive him as she had done, and for ever conceal from his wife her having fallen by the hand of her husband.
Her solemn injunction to Madeline upon her death bed, not to continue in the house if he came to it, was occasioned by her perfect knowledge of his libertine disposition. Beauty like her's could not fail, she was sure, of exciting his regards: she was equally sure that he would not hesitate going any length to gratify his passions. She therefore, though without informing Madeline of the danger she dreaded on her account, earnestly conjured her to avoid it. Of his baseness and profligacy she had had a fatal proof during her residence beneath his roof.
Soon after his marriage, ere they were thoroughly acquainted with his disposition, she and Madame D'Alembert took under their protection a young and lovely girl, the orphan of a noble but reduced family, with whom they had been well acquainted. They took her with an intention of amply providing for her, and still keeping her amongst the circles she had been accustomed to. Long she had not been under their care, ere her charms attracted the admiration of D'Alembert; and, in defiance of the laws of hospitality, honour, and humanity, he insulted her with the basest proposals, and threatened revenge when he found them treated with the contempt they merited. Tenderness for her patronesses made her long conceal his conduct: at length she grew alarmed, and revealed it. In consequence of this disclosure, they determined to send her to a convent in Dauphine, and lodge her there till they could hear of a respectable family who would receive her as a boarder, and under whose protection she could with safety and propriety again enjoy some of the pleasures of life. Under the care of proper attendants she commenced her journey; but how great was the horror, the consternation of the Countess and Madame D'Alembert, when those attendants returned to inform them, that from the inn where they had stopped for the night, she had eloped.
The idea of her having eloped was not for an instant conceived either by the Countess or Madame D'Alembert; they knew the innocence of the unhappy girl—they knew her total ignorance of all with whom they were not acquainted, and suspici
on immediately glanced at D'Alembert: they hesitated not to inform him of that suspicion; they did more—they declared their positive conviction of his having had her carried off by means of some of his agents: he denied the justice of the charge—he resented it; and, in reply to their threats (for supplications they soon found unavailing), said he was ready to deny before any tribunal they might cite him to, the crime they accused him of. His declarations of innocence gained no credit with them; they were convinced of his guilt, but could not prove it; and the unfortunate Adelaide, who had no friends out of their family interested about her, was never after heard of by them, notwithstanding their diligent and unceasing enquiries, and promises of liberally rewarding any one who could give the smallest intelligence concerning her.
As fearful as her mother of having Madeline seen by her husband, yet unwilling to relinquish her society, Madame D'Alembert determined, instead of sending her from it, to secrete her in the chateau when Monsieur D'Alembert so unexpectedly announced his intention of coming to it, for the purpose, as Agatha suspected, of seeing what part of the estate would be the best to dispose of. Amongst the domestics who attended Madame D'Alembert to the chateau, was a young female, whose principles her master had entirely perverted. His improper influence over her was, however, carefully concealed from her mistress, over whom he placed her as a kind of spy, an office she too faithfully executed. She overheard the conversation between Madame D'Alembert and Madeline, and communicated it to D'Alembert almost immediately after his arrival at the chateau. Eager to behold beauty so extolled, he rested not till he had gained access to the chamber in which Madeline was concealed, and which he effected by means of a sliding-door in the closet, with which she was unacquainted.
The moment he beheld her, he was captivated by her, and determined to leave no means untried of securing charms which he had never seen equalled. For the purpose of concerting a plan for the accomplishment of his wishes, he appointed an interview in the ruined monastery with his female confidant. The shock which Madeline received in consequence of that interview, is already known. As she lay senseless at his feet, instead of being moved to pity by her situation, he conceived the horrid idea of availing himself of it; and determined to send to the chateau for some of his emissaries to carry her off, when the unexpected approach of his wife and Lubin frustrated this intention. Not knowing who were approaching, he and his companion fled at the first sound of their steps, and thus lost the conversation which took place between Madeline and her friend.
He returned the next morning to the monastery, and explored every part of it for her; the chateau next underwent a search. When convinced she was gone, his rage knew no bounds; he openly accused his wife of perfidy, of meanness; insisted she had infringed her duty in having had any concealment from him; and peremptorily commanded her to tell him (if she hoped for his forgiveness), whither she had sent her lovely charge; this she as peremptorily refused doing. Words, in consequence of that refusal, grew high between them; and the party which had accompanied him to the chateau, were dismissed abruptly from it by him. As a justification of his conduct, and an excuse for it, he assured them that his wife's temper would not permit him to have them with pleasure to themselves any longer under his roof.
When freed from their observation, and the little restraint which they had imposed upon him, he treated the unhappy Madame D'Alembert with the utmost brutality. To avoid his inhumanity, she never stirred from her chamber, except compelled to do so by his commands; and now endeavoured to beguile her wretchedness by beginning her promised narrative to Madeline—a narrative, however, which she doubted ever having the power of sending to her, as D'Alembert solemnly swore she never should be permitted to leave the chateau, or hold converse of any kind with any person out of it, till she had communicated to him all he desired to know concerning her lovely friend.
His temper, it may be supposed, was not improved when his father arrived at the chateau to inform him of the existence of Clermont, and his being acknowledged as the son and rightful heir of the Marquis of Montmorenci. This was a blow not more unexpected than dreadful—a blow which completely demolished all his hopes of independence, all his hopes of being extricated from his difficulties. He raved, and imprecated curses upon the memory of those who had deceived his father relative to Clermont. His rage and regret at not having secured Madeline, were augmented when he understood that she was the daughter of Clermont; and reflected, that had she been carried off by him, the discovery relative to her father would never, in all probability, have taken place.
"How unfortunate (exclaimed old D'Alembert, in reply to what he had said concerning her), how unfortunate that you are not at liberty to offer your hand, and thus gratify your love and your ambition. Were you free, I am convinced I could soon effect a marriage between you and St. Julian's daughter."
His son started; a flush of savage joy overspread his countenance—"I can easily regain my liberty (said he); I have long sighed for it; a noble soul will ever try to break chains which are oppressive. My wife is but a mortal; the hand which gave a quietus to the mother, can easily give the same to the daughter. We can manage the affair between us so secretly, that no soul shall know of it, no eye behold it."
His father sighed heavily, and shook his head. Remorse had lately begun to visit his breast; and he trembled to think there was an eye over all their actions—an eye which could not be deceived. "I like not the shedding of blood," said he.
"You were not always averse to it," cried his son with a malignant sneer.
"True, because my designs could be by no other means accomplished; where mercy can be shown, I wish to be merciful; you can get rid of your wife without destroying her: the report of her death will as effectually serve your purposes as if she had really died; and in the castle on the Alps she can be too securely lodged ever to have an opportunity of proving the fallacy of that report."
D'Alembert detested his wife; and could not, without the utmost reluctance, think of sparing her life; when his father at length prevailed upon him to promise to do so. They soon concerted their schemes relative to her. It was determined that he should apologize to her for his unkindness; and, as an atonement for it, insist upon her accompanying him to Bareges, in order to try and recover her health, which to herself alone he should acknowledge his fears of having injured. Their plans arranged, they immediately separated. Old D'Alembert was in haste to return to his house from whence he had privately departed for the purpose of consulting his son on the sudden change in their prospects; Claude alone knew of his departure, and was ordered to detain the Marquis's messenger, and invent a plausible excuse for the letter he brought not being answered directly.
The purport of the letter which D'Alembert wrote in reply to it has been already mentioned. After writing it, he had a private interview with Lafroy, to whom he imparted the new scene of cruelty and baseness he and his son were about acting; and gave such instructions as he deemed necessary. These instructions were merely to do every thing which could gain the favour and confidence of St. Julian, and render him unsuspicious of the designs upon his daughter. To forward which designs, it was determined that all the horrors of superstition should be awakened in his breast; when once infected, once enervated by them, he might easily, D'Alembert believed, be made the dupe of art and villainy. For the purpose of exciting those horrors, Lafroy secreted himself in the chamber of Lord Philippe, to which he gained access by a way not known to many of the family, and forgotten by those who did know it, from its being long disused. Immediately behind the bedstead was a small door which opened into a dark closet, communicating with a flight of back stairs; those stairs, and this closet, previous to his residence at the castle, had been shut up, and chance first discovered them to him. A valuable ring of his Lord's was mislaid one day, and, in searching for it, he pushed aside the bedstead, and perceived the door; curiosity made him eagerly unbar it, and explore the places beyond it. Of those long deserted places he determined to avail himself when the plan
of alarming St. Julian was first suggested, and his was the hand which, extended through the tapestry, had so greatly shocked and terrified Madeline.
The rage of D'Alembert at her obstinate refusal of his son, was even greater than he expressed; he soon found that solicitations were vain, and that stratagem alone could effect his purposes. The stratagem he called in to his aid is already known: but whilst exulting at the idea of the success with which there was every appearance of its being crowned, he was suddenly plunged into despair by the intelligence of his daughter-in-law's existence being discovered to Madeline and her father—a despair, however, from which the ready genius of Lafroy soon relieved him.
The letter which Madeline received relative to her friend, was written and delivered by Claude. A fit of illness, which endangered his life, effected a thorough reformation in his principles; and he rose from the bed of sickness resolved to make every atonement in his power for his former enormities. To openly declare the existence of Madame D'Alembert and the unfortunate Philippe, would be, he was convinced, to occasion their immediate destruction; for so well was he acquainted with the hardened wickedness of D'Alembert, his son, and Lafroy, that he doubted not their declaring such an assertion the assertion of a madman, and instantly dispatching some of the well-tried and diabolical agents, by which they were surrounded, to destroy Philippe and Viola ere any person from the Marquis could be deputed to search for them. He knew the necessity therefore there was for going secretly to work, and, having once gained access to the castle, to warn Madeline of her danger, determined to set out alone for the Alps. He learned from a domestic of D'Alembert's who was sent home, that Madeline confined herself to her chamber; and, acquainted as he was with every avenue in the castle, he found it no difficult matter to steal to her unperceived by any of the family.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 326