The Romance of the Forest

ence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mockery, hence!

MACBETH.

Near a month elapsed without any remarkable occurrence: the melancholy
of La Motte suffered little abatement; and the behaviour of Madame to
Adeline, though somewhat softened, was still far from kind. Louis by
numberless little attentions testified his growing affection for
Adeline, who continued to treat them as passing civilities.

It happened, one stormy night, as they were preparing for rest, that
they were alarmed by the trampling of horses near the abbey. The sound
of several voices succeeded, and a loud knocking at the great gate of
the hall soon after confirmed the alarm. La Motte had little doubt that
the officers of justice had at length discovered his retreat, and the
perturbation of fear almost confounded his senses: he, however, ordered
the lights to be extinguished, and a profound silence to be observed,
unwilling to neglect even the slightest possibility of security. There
was a chance, he thought, that the persons might suppose the place
uninhabited, and believe they had mistaken the object of their search.
His orders were scarcely obeyed, when the knocking was renewed, and with
increased violence. La Motte now repaired to a small grated window in
the portal of the gate, that he might observe the number and appearance
of the strangers.

The darkness of the night baffled his purpose, he could only perceive a
group of men on horseback; but listening attentively, he distinguished
part of their discourse. Several of the men contended that they had
mistaken the place; till a person, who, from his authoritative voice,
appeared to be their leader, affirmed that the lights had issued from
this spot, and he was positive there were persons within. Having said
this, he again knocked loudly at the gate, and was answered only by
hollow echoes. La Motte's heart trembled at the sound, and he was unable
to move.

After waiting some time, the strangers seemed as if in consultation; but
their discourse was conducted in such a low tone of voice, that La Motte
was unable to distinguish its purport. They withdrew from the gate, as
if to depart; but he presently thought he heard them amongst the trees
on the other side of the fabric, and soon became convinced they had not
left the abbey. A few minutes held La Motte in a state of torturing
suspense; he quitted the grate, where Louis now stationed himself, for
that part of the edifice which overlooked the spot where he supposed
them to be waiting.

The storm was now loud, and the hollow blasts which rushed among the
trees prevented his distinguishing any other sound. Once, in the pauses
of the wind, he thought he heard distinct voices; but he was not long
left to conjecture, for the renewed knocking at the gate again appalled
him; and regardless of the terrors of Madame La Motte and Adeline, he
ran to try his last chance of concealment by means of the trap-door.

Soon after, the violence of the assailants seeming to increase with
every gust of the tempest, the gate, which was old and decayed, burst
from its hinges, and admitted them to the hall. At the moment of their
entrance, a scream from Madame La Motte, who stood at the door of an
adjoining apartment, confirmed the suspicions of the principal stranger,
who continued to advance as fast as the darkness would permit him.

Adeline had fainted, and Madame La Motte was calling loudly for
assistance, when Peter entered with lights, and discovered the hall
filled with men, and his young mistress senseless upon the floor. A
chevalier now advanced, and, soliciting pardon of Madame for the
rudeness of his conduct, was attempting an apology, when, perceiving
Adeline, he hastened to raise her from the ground; but Louis, who now
returned, caught her in his arms, and desired the stranger not to
interfere.

The person to whom he spoke this, wore the star of one of the first
orders in France, and had an air of dignity which declared him to be of
superior rank. He appeared to be about forty, but perhaps the spirit and
fire of his countenance made the impression of time upon his features
less perceptible. His softened aspect and insinuating manners, while,
regardless of himself, he seemed attentive only to the condition of
Adeline, gradually dissipated the apprehensions of Madame La Motte, and
subdued the sudden resentment of Louis. Upon Adeline, who was yet
insensible, he gazed with an eager admiration, which seemed to absorb
all the faculties of his mind. She was indeed an object not to be
contemplated with indifference.

Her beauty, touched with the languid delicacy of illness, gained from
sentiment what it lost in bloom. The negligence of her dress, loosened
for the purpose of freer respiration, discovered those glowing charms,
which her auburn tresses, that fell in profusion over her bosom, shaded,
but could not conceal.

There now entered another stranger, a young chevalier, who having spoke
hastily to the elder, joined the general group that surrounded Adeline.
He was of a person in which elegance was happily blended with strength,
and had a countenance animated, but not haughty; noble, yet expressive
of peculiar sweetness. What rendered it at present more interesting, was
the compassion, he seemed to feel for Adeline, who now revived and saw
him, the first object that met her eyes, bending over her in silent
anxiety.

On perceiving him, a blush of quick surprise passed over her cheek, for
she knew him to be the stranger she had seen in the forest. Her
countenance instantly changed to the paleness of terror when she
observed the room crowded with people. Louis now supported her into
another apartment, where the two chevaliers, who followed her, again
apologized for the alarm they had occasioned. The elder, turning to
Madame La Motte, said, You are, no doubt, Madam, ignorant that I am the
proprietor of this abbey. She started. Be not alarmed, Madam, you are
safe and welcome. This ruinous spot has been long abandoned by me, and
if it has afforded you a shelter I am happy. Madame La Motte expressed
her gratitude for this condescension, and Louis declared his sense of
the politeness of the Marquis de Montalt, for that was the name of the
noble stranger.

My chief residence, said the Marquis, is in a distant province, but I
have a chateau near the borders of the forest, and in returning from an
excursion I have been benighted and lost my way. A light which gleamed
through the trees attracted me hither; and such was the darkness
without, that I did not know it proceeded from the abbey till I came to
the door. The noble deportment of the strangers, the splendour of their
apparel, and above all, this speech dissipated every remaining doubt of
Madame's, and she was giving orders for refreshments to be set before
them, when La Motte, who had listened, and was now convinced he had
nothing to fear, entered the apartment.

He advanced towards the Marquis with a complacent air; but as he would
have spoke, the words of welcome faltered on his lips, his limbs
trembled, and a ghastly paleness overspread his countenance.

The Marquis was little less agitated, and in the first moment of
surprise put his hand upon his sword; but recollecting himself, he
withdrew it, and endeavoured to obtain a command of features. A pause of
agonizing silence ensued. La Motte made some motion towards the door,
but his agitated frame refused to support him, and he sunk into a chair,
silent and exhausted. The horror of his countenance, together with his
whole behaviour, excited the utmost surprise in Madame, whose eyes
inquired of the Marquis more than he thought proper to answer: his look
increased instead of explaining the mystery, and expressed a mixture of
emotions which she could not analyze. Meanwhile she endeavoured to
soothe and revive her husband; but he repressed her efforts, and,
averting his face, covered it with his hands.

The Marquis seeming to recover his presence of mind, stepped to the door
of the hall where his people were assembled, when La Motte, starting
from his seat with a frantic air, called on him to return. The Marquis
looked back and stopped: but still hesitating whether to proceed, the
supplications of Adeline, who was now returned, added to those of La
Motte, determined him, and he sat down. I request of you, my Lord, said
La Motte, that we may converse for a few moments by ourselves.

The request is bold, and the indulgence perhaps dangerous, said the
Marquis: it is more also than I will grant. You can have nothing to say
with which your family are not acquainted--speak your purpose and be
brief. La Motte's complexion varied to every sentence of this speech.
Impossible, my Lord, said he; my lips shall close for ever, ere they
pronounced before another human being the words reserved for you alone.
I entreat--I supplicate of you a few moments' private discourse. As he
pronounced these words, tears swelled into his eyes; and the Marquis,
softened by his distress, consented, though with evident emotion and
reluctance, to his request.

La Motte took a light and led the Marquis to a small room in a remote
part of the edifice, where they remained near an hour. Madame, alarmed
by the length of their absence, went in quest of them: as she drew near,
a curiosity in such circumstances perhaps not unjustifiable, prompted
her to listen. La Motte just then exclaimed--The phrensy of
despair!--some words followed, delivered in a low tone, which she could
not understand. I have suffered more than I can express, continued he;
the same image has pursued me in my midnight dream and in my daily
wanderings. There is no punishment, short of death, which I would not
have endured to regain the state of mind with which I entered this
forest. I again address myself to your compassion.

A loud gust of wind that burst along the passage where Madame La Motte
stood, overpowered his voice and that of the Marquis, who spoke in
reply: but she soon after distinguished these words,--To-morrow, my
Lord, if you return to these ruins, I will lead you to the spot.

That is scarcely necessary, and may be dangerous, said the Marquis. From
you, my Lord, I can excuse these doubts, resumed La Motte; but I will
swear whatever you shall propose. Yes, continued he, whatever may be the
consequence, I will swear to submit to your decree! The rising tempest
again drowned the sound of their voices, and Madame La Motte vainly
endeavoured to hear those words upon which probably hung the explanation
of this mysterious conduct. They now moved towards the door, and she
retreated with precipitation to the apartment where she had left Adeline
with Louis and the young chevalier.

Hither the Marquis and La Motte soon followed, the first haughty and
cool, the latter somewhat more composed than before, though the
impression of horror was not yet faded from his countenance. The Marquis
passed on to the hall where his retinue awaited; the storm was not yet
subsided, but he seemed impatient to be gone, and ordered his people to
be in readiness. La Motte observed a sullen silence, frequently pacing
the room with hasty steps, and sometimes lost in reverie. Meanwhile the
Marquis, seating himself by Adeline, directed to her his whole
attention, except when sudden fits of absence came over his mind and
suspended him in silence: at these times the young chevalier addressed
Adeline, who with diffidence and some agitation shrunk from the
observance of both.

The Marquis had been near two hours at the abbey, and the tempest still
continuing, Madame La Motte offered him a bed. A look from her husband
made her tremble for the consequence. Her offer was however politely
declined, the Marquis being evidently as impatient to be gone, as his
tenant appeared distressed by his presence. He often returned to the
hall, and from the gates raised a look of impatience to the clouds.
Nothing was to be seen through the darkness of night--nothing heard but
the howlings of the storm.

The morning dawned before he departed. As he was preparing to leave the
abbey, La Motte again drew him aside, and held him for a few moments in
close conversation. His impassioned gestures, which Madame La Motte
observed from a remote part of the room, added to her curiosity a degree
of wild apprehension, derived from the obscurity of the subject. Her
endeavour to distinguish the corresponding words was baffled by the low
voice in which they were uttered.

The Marquis and his retinue at length departed; and La Motte, having
himself fastened the gates, silently and dejectedly withdrew to his
chamber. The moment they were alone, Madame seized the opportunity of
entreating her husband to explain the scene she had witnessed. Ask me no
questions, said La Motte sternly, for I will answer none. I have already
forbidden your speaking to me on this subject.

What subject? said his wife. La Motte seemed to recollect himself--No
matter--I was mistaken--I thought you had repeated these questions
before.

Ah! said Madame La Motte, it is then as I suspected; your former
melancholy and the distress of this night have the same cause.

And why should you either suspect or inquire? Am I always to be
persecuted with conjectures?

Pardon me, I meant not to persecute you; but my anxiety for your welfare
will not suffer me to rest under this dreadful uncertainty. Let me claim
the privilege of a wife, and share the affliction which oppresses you.
Deny me not.--La Motte interrupted her, Whatever may be the cause of the
emotions which you have witnessed, I swear that I will not now reveal
it. A time may come when I shall no longer judge concealment necessary;
till then be silent, and desist from importunity; above all, forbear to
remark to any one what you may have seen uncommon in me, bury your
surmise in your own bosom, as you would avoid my curse and my
destruction. The determined air with which he spoke this, while his
countenance was overspread with a livid hue, made his wife shudder; and
she forbore all reply.

Madame La Motte retired to bed, but not to rest. She ruminated on the
past occurrence; and her surprise and curiosity concerning the words and
behaviour of her husband were but more strongly stimulated by
reflection. One truth, however, appeared: she could not doubt but the
mysterious conduct of La Motte, which had for so many months oppressed
her with anxiety, and the late scene with the Marquis, originated from
the same cause. This belief, which seemed to prove how unjustly she had
suspected Adeline, brought with it a pang of self-accusation. She looked
forward to the morrow, which would lead the Marquis again to the abbey,
with impatience. Wearied nature at length resumed her rights, and
yielded a short oblivion of care.

At a late hour the next day the family assembled to breakfast. Each
individual of the party appeared silent and abstracted; but very
different was the aspect of their features, and still more the
complexion of their thoughts. La Motte seemed agitated by impatient
fear, yet the sullenness of despair overspread his countenance; a
certain wildness in his eye at times expressed the sudden start of
horror, and again his features would sink into the gloom of despondency.

Madame La Motte seemed harassed with anxiety; she watched every turn of
her husband's countenance, and impatiently awaited the arrival of the
Marquis. Louis was composed and thoughtful. Adeline seemed to feel her
full share of uneasiness; she had observed the behaviour of La Motte the
preceding night with much surprise, and the happy confidence she had
hitherto reposed in him was shaken. She feared also, lest the exigency
of his circumstances should precipitate him again into the world, and
that he would be either unable or unwilling to afford her a shelter
beneath his roof.

During breakfast La Motte frequently rose to the window, from whence he
cast many an anxious look. His wife understood too well the cause of his
impatience, and endeavoured to repress her own. In these intervals Louis
attempted by whispers to obtain some information from his father; but La
Motte always returned to the table, where the presence of Adeline
prevented further discourse.

After breakfast, as he walked upon the lawn, Louis would have joined
him, but La Motte peremptorily declared he intended to be alone; and
soon after, the Marquis having not yet arrived, proceeded to a greater
distance from the abbey.

Adeline retired into their usual working room with Madame La Motte, who
affected an air of cheerfulness and even of kindness. Feeling the
necessity of offering some reason for the striking agitation of La
Motte, and of preventing the surprise which the unexpected appearance of
the Marquis would occasion Adeline, if she was left to connect it with
his behaviour of the preceding night, she mentioned that the Marquis and
La Motte had long been known to each other, and that this unexpected
meeting, after an absence of many years, and under circumstances so
altered and humiliating on the part of the latter, had occasioned him
much painful emotion. This had been heightened by a consciousness that
the Marquis had formerly misinterpreted some circumstances in his
conduct towards him, which had caused a suspension of their intimacy.

This account did not bring conviction to the mind of Adeline, for it
seemed inadequate to the degree of emotion which the Marquis and La
Motte had mutually betrayed. Her surprise was excited, and her curiosity
awakened by the words, which were meant to delude them both. But she
forbore to express her thoughts.

Madame proceeding with her plan, said, the Marquis was now expected, and
she hoped whatever differences remained would be perfectly adjusted.
Adeline blushed, and endeavouring to reply, her lips faltered. Conscious
of this agitation, and of the observance of Madame La Motte, her
confusion increased, and her endeavours to suppress served only to
heighten it. Still she tried to renew the discourse, and still she found
it impossible to collect her thoughts. Shocked lest Madame should
apprehend the sentiment which had till this moment been concealed almost
from herself, her colour fled, she fixed her eyes on the ground, and for
some time found it difficult to respire. Madame La Motte inquired if she
was ill; when Adeline, glad of the excuse, withdrew to the indulgence of
her own thoughts, which were now wholly engrossed by the expectation of
seeing again the young chevalier who had accompanied the Marquis.

As she looked from her room, she saw the Marquis on horseback, with
several attendants, advancing at a distance, and she hastened to apprize
Madame La Motte of his approach. In a short time, he arrived at the
gates, and Madame and Louis went out to receive him, La Motte being not
yet returned. He entered the hall, followed by the young chevalier, and
accosting Madame with a sort of stately politeness, inquired for La
Motte, whom Louis now went to seek.

The Marquis remained for a few minutes silent, and then asked of Madame
La Motte how her fair daughter did? Madame understood it was Adeline he
meant; and having answered his inquiry, and slightly said that she was
not related to them, Adeline, upon some indication of the Marquis's
wish, was sent for. She entered the room with a modest blush and a timid
air, which seemed to engage all his attention. His compliments she
received with a sweet grace; but when the young chevalier approached,
the warmth of his manner rendered hers involuntarily more reserved, and
she scarcely dared to raise her eyes from the ground, lest they should
encounter his.

La Motte now entered and apologized for his absence, which the Marquis
noticed only by a slight inclination of his head, expressing at the same
time by his looks both distrust and pride. They immediately quitted the
abbey together, and the Marquis beckoned his attendants to follow at a
distance. La Motte forbad his son to accompany him, but Louis observed
he took the way into the thickest part of the forest. He was lost in a
chaos of conjecture concerning this affair, but curiosity and anxiety
for his father induced him to follow at some distance.

In the mean time the young stranger, whom the Marquis addressed by the
name of Theodore, remained at the abbey with Madame La Motte and
Adeline. The former, with all her address, could scarcely conceal her
agitation during this interval. She moved involuntary to the door
whenever she heard a footstep, and several times she went to the hall
door, in order to look into the forest, but as often returned, checked
by disappointment; no person appeared. Theodore seemed to address as
much of his attention to Adeline as politeness would allow him to
withdraw from Madame La Motte. His manners so gentle, yet dignified,
insensibly subdued her timidity, and banished her reserve. Her
conversation no longer suffered a painful constraint, but gradually
disclosed the beauties of her mind, and seemed to produce a mutual
confidence. A similarity of sentiment soon appeared; and Theodore, by
the impatient pleasure which animated his countenance, seemed frequently
to anticipate the thought of Adeline.

To them the absence of the Marquis was short, though long to Madame La
Motte, whose countenance brightened when she heard the trampling of
horses at the gate.

The Marquis appeared but for a moment, and passed on with La Motte to a
private room, where they remained for some time in conference;
immediately after which he departed. Theodore took leave of
Adeline--who, as well as La Motte and Madame, attended them to the
gates--with an expression of tender regret, and often, as he went,
looked back upon the abbey, till the intervening branches entirely
excluded it from his view.

The transient glow of pleasure diffused over the cheek of Adeline
disappeared with the young stranger, and she sighed as she turned into
the hall. The image of Theodore pursued her to her chamber; she
recollected with exactness every particular of his late
conversation--his sentiments so congenial with her own--his manners so
engaging--his countenance so animated--so ingenious and so noble, in
which manly dignity was blended with the sweetness of benevolence;
these, and every other grace, she recollected, and a soft melancholy
stole upon her heart. I shall see him no more, said she. A sigh that
followed, told her more of her heart than she wished to know. She
blushed, and sighed again; and then suddenly recollecting herself, she
endeavoured to divert her thoughts to a different subject. La Motte's
connection with the Marquis for sometime engaged her attention; but,
unable to develop the mystery that attended it, she sought a refuge from
her own reflections in the more pleasing ones to be derived from books.

During this time, Louis, shocked and surprised at the extreme distress
which his father had manifested upon the first appearance of the
Marquis, addressed him upon the subject. He had no doubt that the
Marquis was intimately concerned in the event which made it necessary
for La Motte to leave Paris, and he spoke his thoughts without disguise,
lamenting at the same time the unlucky chance, which had brought him to
seek refuge in a place, of all others, the least capable of affording
it--the estate of his enemy. La Motte did not contradict this opinion of
his son's, and joined in lamenting the evil fate which had conducted him
thither.

The term of Louis's absence from his regiment was now nearly expired,
and he took occasion to express his sorrow that he must soon be obliged
to leave his father in circumstances so dangerous as the present. I
should leave you, Sir, with less pain, continued he, was I sure I knew
the full extent of your misfortunes; at present I am left to conjecture
evils which perhaps do not exist. Relieve me, Sir, from this state of
painful uncertainty, and suffer me to prove myself worthy of your
confidence.

I have already answered you on this subject, said La Motte, and forbad
you to renew it: I am now obliged to tell you, I care not how soon you
depart, if I am to be subjected to these inquiries. La Motte walked
abruptly away, and left his son to doubt and concern.

The arrival of the Marquis had dissipated the jealous fears of Madame La
Motte, and she awoke to a sense of her cruelty towards Adeline. When she
considered her orphan state--the uniform affection which had appeared in
her behaviour--the mildness and patience with which she had borne her
injurious treatment, she was shocked, and took an early opportunity of
renewing her former kindness. But she could not explain this seeming
inconsistency of conduct, without betraying her late suspicions, which
she now blushed to remember, nor could she apologize for her former
behaviour, without giving this explanation.

She contented herself, therefore, with expressing in her manner the
regard which was thus revived. Adeline was at first surprised, but she
felt too much pleasure at the change to be scrupulous in inquiring its
cause.

But notwithstanding the satisfaction which Adeline received from the
revival of Madame La Motte's kindness, her thoughts frequently recurred
to the peculiar and forlorn circumstances of her condition. She could
not help feeling less confidence than she had formerly done in the
friendship of Madame La Motte, whose character now appeared less amiable
than her imagination had represented it, and seemed strongly tinctured
with caprice. Her thoughts often dwelt upon the strange introduction of
the Marquis at the abbey, and on the mutual emotions and apparent
dislike of La Motte and himself; and under these circumstances, it
equally excited her surprise that La Motte should choose, and that the
Marquis should permit him, to remain in his territory.

Her mind returned the oftener, perhaps, to this subject, because it was
connected with Theodore; but it returned unconscious of the idea which
attracted it. She attributed the interest she felt in the affair to her
anxiety for the welfare of La Motte, and for her own future destination,
which was now so deeply involved in his. Sometimes, indeed, she caught
herself busy in conjecture as to the degree of relationship in which
Theodore stood to the Marquis; but she immediately checked her thoughts,
and severely blamed herself for having suffered them to stray to an
object which she perceived was too dangerous to her peace.