The Romance of the Forest

hile anxious doubt distracts the tortured heart.

We now return to the course of the narrative, and to Adeline, who was
carried from the court to the lodging of Madame de La Motte. Madame was,
however, at the Chatelet with her husband, suffering all the distress
which the sentence pronounced against him might be supposed to inflict.
The feeble frame of Adeline, so long harassed by grief and fatigue,
almost sunk under the agitation which the discovery of her birth
excited. Her feelings on this occasion were too complex to be analysed.
From an orphan, subsisting on the bounty of others, without family, with
few friends, and pursued by a cruel and powerful enemy, she saw herself
suddenly transformed to the daughter of an illustrious house, and the
heiress of immense wealth. But she learned also that her father had been
murdered--murdered in the prime of his days--murdered by means of his
brother, against whom she must now appear, and in punishing the
destroyer of her parent, doom her uncle to death.

When she remembered the manuscript so singularly found, and considered
that when she wept to the sufferings it described, her tears had flowed
for those of her father, her emotion cannot easily be imagined. The
circumstances attending the discovery of these papers no longer appeared
to be a work of chance, but of a Power whose designs are great and just.
O, my father! she would exclaim, your last wish is fulfilled--the
pitying heart you wished might trace your sufferings shall avenge them.

On the return of Madame La Motte, Adeline endeavoured, as usual, to
suppress her own emotions, that she might soothe the affliction of her
friend. She related what had passed in the courts after the departure of
La Motte, and thus excited, even in the sorrowful heart of Madame, a
momentary gleam of satisfaction. Adeline determined to recover, if
possible, the manuscript. On inquiry she learned that La Motte, in the
confusion of his departure, had left it among other things at the abbey.
This circumstance much distressed her, the more so because she believed
its appearance might be of importance on the approaching trial; she
determined, however, if she could recover her rights, to have the
manuscript sought for.

In the evening Louis joined this mournful party: he came immediately
from his father, whom he left more tranquil than he had been since the
fatal sentence was pronounced. After a silent and melancholy supper they
separated for the night; and Adeline, in the solitude of her chamber,
had leisure to meditate on the discoveries of this eventful day. The
sufferings of her dead father, such as she had read them recorded by his
own hand, pressed most forcibly to her thoughts. The narrative had
formerly so much affected her heart, and interested her imagination,
that her memory now faithfully reflected each particular circumstance
there disclosed. But when she considered that she had been in the very
chamber where her parent had suffered, where even his life had been
sacrificed, and that she had probably seen the very dagger, seen it
stained with rust, the rust of blood! by which he had fallen, the
anguish and horror of her mind defied all control.

On the following day Adeline received orders to prepare for the
prosecution of the Marquis de Montalt, which was to commence as soon as
the requisite witnesses could be collected. Among these were the abbess
of the convent, who had received her from the hands of D'Aunoy; Madame
La Motte, who was present when Du Bosse compelled her husband to receive
Adeline; and Peter, who had not only been witness to this circumstance,
but who had conveyed her from the abbey that she might escape the
designs of the Marquis. La Motte and Theodore La Luc were incapacitated
by the sentence of the law from appearing on the trial.

When La Motte was informed of the discovery of Adeline's birth, and that
her father had been murdered at the abbey of St. Clair, he instantly
remembered, and mentioned to his wife, the skeleton he found in the
stone room leading to the subterranean cells. Neither of them doubted,
from the situation in which it lay, hid in a chest in an obscure room
strongly guarded, that La Motte had seen the remains of the late
Marquis. Madame, however, determined not to shock Adeline with the
mention of this circumstance till it should be necessary to declare it
on the trial.

As the time of this trial drew near, the distress and agitation of
Adeline increased. Though justice demanded the life of the murderer, and
though the tenderness and pity which the idea of her father called
forth, urged her to revenge his death, she could not without horror
consider herself as the instrument of dispensing that justice which
would deprive a fellow-being of existence; and there were times when she
wished the secret of her birth had never been revealed. If this
sensibility was, in her peculiar circumstances, a weakness, it was at
least an amiable one, and as such deserves to be reverenced.

The accounts she received from Vaceau of the health of M. La Luc did not
contribute to tranquillize her mind. The symptoms described by Clara
seemed to say that he was in the last stage of a consumption, and the
grief of Theodore and herself on this occasion was expressed in her
letters with the lively eloquence so natural to her. Adeline loved and
revered La Luc for his own worth, and for the parental tenderness he had
shown her; but he was still dearer to her as the father of Theodore and
her concern for his declining state was not inferior to that of his
children. It was increased by the reflection that she had probably been
the means of shortening his life; for she too well knew that the
distress occasioned him by the situation in which it had been her
misfortune to involve Theodore, had shattered his frame to its present
infirmity. The same cause also withheld him from seeking in the climate
of Montpellier the relief he had formerly been taught to expect there.
When she looked around on the condition of her friends, her heart was
almost overwhelmed with the prospect; it seemed as if she was destined
to involve all those most dear to her in calamity. With respect to La
Motte, whatever were his vices, and whatever the designs in which he had
formerly engaged against her, she forgot them all in the service he had
finally rendered her; and considered it to be as much her duty, as she
felt it to be her inclination, to intercede in his behalf. This,
however, in her present situation, she could not do with any hope of
success; but if the suit, upon which depended the establishment of her
rank, her fortune, and consequently her influence, should be decided in
her favour, she determined to throw herself at the king's feet, and when
she pleaded the cause of Theodore, ask the life of La Motte.

A few days preceding that of the trial, Adeline was informed a stranger
desired to speak with her; and on going to the room where he was, she
found M. Verneuil. Her countenance expressed both surprise and
satisfaction at this unexpected meeting, and she inquired, though with
little expectation of an affirmative, if he had heard of M. La Luc. I
have seen him, said M. Verneuil; I am just come from Vaceau: but, I am
sorry I cannot give you a better account of his health; he is greatly
altered since I saw him before.

Adeline could scarcely refrain from tears at the recollection these
words revived of the calamities which had occasioned this lamented
change. M. Verneuil delivered her a packet from Clara. As he presented
it, he said, besides this introduction to your notice, I have a claim of
a different kind, which I am proud to assert, and which will perhaps
justify the permission I ask of speaking upon your affairs.--Adeline
bowed; and M. Verneuil, with a countenance expressive of the most tender
solicitude, added, that he had heard of the late proceedings of the
Parliament of Paris, and of the discoveries that so intimately concerned
her. I know not, continued he, whether I ought to congratulate or
condole with you on this trying occasion. That I sincerely sympathize in
all that concerns you I hope you will believe, and I cannot deny myself
the pleasure of telling you that I am related, though distantly, to the
late Marchioness your mother--for that she was your mother I cannot
doubt.

Adeline rose hastily and advanced towards M. Verneuil; surprise and
satisfaction reanimated her features. Do I indeed see a relation? said
she in a sweet and tremulous voice; and one whom I can welcome as a
friend? Tears trembled in her eyes; and she received M. Verneuil's
embrace in silence. It was some time before her emotion would permit her
to speak.

To Adeline, who from her earliest infancy had been abandoned to
strangers, a forlorn and helpless orphan; who had never till lately
known a relation, and who then found one in the person of an inveterate
enemy; to her this discovery was as delightful as unexpected. But, after
struggling for some time with the various emotions that pressed upon her
heart, she begged of M. Verneuil permission to withdraw till she could
recover composure. He would have taken leave, but she entreated him not
to go.

The interest which M. Verneuil took in the concerns of La Luc, which was
strengthened by his increasing regard for Clara, had drawn him to
Vaceau, where he was informed of the family and peculiar circumstances
of Adeline. On receiving this intelligence he immediately set out for
Paris, to offer his protection and assistance to his newly-discovered
relation, and to aid, if possible, the cause of Theodore.

Adeline in a short time returned, and could then bear to converse on the
subject of her family. M. Verneuil offered her his support and
assistance, if they should be found necessary. But I trust, added he, to
the justice of your cause, and hope it will not require any adventitious
aid. To those who remember the late Marchioness, your features bring
sufficient evidence of your birth. As a proof that my judgment in this
instance is not biassed by prejudice, the resemblance struck me when I
was in Savoy, though I knew the Marchioness only by her portrait; and I
believe I mentioned to M. La Luc that you often reminded me of a
deceased relation. You may form some judgment of this yourself, added M.
Verneuil, taking a miniature from his pocket. This was your amiable
mother.

Adeline's countenance changed; she received the picture eagerly, gazed
on it for a long time in silence, and her eyes filled with tears. It was
not the resemblance she studied; but the countenance--the mild and
beautiful countenance of her parent, whose blue eyes, full of tender
sweetness, seemed bent upon hers, while a soft smile played on her lips;
Adeline pressed the picture to hers, and again gazed in silent reverie.
At length, with a deep sigh, she said. This surely was my mother. Had
she but lived--O, my poor father! you had been spared. This reflection
quite overcame her, and she burst into tears. M. Verneuil did not
interrupt her grief, but took her hand and sat by her without speaking,
till she became more composed. Again kissing the picture, she held it
out to him with a hesitating look. No, said he, it is already with its
true owner. She thanked him with a smile of ineffable sweetness; and
after some conversation on the subject of the approaching trial, on
which occasion she requested M. Verneuil would support her by his
presence, he withdrew, having begged leave to repeat his visit on the
following day.

Adeline now opened her packet, and saw once more the well known
characters of Theodore: for a moment She felt as if in his presence, and
the conscious blush overspread her cheek. With a trembling hand she
broke the seal, and read the tenderest assurances and solicitudes of his
love. She often paused that she might prolong the sweet emotions which
these assurances awakened; but while tears of tenderness stood trembling
on her eyelids, the bitter recollection of his situation would return,
and they fell in anguish on her bosom.

He congratulated her, and with peculiar delicacy, on the prospects of
life which were opening to her; said, every thing that might tend to
animate and support her, but avoided dwelling on his own circumstances,
except by expressing his sense of the zeal and kindness of his
commanding officer, and adding that he did not despair of finally
obtaining a pardon.

This hope, though but faintly expressed, and written evidently for the
purpose of consoling Adeline, did not entirely fail of the desired
effect. She yielded to its enchanting influence, and forgot for awhile
the many subjects of care and anxiety which surrounded her. Theodore
said little of his father's health; what he did say was by no means so
discouraging as the accounts of Clara, who, less anxious to conceal a
truth that must give pain to Adeline, expressed without reserve all her
apprehension and concern.