The Romance of the Forest

anger, whose limbs of giant mould
What mortal eye can fixed behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form!
Howling amidst the midnight storm!----
And with him thousand phantoms join'd,
Who prompt to deeds accurst the mind!
On whom that rav'ning brood of Fate
Who lap the blood of Sorrow wait;
Who, Fear! this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild like thee!

COLLINS.

The Marquis was punctual to the hour. La Motte received him at the gate;
but he declined entering, and said he preferred a walk in the forest.
Thither, therefore, La Motte attended him. After some general
conversation, Well, said the Marquis, have you considered what I said,
and are you prepared to decide?

I have, my Lord, and will quickly decide, when you shall further explain
yourself: till then I can form no resolution. The Marquis appeared
dissatisfied, and was a moment silent. Is it then possible, he at length
resumed, that you do not understand? This ignorance is surely affected.
La Motte, I expect sincerity. Tell me, therefore, is it necessary I
should say more?

It is, my Lord, said La Motte immediately. If you fear to confide in me
freely, how can I fully accomplish your purpose?

Before I proceed further, said the Marquis, let me administer some oath
which shall bind you to secrecy. But this is scarcely necessary; for,
could I even doubt your word of honour, the remembrance of a certain
transaction would point out to you the necessity of being as silent
yourself as you must wish me to be. There was now a pause of silence,
during which both the Marquis and La Motte betrayed some confusion. I
think, La Motte, said he, I have given you sufficient proof that I can
be grateful: the services you have already rendered me with respect to
Adeline have not been unrewarded.

True, my Lord; I am ever willing to acknowledge this; and am sorry it
has not been in my power to serve you more effectually. Your further
views respecting her I am ready to assist.

I thank you.--Adeline----the Marquis hesitated--Adeline, rejoined La
Motte, eager to anticipate his wishes, has beauty worthy of your
pursuit: she has inspired a passion of which she ought to be proud, and
at any rate she shall soon be yours. Her charms are worthy of----

Yes, yes, interrupted the Marquis; but--he paused. But they have given
you too much trouble in the pursuit, said La Motte; and to be sure, my
Lord, it must be confessed they have; but this trouble is all over--you
may now consider her as your own.

I would do so, said the Marquis, fixing an eye of earnest regard upon La
Motte--I would do so.

Name your hour, my Lord; you shall not be interrupted. Beauty such as
Adeline's--

Watch her closely, interrupted the Marquis, and on no account suffer her
to leave her apartment. Where is she now?

Confined in her chamber.

Very well. But I am impatient.

Name your time, my Lord--to-morrow night.

To-morrow night, said the Marquis, to-morrow night. Do you understand
me now?

Yes, my Lord, this night if you wish it so. But had you not better
dismiss your servants, and remain yourself in the forest? You know the
door that opens upon the woods from the west tower. Come thither about
twelve--I will be there to conduct you to her chamber. Remember then, my
Lord, that to-night--

Adeline dies! interrupted the Marquis in a low voice scarcely human. Do
you understand me now?

----La Motte shrunk aghast--My Lord!

La Motte! said the Marquis.--There was a silence of several minutes, in
which La Motte endeavoured to recover himself. Let me ask, my Lord, the
meaning of this? said he, when he had breath to speak. Why should you
wish the death of Adeline--of Adeline, whom so lately you loved?

Make no inquiries for my motive, said the Marquis; but it is as certain
as that I live that she you name must die. This is sufficient. The
surprise of La Motte equalled his horror. The means are various, resumed
the Marquis. I could have wished that no blood might be spilt; and there
are drugs sure and speedy in their effect, but they cannot be soon or
safely procured. I also wish it over--it must be done quickly--this
night.

This night, my Lord!

Aye, this night, La Motte; if it is to be, why not soon? Have you no
convenient drug at hand?

None, my Lord.

I feared to trust a third person, or I should have been provided, said
the Marquis. As it is, take this poniard! use it as occasion offers, but
be resolute. La Motte received the poniard with a trembling hand, and
continued to gaze upon it for some time, scarcely knowing what he did.
Put it up, said the Marquis, and endeavour to recollect yourself. La
Motte obeyed, but continued to muse in silence.

He saw himself entangled in the web which his own crimes had woven.
Being in the power of the Marquis, he knew he must either consent to the
commission of a deed, from the enormity of which, depraved as he was, he
shrunk in horror, or sacrifice fortune, freedom, probably life itself,
to the refusal. He had been led on by slow gradations from folly to
vice, till he now saw before him an abyss of guilt which startled even
the conscience that so long had slumbered. The means of retreating were
desperate--to proceed was equally so.

When he considered the innocence and the helplessness of Adeline, her
orphan state, her former affectionate conduct, and her confidence in his
protection, his heart melted with compassion for the distress he had
already occasioned her, and shrunk in terror from the deed he was urged
to commit. But when, on the other hand, he contemplated the destruction
that threatened him from the vengeance of the Marquis, and then
considered the advantages that were offered him of favour, freedom, and
probably fortune,--terror and temptation contributed to overcome the
pleadings of humanity, and silence the voice of conscience. In this
state of tumultuous uncertainty he continued for some time silent, until
the voice of the Marquis roused him to a conviction of the necessity of
at least appearing to acquiesce in his designs.

Do you hesitate? said the Marquis.--No, my Lord, my resolution is
fixed--I will obey you. But methinks it would be better to avoid
bloodshed. Strange secrets have been revealed by----

Aye, but how avoid it? interrupted the Marquis.--Poison I will not
venture to procure. I have given you one sure instrument of death. You
also may find it dangerous to inquire for a drug. La Motte perceived
that he could not purchase poison without incurring a discovery much
greater than that he wished to avoid. You are right, my Lord, and I will
follow your orders implicitly. The Marquis now proceeded, in broken
sentences, to give further directions concerning this dreadful scheme.

In her sleep, said he, at midnight; the family will then be at rest.
Afterwards they planned a story which was to account for her
disappearance, and by which it was to seem that she had sought an escape
in consequence of her aversion to the addresses of the Marquis. The
doors of her chamber and of the west tower were to be left open to
corroborate this account, and many other circumstances were to be
contrived to confirm the suspicion. They further consulted how the
Marquis was to be informed of the event; and it was agreed that he
should come as usual to the abbey on the following day.--To-night
then, said the Marquis, I may rely upon your resolution?

You may, my Lord.

Farewell, then. When we meet again----

When we meet again said La Motte, it will be done. He followed the
Marquis to the abbey; and having seen him mount his horse and wished him
a good night, he retired to his chamber, where he shut himself up.

Adeline, meanwhile, in the solitude of her prison gave way to the
despair which her condition inspired. She tried to arrange her thoughts,
and to argue herself into some degree of resignation; but reflection, by
representing the past, and reason, by anticipating the future, brought
before her mind the full picture, of her misfortunes, and she sunk in
despondency. Of Theodore, who, by a conduct so noble, had testified his
attachment and involved himself in ruin, she thought with a degree of
anguish infinitely superior to any she had felt upon any other occasion.

That the very exertions which had deserved all her gratitude, and
awakened all her tenderness, should be the cause of his destruction, was
a circumstance so much beyond the ordinary bounds of misery,
that her fortitude sunk at once before it. The idea of Theodore
suffering--Theodore dying--was for ever present to her imagination; and
frequently excluding the sense of her own danger, made her conscious
only of his. Sometimes the hope he had given her of being able to
vindicate his conduct, or at least to obtain a pardon, would return; but
it was like the faint beam of an April morn, transient and cheerless.
She knew that the Marquis, stung with jealousy and exasperated to
revenge, would pursue him with unrelenting malice.

Against such an enemy what could Theodore oppose? Conscious rectitude
would not avail him to ward off the blow which disappointed passion and
powerful pride directed. Her distress was considerably heightened by
reflecting that no intelligence of him could reach her at the abbey, and
that she must remain she knew not how long in the most dreadful suspense
concerning his fate. From the abbey she saw no possibility of escaping.
She was a prisoner in a chamber inclosed at every avenue; she had no
opportunity of conversing with any person who could afford her even a
chance of relief; and she saw herself condemned to await in passive
silence the impending destiny, infinitely more dreadful to her
imagination than death itself.

Thus circumstanced, she yielded to the pressure of her misfortunes, and
would sit for hours motionless and given up to thought. Theodore! she
would frequently exclaim, you cannot hear my voice, you cannot fly to
help me; yourself a prisoner and in chains. The picture was too horrid:
the swelling anguish of her heart would subdue her utterance--tears
bathed her cheeks--and she became insensible to every thing but the
misery of Theodore.

On this evening her mind had been remarkably tranquil; and as she
watched from her window, with a still and melancholy pleasure, the
setting sun, the fading splendour of the western horizon, and the
gradual approach of twilight, her thoughts bore her back to the time
when in happier circumstances she had watched the same appearances. She
recollected also the evening of her temporary escape from the abbey,
when from this same window she had viewed the declining sun--how
anxiously she had awaited the fall of twilight--how much she had
endeavoured to anticipate the events of her future life--with what
trembling fear she had descended from the tower and ventured into the
forest. These reflections produced others that filled her heart with
anguish and her eyes with tears.

While she was lost in her melancholy reverie she saw the Marquis mount
his horse and depart from the gate. The sight of him revived in all its
force a sense of the misery he inflicted on her beloved Theodore, and a
consciousness of the evils which more immediately threatened herself.
She withdrew from the window in an agony of tears, which continuing for
a considerable time, her frame was at length quite exhausted, and she
retired early to rest.

La Motte remained in his chamber till supper obliged him to descend. At
table his wild and haggard countenance, which, in spite of all his
endeavours, betrayed the disorder of his mind, and his long and frequent
fits of abstraction, surprised as well as alarmed Madame La Motte. When
Peter left the room she tenderly inquired what had disturbed him, and he
with a distorted smile tried to be gay; but the effort was beyond his
art, and he quickly relapsed into silence; or when Madame La Motte
spoke, and he strove to conceal the absence of his thoughts, he answered
so entirely from the purpose that his abstraction became still more
apparent. Observing this, Madame La Motte appeared to take no notice of
his present temper; and they continued to sit in uninterrupted silence
till the hour of rest, when they retired to their chamber.

La Motte lay in a state of disturbed watchfulness for some time, and his
frequent starts awoke Madame, who however, being pacified by some
trifling excuse, soon went to sleep again. This agitation continued till
near midnight, when recollecting that the time was now passing in idle
reflection which ought to be devoted to action, he stole silently from
his bed, wrapped himself in his night-gown, and taking the lamp which
burned nightly in his chamber, passed up the spiral staircase. As he
went he frequently looked back, and often started and listened to the
hollow sighings of the blast.

His hand shook so violently when he attempted to unlock the door of
Adeline's chamber, that he was obliged to set the lamp on the ground,
and apply both his hands. The noise he made with the key induced him to
suppose he must have awakened her; but when he opened the door, and
perceived the stillness that reigned within, he was convinced she was
asleep. When he approached the bed he heard her gently breathe, and soon
after sigh--and he stopped: but silence returning he again advanced, and
then heard her sing in her deep. As he listened he distinguished some
notes of a melancholy little air, which in her happier days she had
often sung to him. The low and mournful accent in which she now uttered
them expressed too well the tone of her mind.

La Motte now stepped hastily towards the bed, when breathing a deep sigh
she was again silent. He undrew the curtain and saw her lying in a
profound sleep, her cheek, yet wet with tears, resting upon her arm. He
stood a moment looking at her; and as he viewed her innocent and lovely
countenance, pale in grief, the light of the lamp, which shone strong
upon her eyes, awoke her, and perceiving a man, she uttered a scream.
Her recollection returning, she knew him to be La Motte; and it
instantly occurring to her that the Marquis was at hand, she raised
herself in bed, and implored pity and protection. La Motte stood looking
eagerly at her, but without replying.

The wildness of his looks and the gloomy silence he preserved increased
her alarm, and with tears of terror she renewed her supplication. You
once saved me from destruction, cried she; O save me now! have pity upon
me--I have no protector but you.

What is it you fear? said La Motte in a tone scarcely articulate.--O
save me--save me from the Marquis!

Rise then, said he, and dress yourself quickly: I shall be back again in
a few minutes. He lighted a candle that stood on the table, and left the
chamber; Adeline immediately arose and endeavoured to dress; but her
thoughts were so bewildered that she scarcely knew what she did, and her
whole frame so violently agitated, that it was with the utmost
difficulty she preserved herself from fainting. She threw her clothes
hastily on, and then sat down to await the return of La Motte. A
considerable time elapsed, yet he did not appear; and having in vain
endeavoured to compose her spirits, the pain of suspense became at
length so insupportable, that she opened the door of her chamber, and
went to the top of the staircase to listen. She thought she heard voices
below; but considering that if the Marquis was there, her appearance
could only increase her danger, she checked the step she had almost
involuntarily taken to descend. Still she listened, and still thought
she distinguished voices. Soon after, she heard a door shut, and then
footsteps, and she hastened back to her chamber.

Near a quarter of an hour had elapsed and La Motte did not appear; when
again she thought she heard a murmur of voices below and also passing
steps: and at length, her anxiety not suffering her to remain in her
room, she moved through the passage that communicated with the spiral
staircase; but all was now still. In a few moments, however, a light
flashed across the hall, and La Motte appeared at the door of the
vaulted room. He looked up, and seeing Adeline in the gallery, beckoned
her to descend.

She hesitated, and looked towards her chamber; but La Motte now
approached the stairs, and with faltering steps she went to meet him. I
fear the Marquis may see me, said she, whispering; where is he? La Motte
took her hand and led her on, assuring her she had nothing to fear from
the Marquis. The wildness of his looks, however, and the trembling of
his hand, seemed to contradict this assurance, and she inquired whether
he was leading her. To the forest, said La Motte, that you may escape
from the abbey--a horse waits for you without: I can save you by no
other means. New terror seized her. She could scarcely believe that La
Motte, who had hitherto conspired with the Marquis, and had so closely
confined her, should now himself undertake her escape; and she at this
moment felt a dreadful presentiment which it was impossible to account
for, that he was leading her out to murder her in the forest. Again
shrinking back, she supplicated his mercy. He assured her he meant only
to protect her, and desired she would not waste time.

There was something in his manner that spoke sincerity, and she suffered
him to conduct her to a side door that opened into the forest, where she
could just distinguish through the gloom a man on horseback. This
brought to her remembrance the night in which she had quitted the tomb,
when, trusting to the person who appeared, she had been carried to the
Marquis's villa. La Motte called, and was answered by Peter, whose voice
somewhat reassured Adeline.

He then told her that the Marquis would return to the abbey on the
following morning and that this could be her only opportunity of
escaping his designs; that she might rely upon his (La Motte's) word,
that Peter had orders to carry her wherever she choose; but as he knew
the Marquis would be indefatigable in search of her, he advised her by
all means to leave the kingdom, which she might do with Peter, who was a
native of Savoy, and would convey her to the house of his sister. There
she might remain till La Motte himself, who did not now think it would
be safe to continue much longer in France, should join her. He entreated
her, whatever might happen, never to mention the events which had passed
at the abbey. To save you, Adeline, I have risked my life; do not
increase my danger and your own by any unnecessary discoveries. We may
never meet again, but I hope you will be happy; and remember, when you
think of me, that I am not quite so bad as I have been tempted to be.

Having said this, he gave her some money, which he told her would be
necessary to defray the expenses of her journey. Adeline could no longer
doubt his sincerity, and her transports of joy and gratitude would
scarcely permit her to thank him. She wished to have bid Madame La Motte
farewell, and indeed earnestly requested it; but he again told her she
had no time to lose; and having wrapped her in a large cloak, he lifted
her upon the horse. She bade him adieu with tears of gratitude, and
Peter set off as fast as the darkness would permit.

When they were got some way,--I am glad with all my heart, Mam'selle,
said he, to see you again. Who would have thought, after all, that my
master himself would have bid me take you away! Well, to be sure,
strange things come to pass; but I hope we shall have better luck this
time. Adeline, not choosing to reproach him with the treachery of which
she feared he had been formerly guilty, thanked him for his good wishes,
and said she hoped they should be more fortunate: but Peter, in his
usual strain of eloquence, proceeded to undeceive her in this point, and
to acquaint her with every circumstance which his memory, and it was
naturally a strong one could furnish.

Peter expressed such an artless interest in her welfare, and such a
concern for her disappointment, that she could no longer doubt his
faithfulness; and this conviction not only strengthened her confidence
in the present undertaking, but made her listen to his conversation with
kindness and pleasure. I should never have staid at the abbey till this
time, said he, if I could have got away; but my master frighted me so
much about the Marquis, and I had not money enough to carry me into my
own country, so that I was forced to stay. It's well we have got some
solid louis d'ors now; for I question, Ma'mselle, whether the people on
the road would have taken those trinkets you formerly talked of for
money.

Possibly not, said Adeline: I am thankful to Monsieur La Motte that we
have more certain means of procuring conveniences. What route shall you
take when we leave the forest, Peter?--Peter mentioned very correctly a
great part of the road to Lyons; And then, said he, we can easily get to
Savoy, and that will be nothing. My sister, God bless her! I hope, is
living; I have not seen her many a year: but if she is not all the
people will be glad to see me, and you will easily get a lodging,
Ma'mselle, and every thing you want.

Adeline resolved to go with him to Savoy. La Motte, who knew the
character and designs of the Marquis, had advised her to leave the
kingdom, and had told her, what her fears would have suggested, that the
Marquis would be indefatigable in search of her. His motive for this
advice must be a desire of serving her; why else, when she was already
in his power, should he remove her to another place, and even furnish
her with money for the expenses of a journey?

At Leloncourt, where Peter said he was well known, she would be most
likely to meet with protection and comfort, even should his sister be
dead; and its distance and solitary situation pleased her. These
reflections would have pointed out to her the prudence of proceeding to
Savoy, had she been less destitute of resources in France; in her
present situation they proved it to be necessary.

She inquired further concerning the route they were to take, and whether
Peter was sufficiently acquainted with the road. When once I get to
Thiers, I know it well enough, said Peter; for I have gone it many a
time in my younger days, and any body will tell us the way there. They
travelled for several hours in darkness and silence; and it was not till
they emerged from the forest that Adeline saw the morning light streak
the eastern clouds. The sight cheered and revived her; and as she
travelled silently along, her mind revolved the events of the past
night, and meditated plans for the future. The present kindness of La
Motte appeared so very different from his former conduct, that it
astonished and perplexed her; and she could only account for it by
attributing it to one of those sudden impulses of humanity which
sometimes operate even upon the most depraved hearts.

But when she recollected his former words--that he was not master of
himself--she could scarcely believe that mere pity could induce him to
break the bonds which had hitherto so strongly held him; and then,
considering the altered conduct of the Marquis, she was inclined to
think that she owed her liberty to some change in his sentiments towards
her: yet the advice La Motte had given her to quit the kingdom, and the
money with which he had supplied her for that purpose, seemed to
contradict this opinion, and involved her again in doubt.

Peter now got directions to Thiers, which place they reached without any
accident, and there stopped to refresh themselves. As soon as Peter
thought the horse sufficiently rested, they again set forward, and from
the rich plains of the Lyonnois, Adeline for the first time caught a
view of the distant Alps, whose majestic heads, seeming to prop the
vault of heaven, filled her mind with sublime emotions.

In a few hours they reached the vale in which stands the city of Lyons,
whose beautiful environs, studded with villas and rich with cultivation,
withdrew Adeline from the melancholy contemplation of her own
circumstances, and her more painful anxiety for Theodore.

When they reached that busy city, her first care was to inquire
concerning the passage of the Rhone; but she forbore to make these
inquiries of the people of the inn, considering that if the Marquis
should trace her thither, they might enable him to pursue her route.
She, therefore, sent Peter to the quays to hire a boat, while she
herself took a slight repast, it being her intention to embark
immediately. Peter presently returned, having engaged a boat and men to
take them up the Rhone to the nearest part of Savoy, from whence they
were to proceed by land to the village of Leloncourt.

Having taken some refreshment, she ordered him to conduct her to the
vessel. A new and striking scene presented itself to Adeline, who looked
with surprise upon the river, gay with vessels, and the quay crowded
with busy faces, and felt the contrast which the cheerful objects around
bore to herself--to her, an orphan, desolate, helpless, and flying from
persecution and her country. She spoke with the master of the boat; and
having sent Peter back to the inn for the horse, (La Motte's gift to
Peter in lieu of some arrears of wages,) they embarked.

As they slowly passed up the Rhone, whose steep banks, crowned with
mountains, exhibited the most various, wild, and romantic scenery,
Adeline sat in pensive reverie. The novelty of the scene through which
she floated, now frowning with savage grandeur, and now smiling in
fertility and gay with towns and villages, soothed her mind, and her
sorrow gradually softened into a gentle and not unpleasing melancholy.
She had seated herself at the head of the boat, where she watched its
sides cleave the swift stream, and listened to the dashing of the
waters.

The boat, slowly opposing the current, passed along for some hours, and
at length the veil of evening was stretched over the landscape. The
weather was fine, and Adeline, regardless of the dews that now fell,
remained in the open air, observing the objects darken round her, the
gay tints of the horizon fade away, and the stars gradually appear
trembling upon the lucid mirror of the waters. The scene was now sunk in
deep shadow, and the silence of the hour was broken only by the measured
dashing of the oars, and now and then by the voice of Peter speaking to
the boatmen. Adeline sat lost in thought--the forlornness of her
circumstances came heightened to her imagination.

She saw herself surrounded by the darkness and stillness of night, in a
strange place, far distant from any friends, going she scarcely knew
whither, under the guidance of strangers, and pursued, perhaps, by an
inveterate enemy. She pictured to herself the rage of the Marquis now
that he had discovered her flight; and though she knew it very unlikely
he should follow her by water, for which reason she had chosen that
manner of travelling, she trembled at the portrait her fancy drew. Her
thoughts then wandered to the plan she should adopt after reaching
Savoy; and much as her experience had prejudiced her against the manners
of a convent, she saw no place more likely to afford her a proper
asylum. At length she retired to the little cabin for a few hours
repose.

She awoke with the dawn: and her mind being too much disturbed to sleep
again, she rose and watched the gradual approach of day. As she mused,
she expressed the feelings of the moment in the following:

SONNET

Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose,
And wake the blushes of the rose,
That all night long oppress'd with dews,
And veil'd in chilly shade its hues,
Reclined, forlorn, the languid head,
And sadly sought its parent bed;
Warmth from her ray the trembling flower derives,
And, sweetly blushing, through its tears revives.

Morn's beaming eyes at length unclose,
And melt the tears that bend the rose;
But can their charms suppress the sigh,
Or chase the tear from Sorrow's eye?
Can all their lustrous light impart
One ray of peace to Sorrow's heart?
Ah! no; their fires her fainting soul oppress----
Eve's pensive shades more soothe her meek distress!

When Adeline left the abbey, La Motte had remained for some time at the
gate, listening to the steps of the horse that carried her, till the
sound was lost in distance: he then turned into the hall with a
lightness of heart to which he had long been a stranger. The
satisfaction of having thus preserved her, as he hoped, from the designs
of the Marquis, overcame for a while all sense of the danger in which
this step must involve him. But when he returned entirely to his own
situation, the terrors of the Marquis's resentment struck their full
force upon his mind, and he considered how he might best escape it.

It was now past midnight--the Marquis was expected early on the
following day; and in this interval it at first appeared probable to him
that he might quit the forest. There was only one horse; but he
considered whether it would be best to set off immediately for Auboine,
where a carriage might be procured to convey his family and his
moveables from the abbey, or quietly await the arrival of the Marquis,
and endeavour to impose upon him by a forged story of Adeline's escape.

The time which must elapse before a carriage could reach the abbey would
leave him scarcely sufficient to escape from the forest; what money he
had remaining from the Marquis's bounty would not carry him far; and
when it was expended he must probably be at a loss for subsistence,
should he not before then be detected. By remaining at the abbey it
would appear that he was unconscious of deserving the Marquis's
resentment; and though he could not expect to impress a belief upon him
that his orders had been executed, he might make it appear that Peter
only had been accessary to the escape of Adeline; an account which would
seem the more probable, from Peter's having been formerly detected in a
similar scheme. He believed, also, that if the Marquis should threaten
to deliver him into the hands of justice he might save himself by a
menace of disclosing the crime he had commissioned him to perpetrate.

Thus arguing, La Motte resolved to remain at the abbey, and await the
event of the Marquis's disappointment.

When the Marquis did arrive, and was informed of Adeline's flight, the
strong workings of his soul, which appeared in his countenance, for a
while alarmed and terrified La Motte. He cursed himself and her in terms
of such coarseness and vehemence, as La Motte was astonished to hear
from a man whose manners were generally amiable, whatever might be the
violence and criminality of his passions. To invent and express these
terms seemed to give him not only relief, but delight; yet he appeared
more shocked at the circumstance of her escape than exasperated at the
carelessness of La Motte; and recollecting at length that he wasted
time, he left the abbey, and dispatched several of his servants in
pursuit of her.

When he was gone, La Motte, believing that his story had succeeded,
returned to the pleasure of considering that he had done his duty, and
to the hope that Adeline was now beyond the reach of pursuit. This calm
was of short continuance. In a few hours the Marquis returned,
accompanied by the officers of justice. The affrighted La Motte,
perceiving him approach, endeavoured to conceal himself, but was seized
and carried to the Marquis, who drew him aside.

I am not to be imposed upon, said he, by such a superficial story as you
have invented; you know your life is in my hands; tell me instantly
where you have secreted Adeline, or I will charge you with the crime you
have committed against me; but upon your disclosing the place of her
concealment I will dismiss the officers and, if you wish it, assist you
to leave the kingdom. You have no time to hesitate, and may know that I
will not be trifled with. La Motte attempted to appease the Marquis, and
affirmed that Adeline was really fled he knew not whither. You will
remember, my Lord, that your character is also in my power; and that, if
you proceed to extremities, you will compel me to reveal in the face of
day that you would have made me a murderer.

And who will believe you? said the Marquis. The crimes that banished you
from society will be no testimony of your veracity, and that with which
I now charge you will bring with it a sufficient presumption that your
accusation is malicious. Officers, do your duty.

They then entered the room and seized La Motte, whom terror now deprived
of all power of resistance, could resistance have availed him; and in
the perturbation of his mind he informed the Marquis that Adeline had
taken the road to Lyons. This discovery, however, was made too late to
serve himself; the Marquis seized the advantage it offered: but the
charge had been given; and with the anguish of knowing that he had
exposed Adeline to danger without benefiting himself, La Motte submitted
in silence to his fate. Scarcely allowing him time to collect what
little effects might easily be carried with him, the officers conveyed
him from the abbey: but the Marquis, in consideration of the extreme
distress of Madame La Motte, directed one of his servants to procure a
carriage from Auboine, that she might follow her husband.

The Marquis in the mean time, now acquainted with the route Adeline had
taken, sent forward his faithful valet to trace her to her place of
concealment, and return immediately with intelligence to the villa.

Abandoned to despair, La Motte and his wife quitted the forest of
Fontanville, which had for so many months afforded them an asylum, and
embarked once more upon the tumultuous world, where justice would meet
La Motte in the form of destruction. They had entered the forest as a
refuge, rendered necessary by the former crimes of La Motte, and for
sometime found in it the security they sought: but other offences, for
even in that sequestered spot there happened to be temptation, soon
succeeded; and his life, already sufficiently marked by the punishment
of vice, now afforded him another instance of this great truth, "That
where guilt is, there peace cannot enter."